Page 7 of Boats, Moats, & Root Beer Floats

Dustman returned in moments, cradling a bag of promised snacks.

“You’re quick.” I rolled to one side and scooted my butt to the bed, resting my back against its tall double ensemble frame and sighed. At least it looked to be in more than threadbare condition.

“You were meant to have a shower. Perhaps I was too fast with the libations.” He held out a hand.

“Maybe a little,” I admitted, taking the proffered limb and hauling myself upright. A sniff confirmed I really did need that shower. “Hot water, you say?”

He grinned. The simple gesture transformed my Dustman from—well, a dusty old scholar into a more relaxed figure I didn’t expect. Or maybe it was the port whiskey he plied me withearlier. I would wake up with one hell of a stunning hangover headache if I didn't get some of those snacks into me, stat.

But first, shower.

“Back out that door. First right. The way you came.”

“Stalker.” I aimed a kick at my suitcase. It popped open on cue. I grabbed my comfiest sleep shirt, all the essentials, and headed out the door, my legs aching from tackling so many stairs.

Hey, at least I'd get fit this holiday. And maybe paint my way through a few hidden passages if Witnot Castle held as many secrets as I suspected.

A small deluge of hot water later I was clean. Dressed in my favorite nightwear, necessities clutched to my chest, I trotted back to my room to find Dustman having a picnic on my bed.

“Comfy there?”

“I started without you.” He held up a baguette sliced into even pieces and slathered with what looked like anchovy paste. My grandmother traumatized me with it as a child and I would never be able to forget the color. Or the smell.

“I can see that. Is the pantry full of this stuff?” I hadn’t had a good look through it on my way to the cow.

“Not by half. These were my rations for the month.” Dustman munched his anchovy paste and waved me graciously onto my bed.

I plopped down beside him, discarding my things into a messy pile just because my snob-dar told me it would annoy him the most. Yes, I could be bratty. Deal. He had to.

“This was what you had to survive on for a month?” I leaned in to poke at a round of brie that looked–and smelled—like it was still in date.

“Yes, ma’am. Though the kitchen seems to be equipped with a healthy complement of tinned salmon when I poked my head in post milking.”

“You do have good manners,” I approved. “You know I don’t know your name, even though you’re sitting on my bed.

He looked around as though surprised by his location. “So I am. My name is Covin Drysdale.”

“Covin.” I smirked.

“What?” He straightened and poked at his bowtie, sending it askew.

I half expected it to whir in a circle. Disappointment swamped me when my fantasy failed in reality. “You suit your name.”

“And what’s yours?”

“Lindy Watson. Artist,” I added when he stared at me unflinchingly for the longest time, anchovy baguette forgotten.

“Figures,” was the only response I received after a secondary bout of silence.

“Right.” I grabbed a slim cracker in the shape of a breadstick and pointed it at him. Eyebrows rose, but he didn’t move. “Any more of that and I’m confiscating snacks. You can exist on salmon while you read books or whatever it is you do in the– the?—”’

Covin leaned forward and whisked the breadstick cracker out of my hand. “You’d lock me in my tower?” He bit into the crispbread with a satisfying crunch.

Well, not so satisfying, as it wasn’tmycrunch inmyhand. “I might.”

“Intriguing.”

“What do you do up there, anyway?” I couldn’t keep the curiosity out of my voice.

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