Page 7 of The Gambler's Prize
Now that I know he’s not indulging in anything unsavory, I open the door and walk in, lighting my way with an oil lamp. He’s still in bed, under the covers, hands clamped over his ears,pretty hair looking like a bird’s nest. His confusion is comical. He’s more used to ringing a bell for a servant to come and attendhim.
“You slept in,” I inform him.
He takes his hands away from his ears, tentatively, afraid I might unleash another noise attack. He lights a candle and looks at the small carriage clock on the bedside table. It was gift from my best friend Jos, and one of the few ornaments in the plain little room. Florian groans.
“Ireallydidn’t sleep in,” he says.
“From now on you will serve breakfast at five o’clock every morning.”
He literally reels. I’m not sure how, since he’s lying in bed, but he manages it.
“Five in the morning is crazy,” he pleads. “It’s still dark out.” He gestures to the window, as though I can’t see for myself.
“In case you haven’t noticed, it gets hot in the desert. We need to be up early to get a few good hours’ work in before the sun is too strong.”
“But Grimes, it’s practically the middle of the night—”
I step closer, folding my arms. “And another thing. You don’t call me Grimes.”
“What do I call you?”
“I’m your Boss. So, call me Boss.”
He looks up at me for a moment. His sky-blue eyes regard me with candid curiosity. Then he gives me a cheerful salute.
“No problem, Boss,” he says.
Huh. I expected more resistance to that. Thought he might throw another little tantrum like the one last night. Maybe manhandling him out of the club cured him of the idea he could feasibly take me on. If so, he has more sense than I thought. Or maybe he’s just punch-drunk, the change in his circumstances not sinking in yet. It must be strange for an aristocrat to findhimself suddenly a servant. He stretches his elegant arms high over his head. He wears a few simple beaded bracelets on his wrists. No rubies or gold or emeralds. Last night’s clothes were expensive, but I’m only now noticing the unusual lack of jewelry for a man like him.
“What would you like for breakfast, Boss?” he says.
Now he’s gotten over his shock of being wakened so early, he sounds chirpy. Like he’s looking forward to the meal. I’m momentarily stumped. The whole point of all this is to humble him. But what if he just… refuses to be humbled? That hadn’t occurred to me. Until this moment.
“I don’t care,” I mutter.
I don’t even eat breakfast. I only ordered him to cook something because I can.
“I’ll think of something,” he says, still with that aggravating cheeriness in his voice. “Do you mind leaving me alone for a few moments? I’m dying for a piss.”
I back obediently out of the room and close the door on him, feeling confused. How did he manage to get the last word like that?I’msupposed to have the upper hand here. The problem is, I’m not used to having someone else in the house. I’m out of practice with conversation. I need to stop conversing with him and start giving orders, that’s all.
I go downstairs and sit at the kitchen table to wait for him. Noises drift down to me. Is he talking to himself? Then I realize that he’s singing. His voice is loud, confident, and extremely skilled. He sounds as though he belongs on the stage.So much for humbling him.
He closes a door somewhere upstairs. It’s loud and sudden as a gunshot. I almost leap out of my chair. My heartbeat spikes in a provoking show of weakness. My mind flies back to my cell, the guard slamming the door and locking it tight for the night. The best thing about living here alone was that there was no one elsehere to close doors except me. Now that Florian is here, is my heart going to race in fear every time he makes a noise elsewhere in the house?
Get a grip. I force a deep breath and look around. I’m safe in my own kitchen, desert sunlight streaming through the window, sentinel cacti watching over me and bright redkiveflowers on the window ledge. I’m miles from Rhennes prison. A lifetime away. And I can’t let Florian see a speck of weakness. My panic subsides, but I’m still uncomfortable and restless, not quite sure why. The house feels different now that I know someone else is here. Even when he goes quiet up there, I still know the house isn’t all my own anymore. My eyes are on the kitchen door, waiting for Florian to appear. Some company in the morning, for once.
What the fuck? Am I losing it? This isn’t aboutcompany. This is about justice.
He knocks on the kitchen door.
“Yes, come on,” I say, sounding as irritable as I feel.
He comes in, fresh-faced as a flower. No sign of a hangover. I guess his constitution can handle a lot more alcohol than he had last night. His hair is neatly combed now but not tied back, falling over his shoulders in dark rippling waves. He must’ve had a comb in his jacket pocket, because he certainly didn’t find one in this house. He’s still wearing last night’s clothes, obviously, since that’s all he has. Probably the first time he’s woken up in last night’s clothes without having had a debauched night of pleasure. But he doesn’t look like a man who’s just sold himself into servitude, either. There’s no invisible weight crushing him into the floor. His chin is up and his eyes bright and curious as he looks around my shabby kitchen. It’s a dramatic transformation from his broken mood last night. He was so scared and small-looking in the moonlight, huddled inside his fancy jacket outside the casino. He looked like someone truly conquered. He’sbounced back already. Or, at least, he’s putting on a decent show of having bounced back. He must be one of nature’s optimists.
Stars. I hate nature’s optimists.
“Any ideas for breakfast yet?” he says.
