Page 23 of Prince of Flowers
Every student naturally had the option of eating in the dining hall or one of the common areas, but meals were guaranteed to be delivered ensuite, too. Yes, again — the Wispwood spoiled its students silly. Wouldn’t you stay, knowing that French cuisine would appear in your bedchambers upon request?
I brought the piece of card up to my face, making my selection. “I’d love the coq au vin for dinner, please. Maybe in ten minutes?”
“You got it, kid,” a gruff voice answered.
The sound could have come from anywhere in the room, but I knew that it had come from the menu, a rectangle of card stock enchanted to serve as a walkie-talkie. I firmly believed in being extremely polite to those who worked in food service. Those jobs weren’t easy by any stretch, and adding more strain to the situation by being difficult or unpleasant didn’t appeal to me.
And besides, the Wispwood was exactly the sort of place where being nice to the kitchen and waitstaff paid off in spades. Sometimes the kitchen imps delivered me a nice extra helping of chocolate mousse. Students who hadn’t learned to be decent people prior to arriving at the Wispwood learned to change their tune very quickly.
This was the sort of place where the question “Who pissed in your cereal?” prompted a legitimate answer. Imp urine burned on the way down, too, or so I’d been told.
So yes: comfort and complacence were a few of the reasons I’d partially fused myself to the academy. I’d been at the Wispwood so long it was a wonder they didn’t force me to move somewhere more appropriate. My own bell tower, for example. A condemned wing of the academy, perhaps, that I could haunt while clutching a candelabra and wearing a tattered white gown.
The knobs in the bathroom squeaked. I cleared my throat, my hand going to the top of my head as my fingers teased out the ringlets of my hair. What the hell was I doing? This wasn’t a date, nor a one-night stand. A few minutes later the door opened, issuing wisps of steam, as if Sylvain needed an even more dramatic way to make an entrance.
“Right, my turn,” I blurted out, practically elbowing my way past him into the bathroom. “Food’s coming. Check the table. Chicken cooked in wine.”
“I’m not hungry,” Sylvain said, toweling his hair, his skin still damp.
Whatever. I shut the door and slipped into the shower. I washed myself clean, focusing only on the soap and the shampoo, all while resisting the overpowering temptation to reach down and touch myself.
Gods, how inappropriate would that be? With Sylvain just outside the door? “Have some restraint,” I muttered to myself under the safety of rushing water, watching as the suds and my shame gurgled down the shower drain.
I emerged wrapped in a towel, hurriedly dressing myself with a shirt and shorts plucked out of my dresser. I fought to avoid looking at Sylvain, to check whether he was watching me. He must have been. My skin burned.
“So I take it that we’re sharing the bed,” he said, his voice almost sultry, or maybe that was only my mind playing tricks on me.
“Absolutely not,” I said, tearing through the room and arranging an unholy number of pillows on the ground for him. I threw on a couple of silks and blankets for good measure. I thought he’d put up more of a fight, but Sylvain laid down on top of the pile, testing the pillows with his hands, kneading and stretching like a cat.
“I’ve slept on worse.”
I wrested my eyes away from the sight of all those muscles rippling under his skin. Fuck. I looked at the breakfast table instead, at the plate of coq au vin that had clearly been demolished.
“So. I thought you said you weren’t hungry?”
“Pixies. You must have an infestation of pixies. They ate the food.” He patted his stomach, one hand to his lips as he stifled a belch. “I imagine it must have been very delicious.”
I rolled my eyes, accidentally glancing at his body again. The urge was overwhelming. I had to check if he’d somehow managed to squeeze himself into those damn shorts.
Okay, so maybe I wanted to see how parts of him would bulge through them, too.
I allowed my gaze to travel down his body, surprised to find him wearing what appeared to be a fairly comfortable pair of leaf-shorts. What the hell?
“Where are the shorts I gave you?” I asked.
Sylvain pointed. “There, on the dresser. I simply couldn’t fit. I was worried I’d rip them apart.”
I gulped, hoping he didn’t notice the lump in my throat bobbing. The way Sylvain phrased things didn’t make the thought of sleeping in the same room with him any easier.
“So how did you make the pair that you’re wearing? There are hardly any plants in here.”
“Oh, these? I noticed a potted plant next to your dresser, and another little one on your end table. They suffice for my purposes. And don’t fret, I’m only borrowing their foliage. I’ll return them when I’m finished.” The corners of his lips curled upward as he grinned. “Unsoiled. Unsullied.”
Gods, this man knew exactly the things he was doing to me. I soldiered on. “But how would your magic work in a place without any flora?”
He frowned. “Don’t be preposterous. There are plants everywhere, Locke. Everywhere.”
I flung my arms out. “There are many, many places in this world that have little to no plant life in them whatsoever, Sylvain.”
