Page 17 of The Garnet Daughter
I smile at that. I love hearing of his family. Even small snippets I can picture so vividly, as if I have already met them.
“It would have been easier if I folded us to my home in the Viathan settlement. Your family or Allister would help without question.”
“We would have just as much trouble leaving if we folded anywhere near my family.” He grins, the dimple on his left cheek making an annoyingly charming appearance, then runs his palm over a tidy row of tools he has laid out.
“I’m going to change. What else do you need?” I rub at my eyes, exhausted.
“You should rest too. This will take me a while.”
I snag a hunk of bread and a few pieces of dried meat. “You can stay in there. The room is for guests.” I point over my shoulder.
“I remember.” His smile is flat, likely from the memory of Ferren staying there when she was gravely injured.
I take a deep inhale and occupy myself with searching for an antiseptic, but the cupboards are cleared, Selene presumably giving away the liquor to our neighbors before she left.
“There is a washroom in the back, but if you want hot water, we will have to start a fire.” I place a metal bucket in the basin of the kitchen sink and pump the well handle until crisp water races out. I don’t mind a chilly bath, even if I grew accustomed to the warm showers on August’s ship.
“I will manage. Thank you, Calliape.” His voice is smooth like a caress, his smile taking on a different, sweeter meaning now.
I attempt a friendly smile back before making my way to my previous living quarters, supplies in hand, and when I glance back at August, he is already caught up in the needed repairs, attention going back and forth from the tools to the interior of the box.
It is odd returning to my room, seeing my things just as I left them. I strip down and change into a wrap dress I would normally wear for a special occasion. It’s not my first choice, and I abandoned it for a reason, but being in something clean and dry feels so nice.
I use the cold well water to wash away some of the grime of the forest and pat the burn on my arm carefully, but even water stings like I’ve doused my angry skin in a substance much harsher. As if I can’t control my own body, I spread out across my bed into the feather-stuffed blanket with an exhausted sigh. I can sense myself dozing off a breath later but am unable to stop it.
I wake an unknown time later to a metal banging sound coming from the gathering room and the harsh, pelting rain on my roof. I sit up too fast and my stomach lurches a little in anticipation of hearing August say he has made progress on the receiver box and we can send a message to the others. But when I open my bedroom door, it does a flip for an entirely different reason. August sits at the table, his hands still busy tinkering with the inside of the box, frustrated concentration written all over him.
“How are the repairs?” I approach.
“Not sure yet.” He glances up, noticing the fresh linen I have wrapped around my forearm. “Ruth brought more supplies. I told her you were resting.”
“Thanks for that.”
It explains the new tunic he wears, tan and boxy cut, so different from the harsh lines of his Viathan armor. Not as ruthless appearing as the commanders but enough to make the airy tunic he has on now seem odd. Still handsome as always but . . . odd.
“You look strange in Frithian clothing,” I tease and pull out a seat next to his.
“Well, you do not look strange in that pretty dress.” He smiles, not looking up from his work.
I go through the supplies Ruth has kindly brought for us: more food, clothes, and the salve I requested. I withdraw the small jar and pry open the lid, the aroma of herbs and spices wafting out.
“Smell,” I command August, holding it under his nose.
He makes a foul sound as if it was a trick, and then laughs.
“Oh, stop, it’s not that bad.”
“It is.” He sniffles. “Do you need help? I can hold my breath.”
“No. Just focus on your task. You worry too much about me.”
“Trust me, I am showing great restraint,” he mumbles.
“Even if I wanted help, your hands are filthy.”
A black substance coats his fingers, and even the tools and table have been painted with it.
“Char from the lightning.” He pulls at something inside and grimaces.
