Total pages in book: 218
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 205594 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1028(@200wpm)___ 822(@250wpm)___ 685(@300wpm)
He growls at the thought. “I do not like this. You are weak.”
When he puts a supportive hand at my back, I bat his hand away. That’s what’s bothering me, I realize. I’m being hovered over. I didn’t like it with Nurse and Riza, and I don’t like it now. “I have survived for six months on my own. I will survive another hour. Leave me be.”
With a furious look, he ruffles his wings, a sign I’m learning is agitation. Then, he stomps to the nearest table, picks up the globe on its stand, and holds it out to me. “Take a light.”
And then he stomps back into his quarters again.
I stand in the doorway, frowning at his temper. He acts like he’s the one that hasn’t had a bit of space to himself the last few days. “I don’t know why you’re making a big fuss like this,” I point out. “We both know you’re going to just hover in the shadows and watch over me like a mother hen.”
“I am not,” Nemeth declares, his tone dangerous. He picks up a book and brandishes it. “I am going to read. Take as much time as you like. I care not.”
Rolling my eyes at his temper tantrum, I head for the garderobe. When I’m done there, I’m tired, but in a pleasantly achy sort of way and I’m not ready to lie in bed for the rest of the day again. He acts as if I am a fragile thing that must be protected from myself. He doesn’t realize how much strength it takes to live with an illness such as mine. Every day is survival, and I am tougher than he thinks. So I head upstairs to my quarters and open the door.
My room feels chilly and strangely vacant. It’s been days since I’ve been in here, and it both feels like forever and five minutes ago. I take a few steps inside, and as I do, I see my knife, carefully laid out on my (also carefully) made bed. My discarded dresses have been picked up off the floor, too, and put on their hooks. That must have been Nemeth. I can see him fussing over every detail, right down to fluffing my pillows. I want to roll my eyes, but I smile instead.
Who would have thought Fellians were so particular about tidiness? I expect a certain amount of mess from anyone that’s been born into a royal family, because we have servants following behind us all day, waiting to clean up after us. I’m certainly not nearly as tidy as him, and I move over to my bed and set the lamp down next to it, then pick up my knife.
I’d tuck it into the front of my dress but I’m still wearing nothing but a chemise. “Hello there,” I say to it. “Did you miss me?”
The knife is silent. Figures that I’d have a salty magic blade instead of a friendly one.
I glance around my room. The fireplace is cold, and my food supplies are exactly where I left them. Not surprising. I consider my dresses and decide I want a fresh chemise, as I’m yet too tired to go through the process of heating water for bathing. I lift the neck of my chemise and give it a sniff. “Do I smell?”
The knife pulses an affirmative.
“Thanks,” I say wryly. Okay, a change of clothes, then. I eye my surroundings. “Is Nemeth lurking in the shadows?”
Silence from my knife.
Interesting. So much for my hovering Fellian nursemaid. Maybe he’s realizing I’m not as weak as I seem and is going to give me some space. I pull off my old chemise and exchange it for a new, fresh one that’s wrinkled from washing. It’s chilly inside the tower, so, toes curled against the stone floor, I pick up one of my heavier dresses and slip it over my head. It’s a bright green with an attached skirt, and when the bodice slides over my head, I settle it at my waist and then lace it up at the front. As fashion goes, it’s a terrible choice. No one lets their dresses lace in the front because it screams I am poor. Fashion insists that other people dress you.
I wonder if Nemeth would do my laces up for me if I had a dress that tied in the back.
Once I’m dressed, my sleeves fastened and puffed, fresh exhaustion hits me. I collapse on the edge of my bed. Maybe I’ll take a moment before I head back to his warm, toasty, crowded quarters again. I lie on my back in the bed and tuck my knife between my breasts, now lifted and plump from the bodice’s support. “Is Nemeth coming up here?”
The knife does not respond.
Hmm. Thinking about Nemeth makes me think about other things. Naughtier things. I stroke my hand down the front of my bodice. “Does Nemeth still think about me when he touches himself?”