“Maybe she doesn’t want you hovering and is too polite to say anything,” Cyrinda digs into him. Niven and I shoot each other an uneasy glance.
“It’s fine,” I assure everyone with a tight-lipped smile. “There are plenty of seats at the dining room table where we’ll eat dinner. He can stay where he is.”
“Fine.” Cyrinda sounds dubious.
Cyrinda has amused me up to this point, but right now, I need her to stick a sock in it. “Does anyone need a refill? I know I could use another glass of wine,” I offer the group, catching her eye with a pointed look.
Everyone’s glass looks full, so no one takes me up on it. I stand up and walk to the counter where I set out the drinks, giving Norrell a wide berth to discourage him from interacting with me. To my chagrin, he sidles up to me, looking at the collection of bottles I’ve set out.
“That is the scotch your father used to drink,” Norrell observes.
“It is. Feel free to help yourself,” I respond with a bland tone, unable to bring myself to look at him.
He watches me pour more wine into my glass. Sounding mindful, he declines, “There is much I aim to accomplish. Ishould refrain from anything heavy tonight, so I am not sluggish in the morning.”
I subtly roll my eyes at his sanctimoniously timed statement. But it’s a good point, I suppose. I decide that this will be my second and last glass of wine. I don’t need to risk lowering my defenses around him, anyhow. “There’s iced tea and lemonade in the fridge, if you’d prefer,” I mention, gesturing toward it.
Luckily, Cyrinda mellows and conversation flows, covering more benign topics. Norrell remains at the fringes of the conversation, but he makes me nervous. I’ve caught him observing me, but he unhurriedly looks away like there’s nothing odd about it. Like his arrival doesn’t upend any modicum of peace I’ve found during the last fifteen years of my life.
I’m relieved when the oven timer blares. It gives me something to focus on other than Norrell’s imperious, unnerving presence. The two roast chickens look crispy and golden brown, and the vegetables are caramelized, so I pull them out to cool for a moment. As I quickly slice the loves of sourdough bread and set the pieces into a basket, Norrell slides on my oven mitts and lifts one of the pans of chicken and vegetables.
“Where should I put these?” he asks, an impassive expression on his face.
I gape at him for a beat before my mouth moves. “Put it on the table runner, please. There are platters out there for the food,” I answer briskly, the domesticity of the scene rubbing me the wrong way.
He returns empty-handed and takes the second pan out as well. I set the table earlier, so all that’s left is to bring serving utensils and bread to the table. I linger for a moment, waiting for him to come back out, but he doesn’t. Fire and ashes, he isn’t going to make this easy. “Get your drink refills, dinner is just about ready,” I call out to the group at the kitchen table to try to hurry them along.
Dreading being alone with him again, I walk into the dining room, where Norrell makes short work of neatly carving up the chickens. I hadn’t noticed him grabbing the knife and carving fork. He finds the joint to cut away the thighs and then separates them from the legs. Removing the wings, he then slices through each side of the breast, cutting those into smaller portions. He looks well-practiced.
“Oh,” I breathe, surprised to see what he’s doing. “Thank you. I’ll bring a plate for the leftovers.”
“I am at your service,” he answers enigmatically, finishing up the remaining chicken.
The others begin streaming into the dining room, chatting with each other, commenting on how good the food looks and smells. When I return with a large plate, Norrell places the carcasses from the cut-up chickens on it and, to my annoyance, follows me into the kitchen where we’re once again by ourselves. I’m tempted to shoot my mouth off, tell him to back off, but I hold my tongue. Mother Earth only knows how I manage it. But it’ll only cause me more grief to show him any emotion. I need to remain unflappable, so he’ll lose interest in being around me.
“More lemonade?” I ask dryly, keeping my eyes ahead to avoid looking at him, as I finish pouring myself a glass.
“Please.” He slides his glass next to mine. “Your lemonade is still the best I have ever tasted.”
“Oh,” I hum. Well okay then. I guess he remembers it’s homemade, not that it matters. “Thank you.”
Are we trying to out-polite each other? Doesn’t he realize that Southerners are known for their hospitality? Even among the Whispered Folk? This is getting on my nerves. It would be easier if he was an asshole so I could kick him out. I don’t like him being so… nice.
I spin around, still not having looked at him at all, and return the lemonade to the fridge before I walk to the diningroom. Once again, he follows me like a shadow. The group has arranged themselves around the table so that two seats are open apart from each other. I could kiss them, I’m so happy they planned this. Hopefully it will unglue him from me for the time being.
Taking a seat between Tallie and Niven, I spear some chicken and vegetables onto my plate before the breadbasket and butter are passed to me. Norrell ends up next to Aurelia. Thankfully, Cyrinda is on the other side of her, so hopefully she won’t have too much opportunity to pester him.
“Excellent dinner, Ada,” Niven compliments me. Everyone else chimes in their agreement.
“Did everyone make it in today?” Aurelia asks the table. Since I wasn’t part of coordinating their travel, I’m not in the loop.
The group lists who they ran into and any stories they heard. Norrell stays quiet until everyone says their piece. “I was among one of the last groups. The nocturnals are still on their way. A dragonkin will be flying in late tonight as well. He should be the last to arrive,” he informs us.
“Wow, everyone’s coming out of the woodwork for this, aren’t they?” Cyrinda barbs as she leans around Aurelia to give him a fractious look.
Moon and stars, this female needs to hush up. Donning my peacekeeper hat once again, I remind them, “Well, I’m glad everyone is taking this seriously. Even those who often do not involve themselves in Whispered Folk politics. The fae didn’t just happen to come across our sleepy little town. It was brought here by some of us willing to join forces with it. That night would have turned out very differently had any one of us there arrived on the scene even a minute later. If this could happen in Monstera Bluff, it could happen anywhere.”
Cyrinda has the good sense to look sheepish. “You’re right, Ada. I know what this cost you. The same thing could behappening under our noses in Los Angeles. Probably is. It’s hard to keep track of such things in a large human city,” she acknowledges.
