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Chapter 11
Thalia
“Kind of hard to get in trouble when there’s nowhere to go,” I tell him, gesturing around.
Weylen smiles. “There is always a chance to get in trouble, feilan.” He smirks, holding out his hand for the folio. I hand it to him. He idly flips through it. “William had such a way with words. He could take any moment he witnessed and turn it into inspiration. He and Drystan would sit down for hours, poring over manuscript after manuscript until they were perfect.”
Something pulls at my chest as I imagine the surly King with a man like Shakespeare. How much of his own words made it into the stories and poems we know so well? How much influence did these men have on his work? I can’t imagine what it must be like to have lived as long as they have. They’ve seen the rise and fall of kingdoms. The birth and death of no doubt some of the most influential people in the world. Did they fight in the World Wars? Whisper in the ears of kings and queens?
“Come.” I shake myself from my musing at his sudden command. He sets the folio down on the nearest end table. “You can peruse that later. Now, it’s time to eat.”
I look around for a clock but don’t find one. I left my watch in my room this morning, not thinking I would need it.
“We don’t have clocks here.” He must sense what I’m looking for. “When you’ve lived for what feels like an eternity already, you tend not to want to be reminded of time passing.”
I wonder idly if time moves quickly for him, or if he believes that it’s a slow, torturous tick after tick. When Weylen holds out his hand, I place mine in his without thinking. As if I’m somehow drawn to him. It’s warmer than I expect. I thought vampires would have icy skin due to the lack of blood flow. Drystan’s skin was cool on mine last night. I think back to what Miriam said at breakfast. The comment about how vampires can feel more human when they consume food.
Is that why his skin is warm? Because he ate?
“Tell me about yourself, Thalia,” he commands as he guides me from the quiet sanctuary of the library. He wants to know about me? Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. No one has ever asked me about myself. My family’s friends and associates never bothered with me at parties or gatherings. They saw how little I meant to my father, which meant I had no value to them.
“There—” I clear my dry throat. Weylen looks back at me, his steely eyes piercing through me like glass shards. “There isn’t much to know, honestly.” I’m not humbling myself. I was never permitted to do much outside of school. No extracurriculars. I only have one friend, Sarra, that I was allowed to spend time with because the doctor informed my father that completely isolating me could have dire consequences.
Not that he cared much.
Still, it was something.
“I highly doubt that,” he counters. “You’re young. Surely you did something growing up.”
“Nothing,” I deadpan. This conversation is making me severely uncomfortable.
“Nothing at all?” he questions, his brow dipping.
A frustrated sigh falls from my lips. “No. I went to school, came home, ate, slept, and did it all over again the next day.”
“No friends?” Weylen’s voice is softer now. Here comes the pity train.
I shake my head. “I have one, but I don’t talk to her much since I don’t have a phone. My father set all my calls.” Weylen’s hand tightens around mine like he’s angry at the thought of my father controlling my calls.
His questions stop, and soon we emerge from the hallway and into the dining room from last night. A faint flow of sunlight filters through the dark curtains, casting long lengths of light that hit the crystal chandelier above.
Miriam is busy laying out dishes on the table. When she hears us enter, she looks up at me and smiles.
“We won’t be needing you for the rest of the day, Miriam,” Weylen tells her. “Please let the kitchen staff know they have the rest of the day off.”
Miriam bows her head slightly. “Of course,” she says before letting herself out the door that leads to the kitchen. It slides shut with a click of finality.
Then we’re alone again.
All the food is set at one end of the table. My mouth waters as the rich scents of rosemary and freshly baked bread whirl in the air around me. There’s a bowl of Niçoise salad and a pot of some kind of rich stew.
Weylen takes the seat Drystan occupied last night at the head of the table. There’s already a bowl of soup and salad set in front of him, along with buttered slices of the bread. I look around but notice there’s only one set of dining ware set out.
His.
Weylen smirks at my confusion.
“You will sit here,” he tells me, patting his leg.
