“You said you had a meeting at noon, and I was not certain we would return in time.” He lowers his head to study my floor. “Did you get your boot sorted?”
“My boot?”
“Yes. Your boot that needed mending.”
That is correct. I did offer this as an excuse to cover up the real reason for my absence in case he called.
He pokes my arm once more. “Well? Did you?”
“Being king has made you impatient.”
“Waiting for you to answer my questions is what makes me impatient.”
I am not sure this is true; having to wait never seemed to bother him before.
Being told another lie would surely tip my friend over the edge. Given Nia and I were not alone at the café, there is no point in continuing the farce. “I did not fix my boot. I had pie with Nia Quill.”
His hand tightens on the door frame, as if he is strangling the wood. “Nia Quill gave you pie?”
If only. “She asked me to a café. Where we ate pie.”
“Sheaskedyou?”
“Is there something wrong with your ears?” Normally, I am the one asking others to repeat themselves.
“My ears are fine. It is my mind that is having difficulty comprehending this tale.” He drops his hand with a huffed laugh. “This is another one of your ‘stories,’ isn’t it? Like the time you claimed to have eaten a goat.”
Thankfully, Biscuits is too busy gnawing to hear these terrible words.
“This is not a tale. It is the truth.” We ate pie and traded details about our lives and our knees met beneath the table and she has such beautiful eyes. I would happily drown in their honeyed pools.
“Of course, it is.” He winks, pushes away from the door, and descends the stairs to the grass, where an ivory chair has been left beside the fountain. I have seen this chair before. Its match is inside my wagon as we speak, stuffed next to my small woodstove, which has remained unused since relocating to the warmer Seelie lands.
I follow him down, but Biscuits decides to keep chewing his boot. “I did have pie with Nia Quill.”
Ever braces a hand atop the chair. “If you say it is so, then it must be so.”
Clearly, he does not believe me. But I do not need his belief. This was not a dream. To continue arguing would only be wasting our breath. “Why have you brought a chair?”
“Kerris asked me to deliver this to you. Apparently, you stole its match.”
I may be many things, but a thief is not one of them.
“I did not steal it. Your mate told me the chair was to be burned.” A chair that fine deserved to be more than fuel for a fire. Instead of bringing it to the rubbish pile as she requested, I adopted it as my own.
“Because it only had three legs.”
“I fixed it.” Thanks to the empty coffee can I found on my way back from the canyon, there are now four working legs. There is a bit of a lean to the seat now, but I do not mind. “Thank your mate for me, but I do not need this chair. Mine is the perfect seat.” This one, with its four legs, is sure to be used for many years to come.
He folds his arms across his chest, his face settling into a scowl. “Our gardener is also missing a boot.”
Oh no . . .
“Do you know anything about this?”
If I tell him, he will surely be angry. In our defense, Biscuits and I did not know the boot had an owner. This is one truth I might keep to myself. “What need would I have for only one boot when I have two feet?”
Biscuits chooses this moment to trot down my wagon steps with what remains of his favorite boot hanging from his mouth.
