Page 77 of The Black Table
Because it is strange to have a girl in Camlann House.
Especially a pretty one.
I don’t know why I notice or even can tell that she’s pretty, but she is. Even when she’s clearly exhausted and wearing Lanz’s sweats. Something about the set of her lips, the curve of her throat, the long hair streaming over her shoulder.
It’s nice.
“This is the front hall,” I say after a moment, just to say something.
She—Gwenna—looks at me. Draws her brows together. “So I see.”
Right. Obviously.She’s a girl, not aninfant, Callahan. I mentally smack myself in the forehead.
“Lots of swords,” she observes, eyes flitting from one set of crossed blades to another, the displays mounted on the paneled walls.
“Yeah,” I agree. I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket. Give my head a shake.
I’m supposed to be showing her around, I remember.
I take a few steps forward and indicate the room to our left. “Living room.”
She follows my lead, drawing closer and peering into the space, taking in the heavy leather armchairs and sofas, the Persian rug, the massive stone mantelpiece. Then she fixes her gaze on me.
Her eyes are really green.
“Are we just naming rooms now?”
“What?” I say, taken aback.
“Front hall, living room,” she echoes. “No offense, but…Icantell that’s what these are. And I have been here before.”
“Right.” I nod, breathe in. I’m not used to giving color commentary or context, but I suppose I can try. “Of course. Um, this is where we hang out, usually, if we’re not in class. Or studying. Or practicing.”
“So basically never?”
The joke catches me off guard. “Ah, yeah. We are…pretty busy, I guess.” I scratch the back of my head. “But it’s a nice space. And sometimes we’ll light a fire if…”
Too late, I realize what I’ve said. I feel my face go red. “Sorry. I?—”
“It’s fine.” Her tone is polite, distant. I kick myself.
“Let’s, uh…” I escort us out of there and try to stay on task.
We cover the library, the kitchen, the dining room?—
“Breakfast is at seven,” I say, gripping one of the high-backed chairs as light streams through the leaded-glass windows. The table up here is simpler than the Black Table. Still an expensive antique, but nothing showy. “Lunch at noon. Although usually we all take it to go or just grab something on campus. Dinner is…whenever practice is over.”
“You all eat here, too?”
“We have a chef.” I wince as I say it. It’s still a little foreign, even to me—sure, I’ve lived at Camlann over a year now, but I’m still the kid who spent summers bussing tables at the Milton Hoosic Club. In my mind, I workforthe chefs, not vice versa.
Gwenna just nods. But frowns as she does it.
“Sorry. Just…this is a lot,” she says. “You all just…live here? Like this?”
I shove my hands back in my jacket pockets. “We don’t have a choice.”
Confusion colors her features.
