Page 41 of The Gambler's Prize
Fire ignites the blankness in his eyes. I wonder if he ever caught who he’s talking about. If so, I doubt they’re still alive.
“There was nothing I could do,” he says. “I washed his wounds as best I could. Stale dirty water was all we had. I gave him my share of the evening meal. And then I waited for him to get better without proper medical attention.”
And?” I prompt.
“He recovered. It was hard but he did. He’s okay.”
“He’s a friend of yours?” I ask.
“The best friend a man could get.” He gives a little smile, which fights its way out with difficulty through the horror of his memory. “He would like you, you know.”
He’s clearly talking about the man in the letter. Jos. I can’t ask for any more details, not when I told him that was against the rules.
“Thank you,” I say at last. I have no idea what else to say.
“I quarreled with him,” Grimes says, as though I hadn’t spoken. He stares across the yard, lost in thought. Lines of guilt trace across his face.
“Well, maybe you could make it up with him,” I suggest tentatively.
“Doubt it. He’s probably tired of me. Don’t blame him, either.”
There’s a note of something I’ve never heard before in his voice. Uncertainty, disapproval, but aimed at himself instead of me or the world. I don’t know how to handle it.
“Come on, let’s go inside,” I say. “I’ll cook lunch.”
I sing quietly to myself as I prepare a salad for lunch. Grimes isn’t making a sour face about the noise, which he sometimes does. Progress. The memory exercise was a success. It almost always builds emotional connection. Which is what I thought I wanted. But now that he’s given me a glimpse inside his head, I’m getting spooked. Now he’s looking at me with a question in his eyes, probably wondering about my memory. Wondering where my mother went. Wondering if my life hasn’t been ascharmed as he thinks. Wondering if he should feel sorry for me. I sense his eyes on my back as I work.
There’s a tight, uncomfortable feeling in my chest. I feel exposed, like I’m standing in a theater spotlight that shows every flaw. I gave away too much. When I turn to look at him, Grimes’ gaze is heavier than usual, but not with dislike. Fuck, is that pity on his weathered face? That wasn’t the aim. I wanted to get a read onhim,get inside his head. Not the other way around. Call me an arrogant aristocrat, but I’d rather he look at me with annoyance than pity.
Chapter 18
Grimes
Ifeel unmoored. My carefully laid plans are veering off-course. Somehow, Florian got under my defenses and got me to talk. I should never have fallen for that “memory exercise”. It was so obviously a ploy. He wants to pump me for information about my past. At least I didn’t give him any details. But I told him about Jos, about the worst night of my life. Jos almost died in aprison attack, and I was badly beaten myself while trying to help him. I can’t even think about that night without shivering.
And Florian told me about his mother. Even if he suggested the exercise to get inside my head, his emotions were sincere as he recounted his own memory. His eyes were misty with remembrance and sadness; he was close to tears. Why did he choose something so intimate to share with me? Why let me get that close? I’m afraid to think too hard on the answer to that question.
After the midday sun has lessened, I bring him outside to work. I’d rather work in the mornings, before the sun has overheated the ground, but it beats thinking about what’s going on between us. Florian seems uneasy too; neither of us wants to sit together in a silent house right now. We dig silently, side by side, for a little while. Then he plops down for a rest. He’s stopped asking me if he can take breaks. Now he just stops when he likes. I sit beside him and take a drink from the water I carried from the well.
“Boss,” he says.
I sigh inwardly. That thoughtful tone doesn’t bode well for me.
“Now what?” I ask.
“I was just thinking. I know I surprised you, but is it really such a bad idea?”
“What?”
“You know. When I was polishing your boots, and then I—”
So much for his beinguneasy. He’s unbelievable.
“Florian, I’m warning you.” I put on my gruffest, most forbidding voice. The kind that squashes entire barrooms of criminals and silences boxing gyms of hardened fighters.
Florian just waves my comment away—literally waves it away with one lazy, soft aristocratic hand.
“No, really. Think about it,” he insists. “We’re here all the time together, and you don’t want me to go into the city at night toomuch, which I totally respect by the way, because yes I do get into trouble too easily. But—”
