“The horse, silly.” Bowie taps my nose with his finger. “Keep up.”
I swat the digit away. “Who names their horse Butter?”
Bowie pulls a faux-offended face. “He was an absolute pearl of a pony with a shining coat the color of freshly churned butter. It was a perfectly sensible name for such a good boy.”
I should have known. “Soyoupicked the name.”
His playful gaze holds no shame. He grins, flashing gleaming white teeth. “Guilty.”
“Well, I’m glad you didn’t die. What would your tombstone have read?” I give it a try.
“Here liesBowie of Varad
a man with no common sense
who spooked his Butter
and it was death by a fence.”
My silly rhymeis rewarded by the mellifluous sound of Bowie’s laughter, and I vow to myself then and there to become a poet henceforth.
“It would have served me right,” he says between chuckles.
I hover over him, watching him regain his breath. Our gazes meet. I savor the fond expression he gives me. Then I worry that staring at him like this might be off-putting or even a little desperate. I roll away from him and sit up.
Bowie laughs again, only this time, I don’t know why. My stomach clenches, muscles tensing. I don’t like being laughed at.
“Your hair.” He chokes out the words. “You must look at yourself in the glass. It’s sticking up taller than your ears.”
Oh. Well, that’s not so bad. My ears twitch as I relax and comb through the tangles with my fingers. His silky tresses fall over his shoulders as he sits up, looking perfect, of course.
I shuffle to the garderobe to take care of business and stop at the water basin to wet my unruly hair. A silver comb with intricate engraved filigree along the handle lies on a shelf, but it looks too nice to use. My fingers will do.
When I return, Bowie is dressing. Cream stockings and shirt with black knee-length pants and another blue doublet. Blue must be his color. It suits him well, but so would a burlap sack. I shrug my arm into the same shirt from last night. Bowie stops me with a hand to my elbow.
“May I offer an alternative?”
I look at the tattered shirt, worn thin from use, and though it’s clean, the fabric holds old stains that refuse to wash out.
Bowie rushes to fill the silence. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your clothes. Only, I have so much, and we are near to the same size. I’d love to see you in black.” His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Or maybe red.”
Heat creeps steadily up the back of my neck. Before it can make it to my cheeks, I surprise myself by accepting. “Black.”
He smiles, having gotten his way, and pulls from the wardrobe a soft black shirt nicer than anything I’ve ever worn. The fabric feels like rose petals in my hand, velvet smooth and light against my skin as I put it on.
Though he’s a bit taller, he’s correct. We’re of similar size. However, Bowie is obviously accustomed to garments tailored to fit him, while I’m not. So the shirt feels tight simply because it sits closer than my usual clothes. I stretch my arms wide, throw them over my head, and twist. It’s not bad; the shirt moves with me well enough. I could get used to this.
Bowie watches with the amused expression I could also get used to, his eyes glittering. “Very nice. Would you also like a coat?”
I shake my head. That would be too much. I don’t get cold easily, and the weather has only begun to turn. I pull my hat over my ears, flattening them to my head. It muffles my hearing, but hiding them is a necessity regardless.
“Shall we get you some breakfast?” asks Bowie.
A twinge of worry clouds my appetite as I think of the massive house I’m in, of the servants, and the room they’d prepared for me that I didn’t use.
“Will your staff be upset when they realize Seashore hasn’t been slept in?”
“No, they will not.” Bowie pauses. “Or if they are, the staff know better than to say as much. And my family certainly won’t mind, I assure you. No need to worry.”
