Chapter 6
Rafe
“No!”
“Yes.”
“Please. Rafe, I beg of you.”
“Not a fan of begging.” I sigh, flipping over a page of The Chronicle.
“I’ll get on my damn knees.”
I lick my thumb to turn another page. “With your rusty knees you wouldn’t be able to get up.”
“Send me to the Fazyrian desert. The bogs in Winari… anywhere but the Royal Castle.”
Tempting, but no. Sending him to the castle rather than myself keeps me out the way of a grieving and most likely desperate Chief Defender.
It’s in the Kingdom’s best interests to stay away from him right now.
“Gunther, what is my morning routine?”
“Huh?”
“Did I speak another language? I don’t have any crayons to draw you the picture.”
“Er, you get your paper, breakfast and coffee, then come to your office to read, eat and drink before you open up transport services.”
“Right, and what part of my routine do I happen to be doing right now?”
“Reading?”
“And you happen to be interrupting that.” And right at the moment I get to the Healers section, my most favoured section, where fun facts of the human body are shared with society.
Your eyes blink around twenty times a minute, over ten million times a year.
Gunther here appears to have hit his yearly blink quota in less than thirty seconds.
“But…”
“No buts. You will go where I signpost you.”
“He’s fucking crazy! If the Chief Defender looks me in the eyes, I’ll turn to stone.”
“So don’t look at him.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“My services are needed elsewhere.” —Lie— “Also, don’t ever question me again.” I level Gunther with one of my ‘don’t fuck with me’ glares.
He swallows, and his body leans a little forward, like he’s fighting to say more but not all at the same time. “Out.”
He twists his hat in his hands a few more times before taking his leave, his hand gripping the doorknob, though he stalls, opening his mouth once more.
“You will be rewarded nicely.”
He huffs, muttering obscenities as he yanks open my office door, only to stumble back and stutter. “M… m… morning miss.”
My ears perk up and I peek over the edge of the paper I’ve been trying to read for the past ten damn minutes.
Her scent hits me the same time her steely eyes do.
For fuck’s sakes. I’m not ready for this at this early hour.
“Out, Gunther!” I grit, noticing his hovering at the pretty woman who only recently came barrelling into my life… married.
Though I did miss not seeing her at the café this morning. Not one wink of sleep was caught last night, thinking about her, and I’m grouchy as hell, not to mention this morning interruptions has thrown my usual routine off.
A routine I’ve come to enjoy.
Throwing the paper on my desk, I admit defeat and take a sip of my now cold coffee, nearly wincing at the taste, but desperate to busy my hands.
I’m proud, but not too proud to admit she makes me nervous.
“This one is still full…” I raise the cup “… you come here to recreate yesterday?”
Without delay, her quill makes an appearance. The scratching irking my nerves. I’d much rather hear her voice. Is it soft? Husky? Deep or feminine? Does she have an accent?
‘My aim could be improved.’
“At least this one is cold.” The coffee she launched at me yesterday wasn’t hot enough to burn, but enough to shock the system. It certainly woke me up for the day.
‘Your face does scream target practice.’
I laugh, and I hate it.
I hate she made me laugh whilst I’m annoyed she’s fucking married.
She’s someone else’s wife. Not mine. Which is not what I understood from Rafe. How am I now supposed to fall in love with her and want to save her? From someone or herself? How the fuck do I do that now knowing she’s fucking married.
A cotton package appears in front of me along with a bamboo cup smelling of fresh, hot, coffee.
Her eyes are wary, her smile small and tilted to one side, popping out that cute dimple of hers. Part of me wants to be prickly, keep her at arm’s length.
‘Thought you should try apple and syrup today. In case you have strawberries and cream trauma.’
She makes me laugh again, and like before, I hate it, because wrapped up in the cotton is a small apple and syrup tart. Home-made by the looks of it. Makes the organ in my chest pound a little faster; I hate that too.
Be still my heart.
Did she bake this for me… or did she make her husband them and I get leftovers.
“Thank you. Doesn’t explain why you’re here… again.”
She rolls her eyes, but bites her bottom lip, contradicting her earlier bravado.
‘You sound like you need a nap.’
I fight the urge to chuckle, watching her take a seat in front of me, mesmerised by how she swipes her pretty yellow dress tight to her bottom before her plush arse makes contact with the leather.
You guessed it—I hate that too.
‘Had spare time this morning, thought I’d swing by with an apology pie, fresh coffee and maybe a chance to get to know more about you.’
Do I be that guy that tells her it’s actually a tart not a pie?
Her note does nothing to decrease the incessant pounding in my chest. She wants to know more about me. No one wants to know more about me. Folk tend to leave me be, and sometimes I don’t know why that is.
“I’ll accept your apology pie. But I’m bland. Not much to know.” I say, slurping on some hot coffee.
‘I disagree.’
