First I had to see if he could communicate in the sense that he listened as well as talked and when he talked he didn’t only say scary shit or stuff that pissed me off but other… uh, stuff.
Then I would decide.
I rolled out of bed, banked the fire, shoved back the curtain and climbed down. I found fires burning merrily in both fireplaces as well as the kitchen stove (which, seriously, being iron, conducted a lot of heat, the kitchen was always cozy warm) and there was fresh brewed coffee – strong and good.
He could make good coffee and he could build good fires meaning I didn’t have to do either. This meant his plus column was growing. So far there were only four things on it but yesterday there were none so I had hope.
I heated some water, washed a bit at the basin in the bathroom space and pulled on some undergarments, cashmere stockings attached to garters and a long, dusty pink, soft wool knit dress that clung everywhere, had a scooped neckline, some serious cle**age (by the way, all my dresses had serious cle**age, this was the way they were made, this was what my underwear also made when I strapped it on and, it had to be said, natural cle**age was the way I was made) and long flowing sleeves that belled out at the wrists. I pulled my hair back from my face with a pink satin ribbon, tied the long, matching knit belt so it hung low on my hips, touched some perfume behind my ears and at my wrists and headed to the kitchen to make Penelope a late breakfast and her Momma some brunch.
Penelope was on all fours, belly to the floor and had her face in a bowl of leftover chicken I’d warmed by setting it on the stove when the backdoor opened, Frey Drakkar prowled through and then he stopped dead when he saw me.
I took him in.
A first, no knives or sword. Another first, his hair was partially wet. He’d also shaved. Someone had visited the hot spring.
Hmm.
It must be said, I kind of liked the beard.
As I took him in, I realized I kept forgetting how big he was. By then, I was used to that kitchen. It wasn’t mammoth but it wasn’t small either.
With him in it, it seemed tiny.
His eyes were on me standing at the butcher block whisking pancake batter. I watched them go down the length of me he could see then they went up.
I swallowed.
Then I said, “Hi.”
My word activated him, he moved in, swung his arm around that I hadn’t noticed was carrying a large stick over his shoulder and he plonked the dead carcass of a small (what looked like a baby) deer on the kitchen table.
I blinked.
Then I gagged.
Then I controlled my urge to hurl, pulled in breath and looked from the dead deer to him.
“Uh… I have a rule. No dead game on the kitchen table.”
His green-brown eyes held mine. He didn’t speak. He also didn’t move.
Okay, ignore big dead animal carcass and move on, Finnie, I told myself.
I searched for a good strategy. Then I hoped I found it.
“I… well, um… I just wanted to say, uh… before I forget, thanks for stoking the fire upstairs and keeping me warm while I slept in,” I said, thinking that was nice, noticing and commenting on something he did that was nice.
He crossed his arms on his chest and studied me.
All righty then.
“You, um, came home last night after having a few,” I noted, got no response, I waited just in case his brain didn’t work as fast as mine, still got no response so I continued. “You look okay. I hope you aren’t hungover.”
Nothing.
Okay. Right.
“Would you like pancakes? I’m making a late breakfast of pancakes and bacon.” More nothing. “Uh… if you want to eat, you’ll have to remove the dead animal.”