Returning to the house, I wash my hands and head straight to the laundry room. With one load of laundry completely done and now folded and placed in the linen closet and the second in the dryer, I return to my room to read until the laundry buzzer sounds. As always, my mind is on Ada. Pondering all I know of the fae and their powers. There must have been something in the hundreds of old tomes I read, especially those in the academy library. It just is not coming to me yet.
After I fold and put away that second load of laundry, I wander downstairs to see if the cats have been fed their dinner. Ada must still be napping. She has not left her room since we briefly spoke. Their bowls look the same as this morning. I wash them out quickly in the sink, including their water bowl. Ada keeps their food in one of the lower kitchen cabinets, so I squat down and inspect any difference in their cans of food. As if theyhave a sixth sense, the cats sprint toward me, purring and trying to climb into the cabinet around the short stacks of cans.
“Any preference?” I ask with an amused grin. Two sets of round eyes look up at me. Vanny chirps once and then they both run over and sit in front of their clean bowls, ready to eat. They must not be picky. I grab two cans, pulling off the lids and pour them into the bowls. The cats somehow manage to purr and eat simultaneously, making little vocalizations as they open their mouths to take each new bite. An unbidden laugh escapes me at their enthusiasm. These furry little creatures are growing on me.
Chapter 10
Ada
Norrell’s broad, pelt-covered back sticks out like a sore blue and white thumb from the view out the kitchen window. He leans over a messy bed of flowers and shrubs at the edge of my garden. Neat piles of pulled up weeds and encroaching grass are spaced out showing he’s already worked his way across a good deal of the lawn. The sun rose not that long ago. So either he’s the world’s fastest gardener or he came out here when it was still dark out. It would have to be the latter, unless he’s had practice in someone else’s garden. Of course, if he has, that’s not my business.
By the look of his progress, that task was long overdue. The irony is that it’s something I had often done by hand, a meditative task that blanked my mind from anything else except finding every small and hidden weed looking to invade my herb garden and flower beds. But now with Norrell out there toiling away, all I see is endless chores ahead of me that I can’t keep up with since the attack.
Magick makes that back-breaking work so much easier. I command the wind to blow the tiny leaves and acorns fallen from the mighty live oaks into a refuse bag. The grass stopsgrowing after reaching a certain height. Flowers stay in bloom all year round.
But this ismyhouse,mymess, not his to clean up. It’s presumptuous of him to do any of this without even asking me first. As if he has a right to it. And I’m certainly not going to work out there alongside him, as if I approve of his presence here like some twisted portrait of domestic bliss. It’s high time to call the inn again to check on their vacancy. The moment a room is available, I’ll kindly but firmly tell him it’s time to leave. He’s already proven I’ll be unable to keep the wolf from the door without the ease that magick brings. Ashes, I basically invited the wolf inside along with Norrell. I’ll need a small fortune I don’t have to hire people or buy enough magickal products to maintain everything. Landscaping, gardening, cleaning… It feels like I’m starting from scratch. But at least my hosting duties will be over soon enough. He’ll be out of my house and my life for good. And I can manage these tasks on my own terms. And if I can’t, well, maybe that’s my sign to move on from here.
The fight in me deflates almost instantly. What would it look like if I lambasted him for pitching in? Only he has the power to turn me into an ungrateful harpy. I don’t like that such a side of myself comes out so easily in his presence. Life will be different from now on, and I’ll have to figure out new ways of living. But the last person in the world I want support from is him. He’ll be gone soon. Until then, I must keep myself in check to show that I’m truly over and done with him. He shouldn’t be able to provoke such a big reaction in me.
Using my reflection in the glass as my guide, I comb my fingers through my hair and tighten the belt on my house robe to make myself more presentable. As the days wear on, it’s harder to remain so formal in my own home—lacking any privacy beyond my bedroom, always having to look put together despite my worsening bone-deep exhaustion. I’m still in my admittedlyconservative pajamas this morning. I was too tired to get fully dressed for the day so early. I had mistakenly assumed sneaking downstairs in the wee hours would allow me some time to myself.
As I open the door and step outside, he cranes his neck to look back at me and then slowly pulls himself up to stand, carefully brushing the dirt off his hands and his brown pants. It’s an unusually humid morning for mid-November, the air already making my skin clammy at the brief contact. Sweat beads down his forehead and chest, a sign of his hard work and his incompatibility with the sultry southern climate, though it looks entirely too good on him. It always did. An inconvenient and thoroughly unwanted heat swirls low in my belly, having nothing to do with the weather.
