“Wait. Did I upset you? I can’t tell.”
“No, and you shouldn’t let my judgement hold so much sway over you. I’m too temperamental a mistress for you to bind your mood to mine.”
“I like you when you’re temperamental.” I lean my head on her shoulder.
“I wonder why…” she muses, brushing through the mess in my hair. “I can’t believe I forgot to take care of you this morning. You wouldn’t mind if I tied your hair, would you?”
I shake my head vigorously.
“I also forgot to leave you time to bathe. Come back to me after to have it tied again.”
I feel her lips press against the back of my head.
Chapter 27
Raising Old Questions
It’s so easy with Vincenza. No need to worry about filler words or a good posture; she doesn’t like me for those features.
Wait, why does she like me?
I dig a nail into my palm before I start pointlessly spiraling. She’s too painfully blunt in her praise for me to act confused and unvalued.
But, painfully blunt praisedoessound so very appealing now.
Dry my hair. Lace up dress. And—Someone’s knocking downstairs. Quite annoying with the volume.
I head down to check it and find Lucia, waving at me through the glass.
“Who is it?” Vincenza appears behind me without warning. “Oh, her. Do you wish to talk with her before meeting with me? The extra time to set up won’t be wasted.”
“Set up? Uh… okay. I’ll talk with her. What are you setting up, though?”
“Be patient, Catarina,” she says warmly as she leaves.
I grumble and open the door. “Hey—Agh, fuck.”
Lucia springs to attack me in a hug. “Heeeey, Catie!”
“Did Mercurio die in the war? Vivian?”
“Sadly, there’s no war for them to die in as of late. Butyouare gonna get spoiled in all the details of my last night over waffles.”
“Oh… I just had pancakes earlier.”
“Then be happy for the variety.” She looks around. “...Can I go to your room?”
“Sure. Vincenza won’t mind.”
Once in there, I realize thatImight’ve actually minded. There’s absolutely no way that these ice cream topped waffles were made without any eggs or milk, and I don’t want to deal with debating myself over the rightness of their consumption. It’s so much easier to pull out and not engage with the question.
“Not hungry?” Lucia asks.
Except that it leaves me without any way to justify—even to myself—why I’m abstaining.
“N-necromancy drains appetite away. I have to be careful with nutrients—you know.”
“That explains why you put so little olive oil on your salad when we went ghoul hunting.”
