The Girl is Not For Christmas - Emma V Leech Page 0,44
he stood staring down at her and her crumpled cat ears for far too long before he made himself walk away.
He managed an hour in his own bed before he faced the daily effort of not ransacking the entire house for a bottle of anything remotely intoxicating and getting dressed instead. By the time he was presentable, his hands were shaking.
I am not drinking. I am not drinking. I. Am. Not. Drinking.
It occurred to him then that he hadn’t thought about drinking the entire time he was with Livvy last night. It next occurred to him that was a terrifying thought and one he’d do well not to dwell on. Which naturally meant he spent the next half hour staring blindly out of the window and dwelling on it. He fought down the anxious fidgety sensation in his belly and told himself to grow up, though if he’d not managed that in the past five and thirty years, it seemed unlikely to happen at this late stage. His one consolation was the fact that she would have to face him over the breakfast table, knowing she’d fallen asleep in his arms. With him in her bed. Well, on her bed. Which was still making it sound a lot more salacious and exciting than it had been, but still… Perhaps it hadn’t been salacious or exciting, but it had been rather… he hunted about for an appropriate description. Pleasant? No. Peaceful? No. Lovely? Well….
“There’ll be nothing left if you don’t go now. Them children are like a ravening horde if you put bread and jam in front of them.”
King nodded, more than a little distracted, but allowed Walsh to chivvy him down the stairs. He brightened on approaching the breakfast parlour, remembering he was about to see Miss Penrose blush and stammer and….
“Oh, there you are, King. Look who’s come to see us.”
Livvy beamed at him and held her hand aloft. A sleek black crow turned one beady eye on him and tilted his head to one side in a move King found mildly disturbing. The massive beak opened, and the bird gave an ear-splitting and, to King’s mind, disapproving, caw. Marvellous, judged and found wanting by a bird.
“Isn’t he handsome?”
King regarded the crow, who in turn looked him over as if he was something dead that may or may not be worth picking at.
“Yes, he is,” Livvy crooned. Apparently, that had been a rhetorical question. “Mr Moon is a handsome fellow.”
She stroked her finger over the crow’s head, and he preened, giving King a look he could only describe as smug.
“Gog,” said George.
“No, George, it’s a crow,” Livvy corrected gently. “A bird called a crow. Say birdie, George.”
“Gog.”
King sighed and shook his head.
“He has an affinity for dogs and is somewhat fixated at present,” Livvy said, sounding a touch defensive. “It’s a bird, George. A pretty birdie. Good morning, pretty birdie.”
“He’s probably confused.” King observed. “His sister is called Birdie, isn’t she?”
“No, she’s called Henrietta, but yes, her pet name is Birdie. Perhaps you have a point.”
Livvy gestured to Mr Moon. “George, this is a crow. Can you say crow, sweetheart? Ke re oh.”
“Gog.”
“Why do you have a pet crow?” King asked, not irritated in the least that Livvy was not blushing and stammering, and was more interested in a blasted bird and an obstinate child than him.
He was not jealous of a bird. Nor a small boy. No. Under no circumstances.
“I found him in the wood after a storm about three years ago. He was tiny and cold, and there were no parents about. So I fed him and kept him warm until he was ready to leave, but he never did. He stays close to the house and often comes back to visit. Here, you take him.”
Livvy held out her hand, gesturing for King to do the same. Reluctantly, King did as she suggested, and the bloody bird cawed and pecked at his fingers.
“Ouch!” King yelled, which sent Mr Moon off in a flurry of wings.
He swooped about the breakfast table, to the delighted shrieks of the children, before settling on the back of Livvy’s chair.
“Oh, you frightened him,” she said with reproach.
“He attacked me!” King held out his finger, which had a savage red mark on it, though the skin had not been broken.
“Don’t be such a baby, it’s barely a scratch.”
“It’s a sight more than a scratch. That thing is vicious. You should keep it away from the children.”