Though, I supposed it wasn’t an entire waste, considering it ended with my wife in my arms, at least for a little while.
She had accepted my courting gifts. Was that not enough? I would need to address that with her.
I wished again, for the millionth time, for my memories to return to me.
If she refused to be mine again, how would I convince her?
The hours I spent watching folk didn’t help. They gravitated toward each other. Spent time together. Shared kisses and touches when they thought nobody else was watching.
It was simple. Easy.
One of the parties didn’t run from the pairing, the way my stubborn Ginger did.
Was she the one that was broken?
I shook my head. That was impossible. My wife was perfect in every way.
The problem must have been me, then. I was doing something wrong.
And I would fix it this instant.
I drifted toward her cottage in the forest, as I often did.
Watching her sleep was my favorite pastime.
She was so serene, so peaceful in her slumber. Even with the small beast hogging a vast portion of her bed.
I slipped inside, pushing her window open without a whisper of sound.
Her beast, Brambleby, she called him, didn’t stir. He merely glanced at me from where he lounged.
He had snapped at me a few times in my previous forays. I couldn’t approach Ginger, couldn’t drift too close without the loyal dragon shifting to defend his mother.
But if I kept my space, he let me be.
We had an understanding.
I walked, quietly, to the corner of her bedroom and settled myself into the chair. It was covered with clothing today, hastily discarded. I set the clothing on the floor. I would put them back before I left to erase my evidence.
She didn’t like finding evidence of me, I had learned.
It scared her.
It should have flattered her, but my wife was skittish.
We would work on that.
I pulled out a journal, one I had stolen from her personal collection. It was worn and weathered, the pages turned again and again. The corners were even creased from where she had marked her place.
I flipped to a random passage and began reading.
To my utter delight, it was a recent journal. She had written about me.
It’s getting worse. I think I’m actually losing my mind.
Not in the “I forgot where I placed my quill and ink” kind of way, more like… I think I’m hallucinating. Either that, or I’m incredibly paranoid.
I have the strangest sensation that I’m being followed, or maybe watched. Or both.
