“It looks like you’ve been in a back alley knife fight, but I think you’ll live. Nothing a bit of paracetamol and a dab of bacitracin can’t fix.”
“It’s going to burn when I pee, isn’t it.”
Tate turned away, scooping up the mess of bloody towels on the floor, hiding what she suspected was a cough of laughter. “Well, good luck with that part. We need to get you some emergency birth con—”
“I have an implant,” she interrupted, closing her eyes. “I’ve had it since school. May I have something cold to drink?”
Elderflower iced tea, cold and crisp and exactly what she needed, Silva thought as he combed out her hair, sipping from the icy glass he’d brought her. She was feeling restored, as if the bloodletting had helped them both.See? Those ancients knew what they were doing.
"Can you walk on your own, dove?" When she nodded, he kissed her again. He had washed his face in the sink, dragging a wet cloth down his neck and over his chest, and had already pulled his clothes back on. "Good. I'm going down to let Rukh know I'm leaving, then I'm going over to have a talk with the girls. Pack me a bag while I'm gone."
"Pack — but why? For what? What are we doing?"
Tate cupped her cheek, tapping her on the nose before pushing up, towering over her in the tub. “I'm taking you back toCormorant Creek. We’re going to have one of those honey lattes before you take me to one of theseallegedlyexcellent bistros for dinner. Although I’ll be the judge of that, I think."
Silva settled back in her bathwater, pondering his words once the door had clicked shut behind him. A month ago, she would have done backflips like a little circus poodle if he would've expressed the vaguest interest in accompanying her to dinner in Cambric Creek. Now, it only felt like a way to bring her back where he thought she belonged so that he could leave her there.We’ll see about that.
She'd not let him shut her out. She wasn’t going to allow him to push her away again, or hold her at arm's length. She was going to wind back the clock, force it to stop this infernal ticking, get them back on track. He could cooperate, or she would bloody him again, Silva decided. The choice was his.
Silva
She never would have imagined that packing a bag for him would have been one of the most stressful endeavors she'd ever needed to accomplish.
Silva understood the magnitude of the task in which she had been invested. She wasn't merely stuffing a handful of clothes in a rumpled duffel, after all. Tate spent most of his days dressed for work — either the crisp white collared shirt, starched within an inch of its life, and black pants ensemble the entire staff of Clover wore, or his customary black V-neck T-shirt and snug-fitting jeans in the pub, with virtually no diversion. He owned what seemed like an endless supply of the specific T-shirt he liked, whisper soft with flat, invisible seams, half a dozen white collared shirts, and his jeans ranged from smart to artfully tattered – consistent and reliable.
That alone might persuade one to not think much of his dress sense, but Silva knew better. She had discovered that any time they went somewhere outside of one of his two businesses, he was as well-dressed and fashionable as any other elf she'dever known, with a particular,singularaesthetic. A marriage of curiously old-fashioned cuts and designs paired with more the casual and modern — he always looked deliberate, achieving the sort of effortless cool that Silva had determined only those men with an innate sense of style and a truckload of sex appeal could achieve.
She had no idea how to create his look on her own, but he had trusted her, and she was going to give it her best effort.
Tate had made no mention of how long he was planning on staying with her in Cambric Creek, and she had even less of a clue about what he was going to be willing to do with her. Even if she suspected his motives for this impromptu reversal of their sleepover situation was largely so that he could dump her off on the side of the road in a box like an abandoned kitten, Silva could not,wouldnot overlook the fact that this wasexactlywhat she’d been pining for.
The chance to show him the community, to show him howhappythey could be. How well they would fit in with their neighbors of various species, living side-by-side in communal harmony. She could easily envision them settling into one of the little brick brownstones just a few blocks north of the business district, or else, over beyond the developments, in one of the trendy town houses that sloped down the road, with their tidy little yards and uniformity. It would be a mix of both their styles — her cozy, plush pastels and his old world antiques, a comfortable home office and drafting table for her, with a gourmet worthy kitchen for him.
