The way his big hands handled the tools was fascinating. As the carving grew finer, the chisels he chose were smaller and he handled them even more delicately, shaving off tiny shreds of wood. There was a frown of concentration furrowing his thick, dark eyebrows. He leaned in to blow away a bit of wood from the carving, and his full lips pursed slightly. A shiver ran through her as she imagined what those lips might feel like pressed against hers.

Leaning back, he regarded his work, impatiently pushing his hair away from his face. Today it wasn't secured, but flowed long and loose down his back. What would it feel like to stroke? Soft and smooth as the raven's feathers it resembled or coarse and thick? And what was she doing imagining such things or even looking at the stranger?

She turned back to her work, rubbing hard at a little fleck on the surface of the glass. There was no reason for her to be here any longer. The mirror was as clean as brand new. Butterfly looked at herself in the glass: wide eyes, flushed pink cheeks, lips parted and damp from her tongue running over them. She looked feverish and hungry, like a woman anticipating sex. This was wrong. It wasn't what Master had meant when he told her to make the carpenter comfortable and please him in any way he desired. She was meant to fulfill those duties with non-attachment, as one of her owner's dictates, not with lust and longing in her heart. But she couldn't deny arousal and sexual curiosity were exactly what she felt when she looked at the woodworker. When Jasmine had taken her place serving the handsome stranger his food yesterday, she'd wanted to storm in there and pull the girl out of the room by her hair. Today Butterfly would make sure she was the one to supply his afternoon break.

Once more she glanced in the mirror-just to see if the man looked like he might be ready for a snack. He was staring back at her, his dark eyes focused on her reflection in the mirror.

She froze, the dust cloth clenched in one fist and her gaze locked with his. What did she look like to him? Long, straight brown hair framed her heart-shaped face. Her eyes were too large for her face, her chin and nose too pointed. She must look like a little mouse to him.

Master had taught her well that demurely downcast eyes best illustrated subservience, but somehow it was impossible for her to look away from the man in the mirror.

He smiled at her, strong, white teeth flashing against his dark face, and lifted a hand in greeting. "Hey," he called from the other room.

Instinctively, she raised her hand in return, waving at him through the safe remove of the mirror.

"Want to come see what I'm working on?" His voice was low and cajoling, the timbre as warm as banked coals. When she hesitated, he said, "Come on."

She couldn't disobey a direct order. Dropping her rag on the floor, she turned from the mirror and crossed the hall to enter the study.