Page 117 of Sunder

He’d asked after her. Of course he had. If she was as poorly as yesterday, he wouldn’t leave at all. But that would mean more potions, and she would not begin that habit anew.

So she’d told him she was fine.

And she’d almost meant it.

As she’d slept another half-hour, then drank tea kept warm by a covered cloth. Ate smoked fish and a piece of bread thickly buttered.

The idea of remaining in bed afterward was less than appealing. The bed needed attention—to be aired, at least, if not stripped and the linens replaced. Then she needed a bath, which was not such a terrible thing, except she missed him even in that. Even undressing was enough to make her think of him, although it had only happened the once.

If he’d been there, he would look at her as something precious, leaning against the doorway as if certain he’d be ejected if he came a little too near. Maybe he might have been, before. When she was shy and uncertain of both herself and of him.

But now she was sorry for his absence. That he could not watch as she smoothed fragrant soap along her limbs. That she would even lean forward and ask him to attend to her back and wings.

He would swallow. Would do as she bid, because the request had been hers and he would deny her nothing.

His touch would be chaste—he would do only what was asked of him. He wouldn’t stray, would not capture a handful of breast simply because it was there and available.

But he wasn’t there, and all she had managed was to get herself flustered and bothered.

She dressed. Stripped the bed.

Stared at the pile and hadn’t the least idea what to do with it. There was always someone else to come and whisk away the rest—presumably either to wash or take to a proper laundress. But there was only her, and she was not about to risk ruining perfectly good linens by tossing them in the bath and scrubbing at them with soap meant for people rather than fabric.

She found more linens in a cupboard in the hall, and that felt an accomplishment. Making the bed was less so. She fluttered back and forth, tugging and tucking until it was suitable, but it was all much harder than she’d expected.

Which was good. Better to be huffing and puffing over hard work than... other feelings that she could not satisfy.

Satisfied with the bedroom, she took the rest down to the kitchen and left them in a pile in the corner. Athan would know what to do. Perhaps even Brum did—or perhaps he was interested in the linens themselves, because he nosed through the lot before curling up in the centre of them—eyeing her with far too much gratitude as if she’d meant to give them as an offering at all.

She should push him off. Surely it would be harder to scrub sheets when they were also covered in fluff.

She chewed at her lip. Athan could do that. When he was back. Her accord with the Brum was far too new to disturb him and still preserve their friendship.

There was more she could do. Or... more that another, knowledgeable woman might do while her mate was attending to important work. She wiped at her forehead and settled on another cup of tea. Better to rest in between her labours, lest she overtax herself and waste the rest of the day tucked into clean sheets with a pounding head.

But then the tea was gone, and she was alone again.

Which was supposed to be fine.

Except he’d woken thispartof her, and it really was horribly unfair of him.

The Brum had tired of her as the day wore on so he’d escaped to the garden. She’d left him be for a while, then she ached for even his company, so she followed.

And paced.

And wondered if perhaps he’d loved her a littletoowell, if she could be this distracted when there were other pursuits that should occupy her time.

Except there weren’t. Not yet, anyway. She had no responsibilities. No household tasks to call her own.

Which left her with far too much time and far too manyfeelings.

She sat down on the bench. Which really did not help her mood, because they sat there together, and he wasn’t there, and why had she not thought to bring a book out with her? Not one of the awful medical texts, but something nice. A story. Perhaps about mates finding each other against all odds, or the loveliness of everyday life, or...

She groaned, pushing her head back and letting the sunlight war with the coolness of the breeze, heating and cooling her all at once.

She’d take off her shoes and put her feet in the stream, except she did not know if that would disturb the fish and therefore the Brum.

Flustered and terribly bothered by even her own thoughts, she shifted, turning so she could lie back on the bench and stare up at the sky, willing herself to sleep. Which she couldn’t, of course. But she could try.

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