She would find a better job and do freelance work, and Tate could spend less time in the two businesses he built that didn't actually need him, and more time with her.Who knows, maybe he could open a little cafe here.Silva knew her family assumed she was longing for the same sort of well-to-do life of privilege all of her friends at the club were chasing, but she didn't find herdaydreams so out of the realm of immediate possibility. Her and Tate, comfortable and content in a little place of their own in the community she loved. It didn't seem unrealistic to her at all.
And now you have your chance.Once the door of her apartment closed behind him, he’d be her captive, and she was going to make the most of it.
First, she needed to dress him.Start with the basics.
Several pairs of jeans, a stack of his favorite T-shirts, the scuffed leather Chelsea boots he wore most often. A roll neck sweater, in case they went for an evening stroll, his leather jacket in case the wind was biting. The soft gray joggers, which she would insist he wear every night in her apartment. Several collared shirts — several button downs in grey and black and petal pink, a sleeker option with a spread collar in midnight blue, easily able to envision him looking polished and sharp beside her in one of Cambric Creek’s higher end restaurants. A grey waistcoat with an interesting pocket design. She vacillated over his collection of suits, deciding a sport coat would be a more versatile option.Where on earth are you planning on taking him?Silva had no idea, but she wanted to be prepared, in any case. A stack of black boxer-briefs, socks for both daytime and evening dress, two leather belts, and she was finished.
She’d been waffling over the black oxfords and the maple brown brogues when she saw it. At the side of his long, cavern-like closet, she discovered an antique trunk.Maybe he has more sweaters in here.It was incredibly old, although the hinges and fittings were shiny and well oiled, likely replacements for the originals that had been installed at some point. She had no way of opening it, muttering to herself about untrusting boyfriends and their padlocks, but there was a note on the top of it, the envelope unsealed, slipped beneath one of the leather straps.
Return to Castlemartyr
She recognized Tate's flowing handwriting, with his spiky downstroke. Silva turned slowly, after replacing the envelope beneath the strap. Once she noticed the envelope-encased note, the others seemed to scream out to her, from boxes already sealed in packing tape and storage bins stacked atop each other. There were several more notes in the closet alone.Return to Castlemartyr. Send to Malin Head.Box at Provincial Bank, Cork City.
Hehadgiven her tacit approval to look through his things, to dig through his closet, to rifle through his drawers. How else was she supposed to pack him a bag? Silva bit her lip, feeling as she had as a small girl, when she’d accidentally-on-purpose stumbled upon her Fallrite presents, tucked away in one of the linen closets. She was unable to tell if some of the notes were labels or instructions meant to be carried out.Instructions for whom? Why? For when? Reminder to himself?There were no answers. She backed out of the cave-like closet, disliking the swoop inside her, as if she were suddenly in a freefall.
She knew that he kept his collection of watches in the lower compartment of an antique jewelry box in the top drawer of one of his bureaus, and she retrieved it then, carefully lifting it atop the dresser, finding another note there, this time on a small post-it.Watches - to Castlemartyr. Box - remains.Silva swallowed hard.Ignore it. This isn’t for you, clearly.
She knew he liked the watch with the gold filigree cover of vines and tiny bees, and she had seen him wear one with a black face and exposed silver gear work on more than one evening out. His accessories, like the rest of his wardrobe, were minimal but deliberately chosen.Take these two. He’ll feel unfinished if you don’t.
At the top of the jewelry box was the curious, lovely pendant he sometimes wore. A tiny, wine-red bird on ivory porcelain, a chip of a long-ago broken teacup, set into a locket-like setting,for some indiscernible reason. Tate had not volunteered the information and she had not asked, feeling that same curious swoop in her belly whenever she considered it. Silva had no proof, but she had mentally decided the strange necklace was something he wore for comfort, and she did not want to leave it behind.It’s his emotional support jewelry, and you’re a good, thoughtful girlfriend.There was a small velvet pouch in the bottom compartment with nothing in it, and she very carefully dropped the pendant into its confines, slowly feeding in the chain so that it didn't twist or kink.
She decided on both the black and brown shoes, a pair of low-top trainers, and decided the boots he was wearing would round out the selection. She had just finished gathering up his toiletries when she heard the apartment door open once more. His smile was sharp when she left the bedroom, meeting him in the kitchen.
"Shake a leg, little dove. I have no idea how far Crackadam Creek even is."
