“Well, come on then.”
He joins me in stride as we make our way down the hall. Passing guards stand a little straighter for Miranda. Guests smile a little brighter.
“Why do you want to look at the food ledgers? Trying to remember the name of your favorite dish?”
If only it was that simple.
“No, I’m going to go back to the day I was sick, and the day that Donovan died. I’m going to search for similarities. I don’t know; I’m just curious to see what I ate that day, I suppose.” I glance toward my friend. “Your witch—”
“Your mother,” he interjects.
“Yes, mommy dearest,” I continue with a roll of my eyes, “suggested Aisha was poisoning us through something everyone needs. Like food.”
“You know what I keep thinking?”
Holding my breath, I wait for his answer. I hope for some insight or a brilliant revelation that would make this abstract picture of death somewhat clearer.
“I could be your dad.”
My feet catch on the carpet. I reach out, steadying myself as I grab his arm. Because... what the fuck did he just say?
“Excuse me?”
A glow of green dances in his eyes, a mischief that thoroughly thrills him. “If I became an item withmy witch, your mother,” he points out unnecessarily, “I would be like yourfather.”
I blink, trying to process the words that somehow keep coming out of his mouth. My shoulders draw up, tense.
“Do you think Bear would let you call me ‘Daddy’?” Miranda keeps walking, pulling me along. His smile grows as my mouth falls agape.
Pardon me? Time out. Not even with my last dying breath will I ever utter the wordDaddyto this ridiculous man.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Miranda. I won't be calling you...that.”
He’s really holding back his laughter now. “No, but I insist that you do. It’s only proper. Give it a try. Just see how it sounds on your tongue.”
He’s insufferable.
“Stop.” I glare hard. He smirks harder.
“Give it a go. Just one littleDaddy Mirandaand I’ll drop it.”
“How ’bout I see if Bear wants to say it first? Whisper it real low and growling in your ear. Would that appease you?” I ask with an arch of my eyebrow.
The smile fades. His eyes get this lost, confused look for a minute, and suddenly the Daddy title doesn’t seem as appealing to him.
Asshole.
The door to Chaplain’s office is in sight. Briskly, I make my way to it with a more pleased smile. The brass handle feels cold in my palm, the wood smooth under the rapping of my knuckles on the wood. I don’t wait for Miranda’s response before I bustle through the door, eager to rid myself of this awkward conversation.
Chaplain sits behind the desk; he hardly glances up as I usher myself in. The tall cap that usually covers his head is resting near him upon a stack of papers. Thin red fringe is combed back away from his face, his scalp nearly visible underneath the fine strands.
“Can I help you?” he mumbles.
His room is a collection of cabinets and bookshelves. Brown bound books, weathered leather journals, and papers stuffed in every crook, their corners bent at odd angles, fill every available surface. A jar stuffed with large feathered quill pens sits at the edge of his desk. A small white mug, clearly no longer warm, waits only half full on top of the paper he scribbles on now.
Behind him, a portrait, the clear depiction of Goddess Celeste with her white-blond hair flowing around her like a veil, hangs as the one and only decor piece. Her book, the rules of prayer and the way of living that makes this court so much different than my own, waits propped on an old pulpit in the corner.
“You most certainly can. I’m looking to recover the food logs from now back to the day that I was brought here as your princess.” Carefully, I fold my hands in front of me to refrain from gripping the backs of the red sitting chairs between us.
