“That’s a lot.” He runs a hand over his face.
“I’m sorry,” I say, wanting to grasp his hand in mine. “I did not wish to intrude in your life.”
“I guess it was already too late when you felt what I felt,” he smirks.
A brief chuckle escapes me, the shadow that hung over us now lifted. “Here we are perfectly matched. You feel nothing, and I feel everything.”
This time, I take his hand, stroking each finger with slow, deliberate care. Beneath the counterpane, his limbs slacken, and the air about us swells with a deep sense of blissful exhaustion, as thick and comforting as the warmest summer day.
“All I feel now is tired.” A half-mumbled, half-slurred stream of words spills from his lips. “I should go.”
Before he can stir, I wrap a hand around Astaire’s waist, locking him in place. I draw him close until we are perfectly entwined, then press my face on the nape of his neck, inhaling the creosote scent of his skin. My leg drapes over his hips like a living cage. His limbs are slack and heavy with exhaustion.
“You’re so heavy,” he mutters, but when I ask him if I should move, he only answers with a satisfied sigh.
And so I remain, curled around his sharp limbs, and the steady whisper of his pulse lulls me to sleep.
XVII
Aloud knock jerks me violently from a forgotten dream. I force open my eyes, but all I see is a wall shrouded in darkness. I don’t recognise where I am.
When something heavy shifts atop me, things quickly come back: stinging hands, pleaded words, whispered confessions.
Only when Abas moves off me does the air rush back into my lungs. Suddenly too light and chilly, I bury myself deeper into the heavy blanket, wrapping myself until only my eyes are visible. Abas sits up, rubbing his face sleepily. His hair is rumpled and sticking up all over the place.
“What?” he growls.
“Young master, the custodian is missing!” Bayard screeches through the door.
“Fuck your trifles!” Abas shouts. “Don’t trouble me with your simpering.”
“I apologise, young master. I will wait and hope he returns soon,” he quavers before retreating.
Abas flops back onto the bed with a groan. “I despise that white-livered knave,” he mumbles, face half-buried in a pillow.
“Why don’t you just fire him?” I ask, but his responding grumbles are too muffled to make out.
I don’t want to leave the bed, but my stomach wants to eat itself, and my throat is so dry that talking hurts.
“I gotta go,” I say, sliding from between the sheets.
Abas lifts one eye, glaring at me while I search for my clothes. The moment I’m dressed, the door opens slowly. I turn. Abas is nearly completely buried under the covers, nothing but one hand visible. With this hand, he’s holding the door ajar for me.
I feel awkward standing here, not knowing what to do with myself. Mumbling a quiet goodbye, I leave the room.
Before I can think where to go, my stomach makes an embarrassingly loud sound. It’s unusual for me to feel this hungry, but apparently I pushed my body a bit too far, and now I’m in urgent need of some sustenance.
I’m grateful to see a bowl of porridge already sitting on the table when I reach the kitchen. Next to it sits a bright green apple.
“Good morning, Astaire! I’m so relieved to see you’re still here,” Pepper says cheerily.
I look up, startled. I was so focused on the food, I hadn’t noticed her in the kitchen.
“Uhm, morning,” I mouth around the spoon of gruel already halfway between my lips. Once I’ve shovelled most of the bowl down my throat, I manage to come up for air. “Thanks for the apples, by the way. That red one, perfect timing!” I say, before I continue eating.
“The red one?” she asks, confused. Pepper picks up the large pot boiling on the cooker with a rag and brings it over to the table. Wordlessly, she scoops more of the porridge into my bowl. She watches me, pot still in hand, seemingly waiting for me to clarify.
“The apple. Yesterday, you know,” I try to explain.
