Durvla blinks as though she hasn’t registered my question.
“So, do you?”
Confusion washes over her face. “Do I…” Her throat bobs.
I frown. Something is so off with her, and I can’t quite put my finger on it. At least the bruising on her cheek is surprisingly minimal, and the way her perfect curls beautifully frame her face makes me somewhat envious.
“I’m heading to the dining hall if you want to come along.”
She smiles. “I’d like that.”
I sigh and walk out of her bedchamber. Mercifully, Durvla follows, and Callum falls into step at my side as we make our way toward the kitchen. We walk briskly and Durvla easily keeps up, taking in our surroundings. We arrive in the dining hall where a grand table thatseats twenty is the focal point. Several chandeliers hang down from the beams in the ceiling, all twinkling with candlelight.
Durvla is still wide-eyed as Eefa strides in, shapely hips swaying, her honey blond braid draped over her shoulder. The woman’s lips curve up into a smile, her large green eyes sparkling with intrigue as they land on Durvla. “Ooh, a new face,” she drawls.
Confusion furrows Durvla’s brows and she glances from Eefa to me. “This is Eefa. Apprentice to the head cook. She’s… exceptionally sociable and far too confident for her own good.”
She winks and I can’t help but laugh even as I roll my eyes.
“Eefa, this is Durvla Garrick, my new dressmaker.”
Eefa slides her hands over the apron atop her simple beige dress before extending her arm to Durvla. They clasp forearms briefly before Eefa steps back. “Nice to meet you, Durvla.” Her round face and flawless olive complexion give her a youthful appearance, reminding me that she’s just nineteen. Her uncanny haughtiness gives her the air of a woman who has experienced quite a lot. I clear my throat as my mind tries to wander off to less appropriate things thatIhave experienced with her.
Durvla’s stomach growls again, and she presses her hands against her abdomen once more. Eefa laughs lightly. “Sit, I’ll get you something to eat,” she says before disappearing behind the double doors into the kitchen.
Soon, there’s a plate with roasted guinea fowl, stewed carrots and potatoes, and some hearty bread in front of Durvla. I receive a plate with much of the same. Durvla eats, but she often glances up at me as though she’s afraid I’d smite her while her head is down. I focus on my meal, letting her enjoy probably the best one she’s ever had.
Wait until she tastes Eefa’s lemon cake. It’s to die for.
Soon, Durvla finishes her meal and washes it down with a goblet of water. “Thank you,” she says after daintily wiping her lips on a cloth napkin.
I shrug. “Ididn’t cook it. Come on.” I stand and she does so as well. “I heard you were excited about the library. Would you like to visit? I go there nearly every day; especially if I need a quick getaway or time to myself.”
A smile brightens that sullen face of hers. “Absolutely,” she says.
I’m practically followingheracross the castle to the library. It’s strangely amusing. As we enter the library, Durvla stares in awe. There’s something childlike and refreshing in the way she takes in this new environment. Her hands clench and unclench eagerly, as if she’s ready to grab every book from the shelves. Absolutely relatable.
“This is probably my favorite place in the castle,” I tell her. “The archery range is a close second.”
“Archery range?”
“Yes. Do you have any archery experience?”
Her brows furrow. “Does hunting count?”
“You hunt? I’d have expected more… foraging or something.”
A small smile graces her lips, through melancholy. “My father was the hunter. We never lacked meat when he was alive. He taught me, but I have terrible aim. I have terrible depth perception, in general.”
Interesting. I walk toward the shelves and brush my fingers along the leather spines. Durvla moves closer, following me and I turn back to her. “Do you have a favorite genre?”
Her brow puckers. “I’ve only ever read one book.”
Onebook? How nightmarish.
“It’s a book of fairy—” Color drains from her face as she leaves the last word hanging in the air. She shakes her head, her curls bouncing. “It’s just a children’s book,” she says hastily.
Fairytales? I tilt my head as her body tenses, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. “Why do you hesitate to sayfairytales?” I ask.
