Page 8 of The Fae Menagerie
"Sorry about the noise." He drew my hand up to his elbow and held it there, as though our proximity was new to him, too. "See what I mean?" He gestured to the clear bags of beans, dried vegetables, and fresh fruits. "The menagerie gives us enough to survive, but nothing we want to eat."
He toed the bags of flour and rice on the floor. "Those are new." He pointed to the cluster of root vegetables on the first shelf. "Do you even like carrots?"
"I'll eat them," I said. The food was healthy, and plain. "Spices?"
"None." He sighed.
"Butter?"
He laughed. "Not a chance."
"You're expected to make your own meals?" I could see someone trying to starve themself to death in a place like this.
"If I wait too long, the food just appears on the table. If I wait to eat, it shoves itself down my throat."
I stopped short of asking him a stupid question about magic. Of course it was magic, either the warden's or some unseen fae force that powered the prison.
"How long before dinner?" I asked. "I'm starving." On cue, my stomach rumbled. I'd worked through lunch while perfecting my sales pitch, and now it was well past dinnertime, back home, anyway.
Doyle grinned. "Sooner than you'd think." He pointed behind me, where the table, which had been bare when he'd led me past it, was now set with bowls, spoons, and cups. As I watched, a tea pot poured tea into the two cups.
Without missing a beat, Doyle pulled out the nearest chair and pushed me into it. When Doyle sank into the chair opposite, our feet touched beneath the small table. I wrapped mine around the legs of my chair to stay out of his way and tried a sip of tea. It was black, just the way I liked it, but too hot to drink.
"Watch your sleeve."
I pulled my arm back from my bowl, where the sleeve of my jacket had dipped dangerously low over a now steaming bowl of lentils, rice noodles, and vegetables.
"Ugh. Carrots." Doyle pouted over his bowl and used his tea saucer to pile a hefty helping of carrots.
"I'll eat them," I offered. I didn't mind carrots, and I had skipped a meal, after all. I didn't know if they would offer refills in fae prison, so I would take whatever I could get.
"Thank you," I said when he dumped the plate into my bowl without splashing me and the table.
He was very good with his hands. My gaze kept returning to them throughout dinner. I'd never been drawn to anyone's hands before. It must have been part of my hyperawareness in this strange place.
We ate in silence. For once, I wasn't expected to give the guy my complete life story in one evening over dinner.
My father had coached me on how to pitch myself to the casino heiress. Instead of listening, she'd ignored me. She and her bodyguard seemed to have a secret sign language. I felt like a complete fool sharing where I'd gone to school (The University of Minnesota), what I'd majored in (computer science), and my hobbies (reading and computer games—the best combined my love of both, and I could find letters, clues, and even full novels hidden in a game). The whole time, she'd flashed hand gestures I didn't understand to the woman behind me, and each answer made her giggle.
"Is everything all right?" Doyle asked. "You look like Aidan murdered your favorite pet and put him in the stew."
"Is that something he would do?"
"No." From his tone, yes, that was absolutely something Aidan would do.
"I was thinking about dinner with the heiress. She interrogated me and she and her bodyguard laughed at my answers."
"Do you want me to ask you questions?"
"No, thanks. I was only thinking how nice this is."
Doyle frowned harder at his soup.
"I mean … it would also be nice to talk, if you want, but I like quiet, too."
Back home, I would lock myself in my office, hide in the attic above my room, or run outside to the forest behind my parents' mansion if I wanted a break from the bustle of servants, coworkers, and future exes. Here, I wouldn't have many places to hide, but Doyle wasn't as repulsive as some people I tolerated each day. Such as Dan from marketing, who talked three times louder than necessary. Everyone on our floor knew his vote in the next city council election, and so did his clients in China, who most likely did not care.
"You're doing it again." Doyle didn't even slurp his soup. It was too easy to forget he was there until he commented on my facial expressions.
