Chapter 4 Abigail
Chapter four
Abigail
Abigail rolled over, her head bumping against something hard, and she opened her eyes.
Oh.
She was on the kitchen floor in the tavern.
It hadn’t been a dream.
There was only a little light coming in through the windows, so it was still early, but she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep again.
She sat up, stretching blearily. It had not been a good night’s sleep. Her whole body ached, and she’d tossed and turned for far too long.
A worn woven blanket with fraying stitching around the edge covered her legs, and Abigail frowned, fingering the faded cream fabric. Had Roan come in to bring this to her? She hadn’t heard him at all—he must have come in after she’d finally succumbed to sleep.
Part of her had been afraid that if she fell asleep, she wouldn’t wake again, trapped in the sleeping curse that inflicted the other inhabitants of the tavern. She shuddered at the reminder of carrying their sleeping bodies into the storage room.
She’d dreamed of less safe times, of men who hadn’t been sleeping when they’d brushed against her in ways that were less than appropriate.
Not since she’d come here, though.
She’d never felt safer than when she was here with Roan and Beastie.
Even if it was highly improper for her to be the only one awake here with him…she knew he would never harm her.
However, sleeping on this floor another night might.
Perhaps there were things in the attic that might make their situation more comfortable. She’d heard a rumor there were things up there from when his grandparents owned the tavern—perhaps there would be more blankets.
She took a deep breath and stood to start the kettle of water for tea and oatmeal, folding the blanket and tucking it out of the way on a shelf. She had a busy day ahead of her, and breakfast would set her up to have a good day.
Roan was right. If they were going to be trapped here, they might as well accomplish the things that they never actually got to do because they were too busy taking care of the tavern patrons.
She reached for a spare handkerchief and used it to tie her hair back. Today she would tackle dusting. It hadn’t been done in far too long, and taking the broom to the heights of the tavern would make a mess of her hair if she didn’t cover it.
Perhaps she could let in some light, too, by taking down the heavy curtains and cleaning them. It might make the time pass faster and keep her spirits up if there was more light in the building.
She understood why Roan kept the tavern dim. It made the tavern warm and cozy, welcoming in ways that it wouldn’t be with the sunlight streaming in.
But she did miss the sunshine when she was in the main room.
Fortunately, her kitchen had large windows, and she’d never closed the curtains on them. She stopped at the sink and raised her face to the light, taking a deep breath. Today was going to be a good day.
The tea kettle began steaming, and she quickly prepared tea and oatmeal before loading a tray and making her way to Roan’s office. Would he be awake this early? She rarely came in this close to dawn, but she didn’t know what his habits were.
She would knock, and if he didn’t answer, she’d leave the tray for him.
Her stomach felt odd as she approached his office. She’d never felt this uncomfortable before, but then again, it wasn’t every day her employer covered her with a blanket while she slept.
It was perfectly normal for her to feel odd about that.
She knocked and waited for him to call, “Enter,” in a rough voice before she did so. She balanced the tray on her hip to open the door, and when she entered the room, she looked around before finally spotting him.
He was lying on the floor, his head resting on Beastie’s side, his hair tousled and his clothing wrinkled.
“I brought you breakfast,” she said, glancing away from him. It felt improper to see him in this way, even if he’d seen her in a similar state.
He had no blanket, and the fact that he’d given it to her made warmth fill her chest.
Had anyone ever done anything like that for her before?
At least he had Beastie to snuggle with.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you would still be sleeping,” she said as she set the tray on his desk.
“I don’t normally sleep this late,” he admitted as he sat up. “I suppose the effects of being knocked out yesterday caught up to me.”
“Do you feel well?” she asked, hurrying over and taking his face in her hands to inspect his eyes. “I should have thought to look at you for side effects. I apologize for not thinking of it.”
Roan seemed flustered by her nearness, and after seeing that his eyes looked normal, she took a step back. “I apologize. I ought not to have been so forward,” she said, a blush spreading across her cheeks. This situation was so odd.
“No apology necessary. Are you trained in healing?” Roan asked.
Abigail stood and reached for the bowl of oatmeal, handing it to him before sitting back down on the floor, a safe distance away from him.
