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Without him around to scrutinize me, I take a solid look at the kitten. It’s not really a tiger, but it still brings me back to another life, one I barely remember. Vague, scattered recollections of tiny cubs running rampant while careless children laugh and play with them.
“Were you taken from your siblings, too?” I whisper, pulling the creature out of the box and cradling it against my chest. “Do you have sisters who miss you? Parents who don’t know you’re still alive?” And though I know it’s not reasonable to sympathize so much with an animal, I trace the thing’s nose with a finger, whispering reassurances it’s still young enough to believe, and wishing I still could.
I can’t seem to make this go any better with Einar. I tried during our tour. I practically threw myself at him last night. But nothing. He is as impassive and impervious as a brick wall. Sands, if only he was one. I would probably get further with him then.
At least walls can be scaled.
Chapter Twelve
The only sounds in the room are the crackling of the flames in the hearth and the gentle snores of the cat, or whatever the creature is. It’s nearly enough to lull me to sleep. I take comfort in the melody of the two until the door opens and Einar’s heavy footsteps remind me of my purpose here.
I hastily plop the chalyx back into its box before they open the door. Taking a deep breath, I turn and see that Sigrid has followed him, pushing him toward me like he’s a child being rebuked.
“Good afternoon, Mistress. I will start bath.” She immediately sets to work in the small room off to the side of this one.
I had glanced briefly at the fixtures this morning before I got dressed, relieved to see pipes and faucets. Plumbing is something we had gotten only a few years ago in the château, but it looked like theirs had been installed for a while.
For being so closed off from the rest of the world, they seemed to be advancing well enough on their own.
The king lowers himself onto a small sofa, one that looks like children’s furniture once his massive frame covers it.
Still, I ignore his presence and that of the gift he gave me, the latter of which is scratching at some cedar shavings in the box she slept in. Sigrid shuffles around in the privy, and I wonder if she is taking longer than she needs to on purpose, to force us to communicate.
If so, it’s a wasted effort. There is nothing I especially want to say to him right now.
Actually, there is one thing.
"Why is it so quiet here?"
He shoots me a pointed glance over the book he has brought with him, indicating that I have clearly interrupted his reading.
"Is it? I hadn't noticed." If he is trying to irritate me with his answer, he has succeeded.
The image of him doing something so...normal is so at odds with his appearance. His hair is still braided to the sides of his head, but, this morning, the long mass is pulled up into a knot. The sleeves of his tunic hug his biceps as he turns another page of the book that looks terribly small in his hands.
I add it to the list of contradictions about him.
"Is hiding their faces not enough for you? You’d prefer no one in the castle speaks, either?" I am genuinely curious about this, but I am also happy to return his ire in spades.
"Did I imagine Sigrid's greeting just now, then?" he growls over the book but doesn’t look up at me.
I'm sure he is only pretending to misunderstand what I am implying. I feel my temper rising again.
"Fine. I suppose it's hardly my business if everyone in this castle is miserable."
He shuts his book, placing it forcefully on the table before he matches my furious gaze with one of his own.
"Have you considered that the only miserable person in this castle is you, and if its inhabitants seem so in your eyes, then perhaps it is only because you managed to siphon the joy out of every room you walk into?"
My jaw drops open at his audacity.
“If I manage to siphon the joy out of any room, it’s only because you’re following me into it with your revolving carousel of moods. You would think sixty-five years would have given you time to sort out your emotions, but please, tell me, how are you feeling now, Einar?” I hold up my fingers as I count off his various unpleasant dispositions. “Is it to be hostile Einar? Self-centered bastard Einar? Or my personal favorite, downright unlikable beast?”
I am practically shouting on the last word, and the feeling is so foreign to me that it stills my tongue.
Einar opens his mouth, but his response is cut off when Sigrid practically comes running into the room, confirming my assumption that she was less preparing than she was giving us space...space she clearly no longer thinks we will benefit from.
“Sorry I not have this ready early, Mistress,” Sigrid says in a forcefully cheerful tone. She gestures for me to come over. “I was want for you have surprise kitten.”
