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The gargoyle woman huffs, seemingly bored, and says it again as if the third time's the charm. Except it’s not, and she juts out a stone tongue at me, fast and sharp, like a lizard catching flies.
I suck in a breath, put my fingertips over my mouth to hide my surprise. For a moment, all I can do is lean in, then out, and in again, attempting to make sense of what the hell just happened.
This must be what Griffin meant when he said some are having difficulty communicating.
"Okay, let's try something else," I suggest, racking my brain for an alternative approach. The gargoyle woman taps her foot, crossing her thick arms, her impatience growing more apparent by the second. After several failed attempts to act out that I want her to leave, I give up.
With a sigh, I give her a wide berth and shuffle towards the bathroom. After bathing and changing into a comfortable yet elegant dress, one that billows in the sleeves and shoulders, the length stopping just past my knees, I reluctantly make my way downstairs to join Griffin.
Stepping into the dining hall, I find him lounging at the table, the same spot he sat in before. Only this time, he has a pipe in hand, his feet propped up on an empty chair, and he’s focused on the book in his hand. There’s a steaming cup of coffee before him, and another waiting for me across the table.
"Ah, there you are," Griffin says, taking note of my presence. He whistles appreciatively, his eyes trailing over my body, but it’s not a hungry gaze. It’s more clinical, like he’s evaluating my well-being. "Asmo is going to regret not seeing you like this. I bet if you waltzed into his room and spun around a few times, he'd miraculously rise from his coma." He pauses, eyeing me one last time before returning to his book. "I would, that's for sure."
"Thank you.” A blush creeps up my neck and floods through my cheeks.
Griffin arches a white eyebrow skeptically. "For what?"
"Your compliment. It's nice to feel pretty for a change, especially after the last few days."
"Pretty?" Griffin snorts, clearly amused. "You don't get complements often?” He chuckles, turning the page. “I highly doubt that."
"No," I admit, dropping my gaze as I find my chair. "In elven culture, dark hair is frowned upon. Silver is a sign of pureblood and being highborn."
Griffin tsks his tongue, shaking his head. "Well, just another reason to hate them, then." My smile falters, but I can't argue with him.
Since coming here, I've felt more included than ever before. I haven’t been shunned to exist in my rooms away from where the public can see me, nor have I been grimaced at, like I’m something foul. I'm beginning to question if those in the Elven Islands were ever truly my people or just a place I was born into. Ever since my mother died, since she brought me back and my hair turned dark and my eyes green, the elves haven’t exactly been accepting of me.
Carefully, I grasp the warm coffee cup, savoring its rich aroma. For a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the simple pleasure of it as it warms my throat, my chest, my stomach.
Griffin looks at me over the edge of his book, pipe smoke coiling from his lips. "You know, you don't need to dress up to be pretty. Here, we don't care what color your hair is. You were beautiful yesterday, even in dingy clothes you exhumed bodies in, just as much as you are now.”
I don’t know how to react. For a moment, I don’t think I breathe as I let his words sink in.
“I’m just saying, if wearing frilly dresses makes you feel beautiful, then go for it, but don't feel like you have to. I’m still going to enjoy the view, and so will Asmodeus, except he’ll be more secretive about his gawking."
A smile pulls at my lips, and I do my best to hide it with my mug. “Well, thank you for clearing that up.”
“Don’t mention it," he says, grinning as he swings his feet off the table. "Now, let's see what culinary delights our ghostly chef has prepared for us." Flexing his brow he sets his book down. “The good thing about rock people is I can hear them from a mile away.”
The doors to the dining hall swing open, revealing the gargoyle chef followed by two more stone people carrying covered silver trays. The scent of roasted meat wafts toward us, and my mouth waters involuntarily.
They place the trays before us, and I can’t help but wonder if these ones can speak. Slowly, they lift the silver covers with a rusty, stone-grinding flourish. I brace myself for something bizarre, but instead find an artfully arranged plate of what looks like a scone and a whole, uncooked potato.
I glance at Griffin and smile, trying not to giggle at the way the stone people strut from the table, toward the chef. It’s not something that should be funny, but their movements are so stiff, like stone soldiers.
The chef speaks, hands laces his back as he looks between us, but there are no true words that leave his mouth. Instead, I hear a string of random sounds. “Eep, mag, dedoo, baa.” It’s utterly incomprehensible. My brows furrow as I stare at him, desperately trying to make sense of it all.
The chef turns to Griffin and flaps his bent arms like a bird taking flight, then pecks the air before pretending to take a bite out of an imaginary apple.
Griffin clears his throat. "I think it's chicken of some sort, and I'm not sure about the rest, but he wants us to eat it." With that, the chef leaves, two other gargoyles following behind him. The one leading up the rear trips into the other, who tumbles into the chef and a string of sounds follow, and I can only imagine them being their version of curse words. I stifle a giggle as they scramble to leave.
Griffin and I eye our plates warily, poking at the scone only to find meat and other not so normal things inside.
I grimace. "Do you think it's safe?"
Griffin lifts what looks like a wing or a leg to his nose, sniffing it before frowning. "That's a good question. He hasn't cooked in over two hundred years, so…" He trails off, still scrutinizing the whatever that is he pulled from his scone. "I'm going to say no."
I bark out a laugh, quickly covering my mouth to smother it. Without looking, Griffin summons two apples out of midair and hands one to me.
