Page 35 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

Hun, sensing her change in position, raises herself up with a reminder that Rory had left her a glass of blood in the refrigerator.Alright, she tells Hun,I’m going. She leaves the library and makes her way down the stairs, feeling her way instead of turning on the hallway light—which she regrets when she trips over the dark bulk of something at the foot of the stairs.

The house takes pity on her and a light flickers on. As Calliope rubs her shoulder, which took the brunt of her fall, she looks at the pile of freshly chopped planks of wood that she tripped over.

Actions, indeed,she thinks, marveling at the precision of the cuts.

* * *

When she hears the crunch of tires coming down the driveway, she quickly pours a glass of blood, and shecarries it to the front hall to welcome Rory home.

She’s pinned her hair up and changed into a white linen dress that her grandmother would have approved of as a “good Church frock.” She smooths out an invisible wrinkle as she hears the car door close and Rory’s soft, light steps approach the front porch.

When he opens the door, he stops, looking at her warily. “What’s happened?”

“Why do you think something’s happened?”

“Are you hurt?” He’s clutching a brown paper bag, and it crinkles as he takes a step forward, eyes roving over her for signs of an injury. “Where’s Kane?”

“Everything’s fine.” She holds out the glass. “This is for you.”

He accepts the glass with a furrowed brow, inspecting the dark liquid as he holds it up to the light. He gives her a sidelong look. “Why?”

“Just…” She lifts a shoulder. “Just wanted to.”

He considers her for a moment and then shoves the paper bag in her direction. “I got these for you. To make up for yesterday.” A deep sigh. “And for what I said. You’re right, it wasn’t fair to you.”

She peers into the bag, finding a small notepad and a pack of finely sharpened pencils. Something soft and tender blooms within her. She tucks the feeling in a moonflower to examine later and before she fully realizes what she’s doing, she leans up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek. When she pulls back, she bites her lip, a movement that is both nervousness regardingwhat she’s about to say and an attempt to quell the tingling from his cold, stubbled skin.

“There is something that’s happened,” she begins, clutching the bag to her chest.

A muscle in his jaw feathers as he arches an eyebrow.

“I might have—” she continues, “—accidentally, agreed to have dinner with the Claytons tomorrow night.” She says it quickly, words jumbling together and then braces for the impact. When his expression remains unchanged, she continues cautiously. “I know I’m a liability, but maybe I can try using some of my psychoshielding to…” Her words fade away as his jaw clenches and unclenches. His eyes seem to darken. She takes a step backward.

“No,” he says simply. “I’ll call and cancel.”

He really is afraid of me, she thinks numbly. “Why? It’s just dinner. Maybe a pot roast and a glass of wine, some small talk and—”

“You can’t eat pot roast.” He shoulders past her and pushes the kitchen door open with so much force, it bangs against the stove loudly.

She follows him, setting the paper bag on the kitchen table. “How do we know—”

He wrenches open the pantry door and tosses her a dusty jar of peach preserves, which she barely catches. “Go on.” He leans against the counter, arms folded across his broad chest. “Try it.”

“What is this proving?”

“You can’t eat pot roast. You can’t eat food, Calliope.”

“Fine. Let’s see, shall we?” She opens the jar and scoops some out with her fingers, stuffing the jam in her mouth spitefully. She swallows and gives him an icy smile. “See?”

He continues to look at her sternly, facial expression unmoved. And then, she feels the muscles in her stomach clench painfully. She barely makes it to the sink before the jam comes back, acrid and burning the back of her throat. She chokes, hands gripping the edge of the sink as the floor seems to swirl, her legs shaking. Another wrench, and more comes up, the sweet smell of peaches mingling with the coppery scent of blood. She hears the rustle of Rory’s shirt as he unfolds his arms, and then his cool hands are pulling her hair from her face, pressing against the back of her neck.

“This is why we don’t eat pot roast,” he mumbles, not unkindly.

She nods, head still bent over the sink. “I just thought it’d be nice to do something different. Get out of the house for a minute. Practice my control.” She straightens gingerly, hand covering her mouth. “Also, Martha steamrolled over me when I tried to decline.”

A light huff of amusement. “That sounds like her.”

She steadies herself against the counter, free hand pressed to her stomach, muscles still clenchedin protest. Hun’s tail swishes back and forth smugly. Alright, I get it. You don’t like food, she tells the creature. She glances at Rory. “Why do you have peach jam anyway?”

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