Chapter Eleven #2
“There isn’t. Food is served in the great hall, and we eat when and where we like.
Most are having a lie-in after the hunt.
” He enters, his gaze averted as he sets the tray down.
“Marjorie noticed you didn’t eat the beans yesterday, but you seemed to like the sweet bread.
There’s more of that, and a pot of honey.
I’ve placed a lid over the bread to keep it warm. You’ll want to eat that first.”
“All right.” That’s very thoughtful, which means, coming from Bishop, it’s also very strange. Am I definitely awake?
I rub my eyes, and then realize he’s already at the door, slipping out.
“Wait!” I call. “Is there a schedule for me today?”
“You can rest. I’ll be occupied this morning.”
“I don’t need entertaining, Bishop. Although, if Julius or Oliver is watching over me, do you think they’d mind giving me a lesson?”
He frowns. “Lesson?”
I cast a quick privacy spell to swallow my next words.
“My father promised I’d be taught how to use my secondary traits.
I’m guessing now that was an empty inducement, but I would like to learn how to better use my sense of smell.
It might also help for me to be seen embracing that part of my heritage. ”
“That’s a good idea. I’ll be back this afternoon to provide the lesson.” When I protest, he lowers his voice. “It will be good for your father to see us together, as if we’re considering his proposal and getting to know one another.”
“That’s wise. Also, did you notice me casting? We’re under a privacy spell. It lets two people talk without being overheard. I can’t hold it for long, but it should be helpful in a house full of supernaturals with excellent hearing.”
“It will be,” he murmurs. He starts to leave and then stops. “Tabi will return for your tray. It would be nice if you spent a little time with her, if that’s all right.”
“It’s definitely all right, but I get the sense she’d rather not.” I lift a hand when he seems ready to protest. “Others might have thought it’d be nice for her to meet another witch, but she couldn’t wait to scamper off.”
He goes quiet, and when he speaks, there’s unexpected gravity in his voice. “Tabitha has… not had an easy time. I assure you that she does want to visit. It might be awkward when she can’t carry on a conversation, but she’s a keen listener.”
“Does she have some way to communicate? A board she can write on?”
Again he goes quiet. Then he says, “She can’t read or write.”
I frown. “No one’s taught her? It’d let her communicate.”
“It’s… not a good time. Maybe next year.”
That’s a very strange answer, and he seems to realize it, slipping to the door and murmuring, “Don’t let your bread get cold,” before I can ask more.
A young witch who can’t talk and hasn’t been taught to read and write. Very strange.
Unless she’s mute because of an intellectual problem. Lenora had a client with a child like that, who’d never been able to learn to speak. Maybe they still hope Tabi will learn. Or that when she’s a little older, she’ll find reading easier.
I fetch the tray and decide I’ll dine in bed, which my mother allowed only when I was sick.
Am I sick now? I want to say no, of course not. But I am, in a way, as much as I’m trying to pretend otherwise.
I want to go home. I want to confront Lenora and straighten out this mess and let her handle the threat against me.
I do believe Bishop meant it when he promised to fix this and let me return to my aunt. But that’s not his promise to make. All he can really say is that he has no intention of marrying me and every intention of solving this another way.
There’s magic in this world, but there are many ways in which it’s not magical. Lenora can’t conjure a portal to rescue me. And Bishop Daniels—for all his wits and willpower—can’t speak a promise and expect the universe to bend so he can achieve it.
I’m so lost in my thoughts that I nearly forget his advice to eat the bread while it’s warm. I open the lid to find the whole end of a steaming loaf. I smile and reach for the knife, almost hidden under the bread. Then I stop.
This isn’t a bread knife. The blade is long and thin and sharp, and when I see it, my breath catches. I slowly fold the blade into the handle, as if I’m just imagining that it’ll fit. It does, and when I touch the button, it flicks out again.
My knife.
The one thing I asked Bishop for last night.
I stare down at the weapon, clutched in my hand, and I should want to dance a jig of glee.
Instead, tears spring to my eyes, and I swipe angrily at them.
My mother always said tears were a sign of depth, not weakness, but these feel like weakness.
My captor has been kind to me, and I’m beside myself with gratitude, and that’s wrong, horribly wrong.
Except Bishop isn’t my captor. He’s my sentry. Guarding against me fleeing but also guarding me against whatever dangers I face, and fleeing is—while I hate to admit it—one of those dangers. I chafe at the idea that a man is “keeping me safe,” but, in this case, I need the help.
This knife is more than a gift. It’s an acknowledgment that I can, with the right tools, protect myself. I needed this to feel safe, and he recognized that.
I scramble from bed and hurry to the door, opening it… to see Oliver on the small bed, reading a newspaper.
He looks over the top at me. “Everything all right?”
“It is. Thank you.”
I’ve started to withdraw when Oliver says, “Miss Cordelia?”
I pop my head out around the door. “‘Miss’?”
He smiles, and his face reminds me of a Buddhist sculpture I saw once. His smiles are like that one—not particularly wide, but kind and also mysterious.
Bishop has perfected his inscrutable mask. Oliver seems to have fashioned his own, not so much a mask but an extra layer of serenity that reveals only peace and goodwill.
“Cordelia, then,” he says. “I wanted to ask whether you need anything. I know Bishop will see to you, but he’s also distracted by Pack business. Feel free to ask me as well.”
I bite my lower lip. “Can I ask you questions?”
Regret ripples his serenity. “That depends. I’d happily answer everything. But questions about your situation are to go to Bishop or your father. I don’t dare cross him on that.”
“Bishop?”
A soft laugh. “No, I’m not afraid of Bishop. I mean your father.”
“You’re afraid of your brother?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
A moment of thoughtful silence. Then he says, “I’m very aware of when Silas is my brother and when he’s my Alpha.” Oliver purses his lips. “Of course, since he was destined to become Alpha before I was born, I suppose he has always, in his way, been my Alpha.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to cross him. I was actually hoping to get to know you better.”
His brows rise. “Then come in.”
“I, er, am not properly dressed, which is why I’m hiding behind this door. My father put together a very thorough wardrobe, but I don’t have a dressing gown.”
“A dressing…?” His smile is self-effacing now. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about women’s clothing.”
“I wish I knew less myself. It’s far too complicated. A dressing gown can be worn around the house, even to receive visitors.”
“Ah, I think I know what you mean. My sister used to…” He trails off and clears his throat. “I’ve seen dressing gowns, as you call them.”
“You have a sister?” I can’t help leaning out farther at that. “Does that mean I have an aunt?”
“I’m afraid she’s no longer with us. Last night, Silas mentioned that werewolf daughters used to live with the Pack.
Technically, it hasn’t been allowed for generations, but exceptions can be made for the Alpha’s children.
All that is to say that I know what you mean by dressing gowns, and I agree you should have one.
I’ll speak to Silas. I presume your, er, nightgown would be considered immodest? ”
I laugh. “Not at all. My father gave me the most modest wardrobe imaginable. I’m just hiding so I don’t offend you.”
“If you’re comfortable with it, then so am I. Now I definitely wouldn’t suggest walking around the house in it, but it’s fine with just me. If you’d like to talk, I’ll pull in a chair.”
I beam at him. “I’d like that very much.”