Page 15 of Deven and the Dragon
The seat between, presumably reserved for Lord Fiora, remained stubbornly empty. Was it odd that he and Andrei sat down in the dining room, when Andrei was (as far as Deven could tell) a valued and intimate servant, but a servant all the same, and Deven was a guest only on sufferance? Probably, but what did Deven know? He’d never met anyone with a title before, let alone eaten in a lord’s dining room. Who bloody knew what was normal for aristocrats.
Asking Andrei was impossible. Not because Deven shied away from asking questions, but because asking Andreianythingwas impossible.
“How long have you served Lord Fiora?” was met on the first night with, “A long time. Would you care for more potatoes?”
Deven accepted the potatoes, and then attempted, “What drew Lord Fiora to Marlow Castle? It’s a beautiful place, but it seems like it’s far from his home.” Andrei simply nodded and said that he himself enjoyed fishing along the riverbank.
When Deven dared to ask if Lord Fiora would be joining them for dessert, Andrei only sniffed.
Three more dinners full of deflection and monosyllables wore Deven out, and on the fifth night of dining with Andrei, the sixth that Deven had spent in the castle, Deven just ate in glum silence. The mutton was really excellent, and the wine better than anything he’d ever had at the Jolly Tankard — not that he could enjoy any of it. Talking to Andrei was getting him nowhere, and Peter was still dying, his young life guttering like a candle with every bite Deven took. George had sent a note that day to say that Peter was the same, but that wasn’t much comfort. Deven knew he ought to visit, but the God-awful row he’d had with his aunt and uncle over agreeing to the council’s plans was still ringing in his ears.
As if reading his mind, Andrei broke the silence with, “You’re welcome to go to town to see your family and friends, if you wish. You really aren’t a prisoner here. I would have thought you’d be bored by now.”
“Not at all,” Deven said, both politely and truthfully. What was Andrei after, though? Surely he didn’t actually give a fig for Deven’s boredom. “I could spend years in that library. I’ve never seen so many books before.”
“Oh?” Andrei said, with his eyebrows raised. He even set down his fork to give Deven his full attention, a move that had all Deven’s hackles up. “Do you have a particular interest in books? I thought you’d been spending your time there for lack of anything more exciting to do, not out of preference.”
Well, Andrei’s reaction was definitely odd. Did Lord Fiora not want Deven in the library after all? “I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped,” Deven said. “Fred told me on my first day here I was welcome to use the library. If I should’ve double-checked with you, I apologize most sincerely.”
“Of course you are, and Fred was right,” Andrei said. “But do you really enjoy reading so much?”
Deven bristled at that. He might be a common fellow, but was it so shocking he’d like to read? Had Andrei assumed anyone from Ridley was illiterate?
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” he said more hotly than he intended. “I have books of my own, though not as many as I’d like. I love books. Old books and odd books. Even when they’re a bit ragged. Sometimes especially. It shows they have history, you know?”
“I see.” Andrei frowned. “And who told you that Lord Fiora had such a library?”
What now? That sounded like an accusation, of all things, though against him or his unknown informant, Deven couldn’t tell.
“Fred, when — when he showed me the library,” Deven stammered, a bit nonplussed. “I beg your pardon, but have I done something wrong after all? I’ve been taking a book or two upstairs with me when I retire for the night, but I’ve been returning them to the proper shelf the next day.”
Andrei’s frown deepened, the lines between his eyebrows furrowing all the way up his forehead. “I see,” he repeated, sharp and clipped. “Excuse me. I believe I’ve finished my dinner, and I put off writing a letter until this evening. It can’t wait until morning.”
With that he rose abruptly and left the table, leaving the dining room door swinging open behind him.
Slowly, Deven set down his own cutlery, dropped his napkin on the table, and followed. What appetite he had left had fled. Something was wrong. He had done something wrong, or said something to upset the usually unruffled Andrei. Books? How could the subject of books rile the man up like that?
Frustration welled up until Deven thought he might scream, and he strode out through the hall, across to the drawing room, and out onto the terrace. A yellow gibbous moon drifted over the rose garden, casting old-pewter gleams off the stone balustrade and bathing the flowers in a luminous glow.
Fuck the garden, Deven thought sourly, and then laughed aloud despite himself. He was starting to sound like Lord Fiora, with his talk of darkness and doom.
But he couldn’t help it. By morning he’d have been in the castle a week, with no progress made. All he’d done so far was anger his host and now, apparently, anger his host’s steward. How the hell was he supposed to get a dragon scale at this rate? He didn’t know much about dragons, but all the stories said they were jealous of their possessions. How much more jealous would they have to be of their own bloody scales? Lord Fiora wouldn’t give one away to someone he didn’t like, that was certain.
Like quite a bit.
Perhaps even like enough to share a bed with.
Deven leaned on the balustrade and stared out over the garden, not seeing it at all. He’d hoped he could simply prove himself a pleasant guest, take some wine with the dragon, maybe crack a few jokes, and then — ask for what he needed. It was to save a child’s life, and who could argue with that?
But that plan was clearly a failure. He’d had one chance to speak to Lord Fiora, and he’d blown it — badly enough that Lord Fiora was obviously determined never to be in the same room with him again, even if he had to avoid his own dining room until doomsday.
Perhaps he enjoyed eating alone in the dark, the berk.
Or perhaps Deven was being an asshole for making fun of him, even in the privacy of his own mind. Lord Fiora was a tad overdramatic — more than a tad — but he wasn’t hurting anyone with his cloaks and his pronouncements of destiny.
And really, all of his speculation on Lord Fiora’s eating habits was silly and useless, and he was indulging himself to avoid facing the facts: he had to find another way to get close to Lord Fiora, and seduction was starting to look like the only option left. Flattery, and a sincere apology, and hopefully getting a look at Lord Fiora’s face, because if he didn’t, he could hardly gauge the success of his overtures, now could he? Being able to satisfy his own wild curiosity would be a side benefit.
Focus. He needed to focus. The thought of taking someone to bed for any reason other than honest mutual pleasure struck Deven as disgusting, but he had to face it head-on. Trying to befriend Lord Fiora had failed. And why shouldn’t it have? Deven didn’t have much to offer besides his skills in the bedchamber. Mrs. Drucker was right. He could charm the pants off of anyone. It was charming them into having a conversation once the pants went back on where he failed. He couldn’t even manage to chat with Andrei over dinner for a few nights, for God’s sake.