“Disagree all you want, It’s true.”
Her huff is loud; her quill is louder.
‘Stop being difficult. Tell me more on time travel.’
“I said we’d speak more on it if you got the Taka.
” My back teeth grind and my fists clench.
This subject scares me. Placing trust in another on this topic is risky, especially when it can result in our execution.
She knows, but why the fuck isn’t she understanding how serious this is. Does she have a death wish.
‘It doesn’t hurt to know more. The books I found are limited.’
“Because it’s outlawed and eventually will be wiped from history.”
‘It’s outlawed yes, for a long time, but how did you know how to travel?’
I pause, knowing I can trust her based off what future Rafe told me, but it’s still hard. It’s uncomfortable. But I give.
“My grandfather was a traveller. He kept a secret stash and took us on trips when we were younger. Against my parents’ wishes.”
Good ‘ol Papi never was one for following the law. Even if it did end up with him at gallows.
‘How long ago was that?’
“That some stealthy way to ask me my age?” I quirk a brow, hiding my smirk behind my cup. She chews the inside of her cheek, quill in hand.
‘Did it work?’
My sigh is heavy, full of defeat. Somehow my body has this painful urge to spill everything to her. All my thoughts, feelings and secrets. It wants to lay it all at her feet in a pretty package and say, ‘here Lina, do with this as you wish, I’m happy to be at your mercy.’
“I’ll be eighty-three years young in three full moons… happy?”
She nods, a little glint of glee flickering in her eyes, and she suddenly seems more… awake. Vibrant.
Like somehow my over-sharing breathes new life into her bleak soul.
I cover her hand gripping the quill when she scribbles again, bolts of lightning fires all over my body and I pull back from her touch, clearing my throat.
“My turn. How long you been married?” Fuck it, let’s rip the band aid off.
She didn’t like that question; her nose screwed up and jaw clenched. But she writes anyhow.
‘Forty-eight years.’
I whistle a low drawn-out tune to hide the noise my heart made when it hit my stomach.
Forty-eight fucking years!
“Nice stint,” I smile, but inside I’m screaming. “Children?”
She shakes her head. Huh, interesting. Forty-eight years down and no babes.
“Why’s that?” Her face turns sour. “Hey, you asked me questions,” I raise my palms in surrender. “Am I not afforded equal opportunity?” I’m baiting her now, I know I am, but I have a point.
‘‘Do you ask folk with children why they had children? And your sixteen years my senior… why do you not have a wife or children?’
“And you know that how? Hmmm? I could have a whole tribe for all you know.”
I wonder if she’ll admit to being my little stalker recently.
‘I’ve watched you long enough to know you haven’t made a family.’
Ahh, so she doesn’t completely shy away from the truth, though what she said did sting a little. “Could be hiding them away,” I shrug.
‘Are you?’
“No,” I chuckle. “No wife. No Children. Just a lot of peace and quiet.” And just how I like it.
‘Why?’
She’s playing me at my game, and I don’t like it. But this does give me the opportunity for some fun.
“A seer told me about my person. I’m waiting for her.” I lie. Older Rafe is no seer. But I’ve piqued her interest as she shuffles forward.
‘A seer? What did she say?’
I scooch forward too, lowering my voice. “She said my future wife is beautiful and brilliant. Smart and funny too though a little feisty.”
Lina tilts her head to the side, her mouth parted slightly, absorbing every word, every syllable—I think she forgets to breathe too.
“She told me how she likes to throw things… then apologises the next day with home baked pies.” My lips stretch on their own accord. The flaring of her nostrils snaps me out of the act, I throw my head back and laugh when she flies up from her chair, scribbling in her book.
She tears a page, screws her fist and chucks it at me. I catch it with one hand, unravelling the parchment as she fixes her shawl over her beautiful brown hair.
‘Careful, she might throw something sharp next time. Good day to you, Rafe. P.S. I hope you stump your toe.’
More wheezing laughter erupts from my chest. “Hopefully that something sharp is just her tongue,” I chortle, scratching the stubble on my chin.
Lina’s smirk falters. Just slight, almost unnoticeable, but to me, with noticing everything about her recently, I very much saw. “And it’s stub, not stump.”
She doesn’t spare me a glance as she stalks to my office door, her arm ripping the wood back, ready to slam it in her huff but halts at the last minute, deciding to pull it gently, until there’s a quiet click.
The motion makes me snicker some more as I head to my window to watch her rush past, brows knitted together. She backtracks, shoves her book up against the glass for a moment before stalking off.
‘May the rest of your day be as pleasant as you have been.’
Oh, that sharp tongue. She makes me want to chase after her, yank her back to me and kiss the pout off her lips.
She makes me want to do a lot of things. But I can’t.
Because she’s fucking married.
My former foul mood returns, along with the quiet in my office.
A quiet no longer peaceful.
A quiet now haunting.