“You could probably use a wash, too,” she says over her shoulder, teasing.
“I’ll pass,” I mutter, mind churning.
Arlet laughs softly, the sound trailing behind her as she moves toward the basin. I don’t look. Hearing the water splashing is bad enough. It makes my mind conjure images I have no right to think about.
A sharp ache spreads through my limbs, radiating from my chest, heavy and numbing all at once.
I have no heart. That means no circulation. No warmth with her gone. My limbs feel slow and stone-heavy.
I move onto the bed, and start to look through the items stacked on a table. Under a few books written in elvish, I find a tome with blank pages. A small slot is on the front where a bit of charcoal is placed.
Books were not totally foreign concepts to me, but I found them less effective than scrolls. Even still, the charcoal scratches nicely over the page. I spend a few moments, sketching out a few basictrees. It helps ease the tension that comes from hearing Arlet wash herself.
I count my breaths, forcing control. One. Two. Three. Then I sketch a bit more.
A sharp curse snaps me from my focus.
“Maldita sea,”Arlet mutters from behind the screen. There’s a rustle, a splash, and then a frustrated sigh.
I glance up at the partition, hiding the book beneath the pillow. “What?”
“I forgot to grab clothes,” she grumbles. “And I’m not about to put those filthy things back on.”
My gaze flicks to the small table near the wall—a neatly stacked pile of folded garments rests there. I push to my feet, crossing the room. Without a word, I pull a fresh gown from the pile and walk toward the screen.
I pause just outside it. “Here.”
A moment of silence. Then a damp hand peeks past the divider, fingers curling around the fabric as she takes it from me.“Gracias.”
I return to my seat against the wall, reclaiming my book. But I don’t focus on my sketching this time. I stare at the page without seeing it, listening to the quiet sounds of fabric shifting as she dresses.
When she steps out, her damp hair clings to her shoulders, water trailing down the curve of her collarbone. I drag my gaze away, clearing my throat.
“I—” My voice falters. I hesitate, about to gesture to her hair. It's long. Adra had long hair and found it hard to style when she was weary.
But Arlet doesn't hear me, instead a dark look comes over her face.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
She doesn't meet my gaze. “I was just wondering when you will tie me up?”
The words land between us, sharp, quiet.
“I think you are safe for tonight.” My voice is steady, but I seesomething flicker in her eyes when she looks up—fear, not for herself, but for me.
“But what if I wake up and?—”
“I'll be here,” I cut in, my voice firm. “Tomorrow will be stressful with Mrath. You should rest.”
She exhales, her shoulders losing some of their tension. “I really don't know how to express the depth of my gratitude.”
I'm graced with another smile, and then she climbs onto the bed, turning away from me. I wonder if I should be here.
Normally, I would sleep on the floor without thinking. But she likes to be asked. Likes it when I talk.
“Do you mind sharing the bed with me?”
She turns her head back to me and smiles.