“Um… thank you for weeding the garden. I’m making breakfast, would you care for some?” I ask woodenly, my eyes looking everywhere but at his gaze.
“I would. Thank you, Ada,” he answers evenly, watching me intently, patiently. He breathes in, slightly opening his mouth like he’s about to say something more but instead leaves the silence dangling between us. It makes me uncomfortable, but I’m unwilling to fill it with meaningless pleasantries.
I jerk a nod and whirl around, stepping back into the kitchen and closing the door with a resounding thud. I cool off instantly in the air conditioning, much needed after any interaction with him. That male gets under my skin entirely too easily. It’s impossible to remain aloof around him. Not that I ever could. Never in a million years would I guess that his support would be more unpleasant than his coldness. This good guy act will crumble soon enough, and he’ll show himself to be the cruel male I know him to be.
Deciding to take my frustration out on some unsuspecting eggs, I open the fridge and remove a carton, along with linksof chicken sausage, which were delivered along with a box of produce by Taurus Farms a couple days earlier. They included a “get well soon” note, which was mighty sweet of them. They’re a wonderful operation, supplying almost every restaurant and café in town, not to mention the farmers market. Little did they know their eggs would be cracked and beaten to an inch of their life like some kitchen-oriented rage therapy.
I forcefully break the eggs against a bowl, relishing each crack. Of course, it sends half of a shell flying to the floor. Vanny, my perpetually underfoot shadow, races for it, like it’s one of his toys, batting it under the table. I quickly follow him, arms lowered, trying to scoop up the eggshell before it gets broken into pieces and harder to clean up. “No, Vanny!” I scold, hurrying toward where he’s bent over in a hunch, ready to pounce on it.
As my foot is about to land on my next step, I screech in surprise as Earl Grey races underneath about to get stomped on. Abruptly wrenching myself to the side to try to miss him, I land hard on the edge of that foot, pain shooting like lightning through my ankle. “Ow!” I croak as the now radiating pain causes me to stumble. I fall forward onto the floor, twisting my ankle even more as I land awkwardly despite my attempt to catch myself with my hands.
“Fire burn it to ashes!” I curse. I can’t believe this is happening. I’ve never been a klutz. But life has me so unbalanced lately, I shouldn’t be surprised something like this was in store.
I gingerly touch my ankle and flinch as I realize that’s a terrible idea. I’m not sure what to do. I landed in a sort of pigeon pose, with my front leg bent to the side and my back leg far behind me. I push myself onto my butt, grunting in agony, and carefully swing my back leg around, avoiding the kitchen table. As soon as I do, the door opens and I hiss in pain as the catsrace over my smarting foot and ankle to get to their new favorite person as fast as their little legs will carry them.
“Ada, I heard a commotion. What happened?” Norrell asks as he lunges forward to examine me.
“It’s not even worth explaining,” I gasp out, with a dismissive wave of the hand toward the two hellions, now on their best behavior, the very picture of obedience, as they watch us with interest.
Norrell reaches toward my already-bruising ankle, and I instinctively recoil from his touch. Horrible, spasming pain drives a shrill yelp from me for my trouble.
“Stop, do not move,” Norrell implores, spreading his hands with his palms out in emphasis.
“Don’t touch me,” I wheeze, as I cup my hands above my ankle, like that could prevent it.
“Ada.” He draws out my name, reminding me of moments better left forgotten. “You twisted your ankle, mayhap sprained it. I need to carry you to a sofa and call the clinic.”
“No, just… give me your hand and pull me up. I’ll be able to make it there on my own,” I argue, trying to negotiate the least amount of touching possible.
“That is not going to happen. You cannot walk on that leg. And it is too far to hop all the way there. Please let me help you,” he insists earnestly, sounding upset that I’d rather attempt it on my own than accept his assistance.
I’d crawl if I had to. Anything to keep away from him.
Finally, I look at his face, appallingly close to mine, meeting his worried ice blue gaze for an instant too long. I see too much in them, it’s unbearable. My eyes wander to his furrowed brows and the vertical frown lines between them on his forehead. He didn’t have those before. They don’t necessarily age him. They look heavy, like he’s borne the weight of something for too long.