“I learned a few things from one of the women I grew up with. One of the things was that after someone hits their head, you should check their eyes to make sure they look the same.”
“And what do you do if one is different?” Roan asked dryly, putting his spoon into the oatmeal, but not eating anything.
“Make them rest,” she said. “Lots of water and rest. Soup can be helpful, too.”
“And soup fixes an eye?” he asked, his eyebrows quirking in disbelief.
Abigail laughed. “Soup fixes everything.”
“If you say so.” His tone remained dry, but there was a lightness to him that she was not used to. Was it almost a smile?
This was too strange.
“Come on, Beastie. You want to go outside?” she asked, suddenly desperate to escape. Beastie scrambled to her feet and followed Abigail toward the kitchen, where she let her out into the back garden.
Soup could fix most things, but it couldn’t fix the awkwardness that had sprung up the moment she’d run away.
The curtains were disgusting.
Abigail eyed them, chewing on her lower lip as she took a deep breath.
The ladder was in the storage room.
The dust and dirt collected on the curtains was enough to choke a human…but the ladder was in the storage room.
Where all the sleeping men were.
Reaching out to run a finger down the curtains was enough to make up her mind, though.
They had to be cleaned.
She sighed and walked toward the storage room. Roan hadn’t come out of his office all morning, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he was hiding from her.
If she were braver, she’d ask him to help her get the ladder…but she wasn’t brave, and facing the sleeping men was less intimidating than knocking on his office door. So she opened the door, quietly, almost as if she was going to wake the men.
It was silly. She wanted them to wake up, wanted them to come back to life, and yet she couldn’t help tiptoeing through storage to where the ladder hung on the back wall.
She didn’t look at any of their faces. They hadn’t changed. Everyone’s eyes were closed, their breathing normal—though more than one of them was snoring. She choked down laughter as one of them hit a particularly out-of-tune note in the cacophony of song that was the snoring.
Hefting the ladder onto her shoulder, she carried it out of the storage room, carefully stepping over the few stray limbs that had splayed out from where their respective owners lay.
If only she could wake them up by stepping on them.
As it was, she didn’t want them to wake up with unexplained bruises.
The bottom end of the ladder whacked into someone and Abigail grimaced.
Maybe one or two bruises.
She made her way to the front of the tavern, where her least favorite curtains were, long and heavy drapes on all the windows.
They had their reasons for existing…but they had been annoying her from the moment she first started working here. The only reason she hadn’t taken them down yet was because she had been afraid of making Roan upset—and because she’d never had time.
But now she had time, and if he was upset, he could put them back up later, on his own.
At the very least, she could give them a good beating.
It might improve her mood, too.
She hummed a merry tune to herself as she propped the ladder against the wall and climbed it to begin taking them down.
The curtain weighed more than she’d expected, and the ladder wobbled as she released it from the hooks holding it above the window. She froze, gripping the top rung with shaky hands, but it didn’t fall.
Abigail quickly found a rhythm, and by the time she had reached the northern wall, she had a large pile of drapes to clean sitting in the middle of the room.
The whole room was brighter. She could see the dust flying through the air—and the fact that she could see the dust meant there was sunshine.
The sunshine made it all worth it.
She moved the ladder for the last time, leaning it against the wall between the final curtain and the Lucky Goat tapestry that Roan’s grandmother had made. Climbing to the top, she took a moment to study the tapestry.
It was beautiful. The stitching was immaculate, featuring a goat, the tavern’s name, and a border of tankards and white roses with green leaves. It must have been a true labor of love.
But it was torn.
Abigail frowned at the rip in the embroidery.
What had happened to it?
Not that it mattered—she could fix it.
If there was one thing she knew, it was how to be handy with a needle and thread. Her father had never been much for sewing, so the role had fallen to her as soon as she was old enough to hold a needle. She’d stitched up his clothes over and over, with him ripping them over and over again.
How he got into so many situations that involved tearing his clothes, she wasn’t sure, but he did.
Mending the tapestry would be easy compared to attempting to hold together fabric that was so worn you could almost see through it.