Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151845 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 759(@200wpm)___ 607(@250wpm)___ 506(@300wpm)
‘I did, dear.’ He smiles fondly at me. ‘I hope you enjoy it.
He reaches for his paper, knocking his stick where it’s resting against the table. ‘Damn it.’ It hits the floor, and I’m quick to dip and collect it up for him. ‘I’ll get it,’ he assures me, leaning down.
‘Mr H, leave it,’ I scold him, sure I can hear his bones cracking as he tries to bend.
‘I’ve got it, Eleanor.’ His feeling fingers brush the stick.
‘Really, Mr H, let someone help you.’ I swipe the stick up, astounded by his stubbornness, before setting my half-eaten apple on the table and quickly getting to my feet to help him sit up. ‘You shouldn’t be straining like that.’ I get him comfy and go to place the stick against the table, feeling the gold topper rattling in my grasp. ‘I think this is loose,’ I say, just as the knob comes off in my hand. Shit. I quickly start to screw it back on, startling when the old man’s hand shoots out fast to claim his stick.
‘I’ll sort it, dear.’ He makes quick work of tightening the gold knob, offering me a mild smile as I retract my hands.
I laugh, though I can’t deny it’s wary. ‘You hiding something in there?’ The old man moves fast. Sometimes.
Mr H belly laughs. ‘Would you mind making me a nice cup of—’ He’s interrupted when the door to the kitchen flies open, and I look to find Mrs Potts brushing off her hands, like she’s just taken care of some unpleasant business.
And I remember. She has.
‘Tea?’ I finish for the old man as I wander over to the kettle. ‘Everything okay?’ I ask Mrs Potts, visions popping into my mind of her dragging the countess and Alexa down the alleyway by their ears.
‘It is now they’ve gone. Nasty, snotty-nose riff-raff.’ She slams the door behind her and puffs out her bosom. ‘Needn’t think they’re better than any of us,’ she rants on, marching over to the stove and yanking the oven open. The delicious smell in the kitchen intensifies. ‘I nearly ripped some dahlias from my flower beds and stuffed them down her posh neck to shut her up.’
I snigger as I flip the tap and fill the pot. ‘Waste of dahlias.’
She laughs her agreement as she pokes at her pastry before setting it aside and turning, wiping her hands on a tea towel. Her smile fades quickly and, wondering why, I follow her worried eyes and find old Mr H looking pale. I drop the kettle and fly across the kitchen, Mrs Potts following me.
‘Mr H?’ I say, my hand rubbing his shoulder as I assess his condition. His eyes have glazed over, his light grey hair darkening with sweat. He looks vacant. He’s also shaking terribly, worse than I’ve ever known.
‘Donald?’ Mrs Potts speaks loudly, barging me out of the way. I don’t protest, willingly letting her get to him. ‘Donald, look at me.’
He doesn’t, and though none of the symptoms are fading, Mrs Potts’s concern doesn’t increase. She seems quite calm, like she’s done this time and again. ‘Is he okay?’
‘Just a funny turn, dear.’ She pushes her arm through his and encourages him to stand, which he does with more effort than usual. ‘Come on, let’s get you lying down.’
It’s the first time since I’ve known Becker’s grandfather that he hasn’t complained about being bossed about or physically assisted. He looks washed out, drained of colour. I don’t like seeing him like this. I rush to open the kitchen door, holding it while they hobble through together. ‘I’ll call Becker.’
‘No need to worry him, dear.’
Mr H jerks and loses his grip of his stick again, and it clatters to the floor at my feet. ‘I’ve got it,’ I say, bending to retrieve it. The gold knob rolls a few feet, and I reach for it, trying to screw it back on for him again.
‘Leave it,’ the old man wheezes, and I glance up at him, confused, finding him staring at me. His eyes. They look haunted, and I slowly pass his stick over. Taking it, he shakes his head and lets Mrs Potts continue guiding him out of the kitchen.
My brow is wrinkled, my lip being nibbled harshly. He was fine. And then . . . not.
A sad whimper has me glancing down to find Winston looking as sad as he sounds. ‘He’ll be okay, boy,’ I say, aware that I’m saying this more for my reassurance than Winston’s. ‘I promise.’ He sticks to the side of my leg as I wander over to the table to collect my bag. I’m doubting Mrs Potts’s insistence not to call Becker. Or maybe she’s right. He’ll only panic, speed home, and risk getting himself into an accident.
I look down and find Winston still at my feet. ‘Fancy a walk?’ I ask him, and he looks up at me with droopy eyes. ‘Come on. We could both use some fresh air.’ I still have the unpleasant lingering aftermath of Alexa pinching at my skin.