I wonder many things, chief of which is something I’d rather not wonder at all.
Whether this might be the last place in the Otherworld I ever visit.
Chapter
Fifteen
When Aowen opens the door to our quarters, at least one of my questions is answered.
Vesper zooms between the sitting area and a room to my right. She halts in mid-air when we enter, then zips into a leather valise and pulls out a dress fit for a doll. She flies toward me, hovering while she holds the tiny garment up to my cheek. It’s a soft shade of green—somewhere between sage and olive.
“Food,” she nods. “Fancy food.”
“Don’t mind her,” Aowen says before shooing Vesper away. “She’s spent the past twenty-four hours setting up your wardrobe. Taking a considerable amount of pride in it. Though based on that welcome, I fear her efforts may have been wasted.”
I do not believe Aowen is being intentionally cruel. Careless, surely, but not malicious. If Duke Áine rescinds my invite orrefuses to share his clue, the consequences for me will be far more dire than a few lost hours of closet arrangement.
But at the moment, I haven’t the energy to bring it up. It’s been a supremely exhausting day, and the only thing I want to do is find out if my bed is as uncomfortable as the furniture here in the parlor—all sharp glass and stiff cushions—appears. I sincerely hope not.
The door clicks shut behind the footman, and Lachlan strides over. “Did they leave her anything to eat?”
Aowen aims a finger at the moon, then twirls her hand before sinking down onto a pale sofa. A cloched platter appears in a flash of white light on the dining table behind her. “Vesper and I ate already.”
Lachlan lifts the cloche, and a billow of steam reveals a full roast chicken, seasoned potato hash, and a pile of buttered baby peas.
My stomach blurts out the loudest grumble it’s ever made. I rub a hand over it, embarrassed, before Lachlan pulls out a chair. “You first.”
“Nonsense. You haven’t eaten all day either. There’s plenty for both of us.”
He shakes his head, refuses to sit. “I need to check your rooms. I’ll eat whatever you don’t finish. Aowen, may I speak with you alone for a moment?”
Aowen cocks a brow at me, muttering, “Am I in trouble, Sir?” before following Lachlan into another room. I dig into my meal, inventing tales of what they’re talking about.
I doubt it’s anything good.
Twenty minutes later,belly full yet mind still a-churn, I stand before a four-poster bed which does not seem at all conducive to sleeping. The frame resembles overlapping tree roots, and sharp branches shoot over the edges of the mattress. One unconscious flop during the night and I’ll be skewered.
On the other side of the room sits a chaise lounge and matching armchair that look to be fashioned of polished metal.
The furniture is luxurious and well-formed. Sets a tone, for certain. I’m just not sure that tone iswelcome, please make yourself comfortable.
Lachlan performs a final check in the mirrored armoire, inside which he finds averydangerous collection of shrunken outfits.
There are no windows in the room, but a pair of double doors open onto a balcony above a steep drop to the walkway below.
“Well, no one will be getting in.” Lachlan doesn’t say the other half of the sentence which I’m sure we’re both thinking—under the wrong circumstances, we may not be getting out.
He looks tired. I have an inappropriate urge to invite him to remove his leather armour and let me rub his neck. Maybe ask if he wouldn’t mind spreading out on the floor and letting me sleep atophim? He looks far more comfortable than that bed. In fact, sleeping atop him looks like one of the most comfortable things a woman could do.
Instead I ask, “What did you need to speak with Aowen about?”
His lips flatten. “Nothing you need worry yourself over. Are the quarters to your liking?”
“If they weren’t?”
He smiles softly. “I’d go downstairs, knock a few heads together, and get you something a bit less …”
“Pointy?” I burble a small laugh, then run my fingertips over my forehead. “I’ll be fine. They’re more than adequate.”
