Page 26 of The Frog Prince
She was repairing an old shirt of his that had torn, her needle pausing when she spotted him. “Did you lose your comb again, Brother?”
Otto patted at the unruly strands that were no doubt standing on end from all his tossing and turning. He should have dunked his head in the basin. Maybe that would have helped clear some of this fog.
“Did that fall knock all your wits out of your head?” she teased.
“I think it did,” he mumbled as he took a seat.
She placed the needlework aside and got up, walking to the pot bubbling over the fireplace and portioning out some of the gruel she had made.
“What are your plans for the day?” she asked him, setting the chipped bowl and spoon in front of him.
Anything but going back there.
“I have some unfinished tasks to complete for Henne. He was kind enough to allow me a few days off to go look for your remedy.” He tried not to sound bitter that his healer mentor hadn’t so much allowed him to go as challenged him to find a cure that didn’t exist. He’d sneered at Otto’s blooming hope, taunting him with his naivete and shaking his head when Otto said he had to try for his sister.
He was a thorn in Otto’s side, and Otto had realized that it was better not to say exactly what his plan was. He didn’t need the ugliness Henne could bring when he was putting all his hope into the Frog Prince. Henne wouldn’t understand it. If there was no money or potential for glory involved, he didn’t care.
“Is he terminally ill too?” she asked. “Seems late in life for him to realize he actually has a soul.”
“That is a bit rude,” Otto said, the reply almost instinctual.
“I am not a child anymore, Otto,” she said. “You have done your job trying to show me that all the people in the world are kind. I appreciate it. But I know Henne. He is many things, but kind isn’t one of them. He takes advantage of you.”
“Just steer clear of him until I come back,” Otto said. “He will have questions about your recovery, and I don’t want him bothering you for answers you don’t have.”
“Speaking of answers I don’t have.” She tilted her head. “Are you ever going to tell me how you got that remedy for me?”
“Not unless I have to, Gisela.” He let out a heavy sigh.
She looked at him with those eyes of hers that knew far too much, had seen far too much for her age. “It wasn’t anything…illegal? Or dangerous? I don’t want you taken from me. We are of his blood, but we don’t need to follow in his footsteps, Otto!”
“No.” He reassured her by putting his hand over her smaller one to calm her ire and fear. “It wasn’t illegal, I promise you. I—”
A croak interrupted him before he could find a way to avoid saying whether what he had done was dangerous. He froze at the sound of it, turning his head toward the window.
“Otto?” she questioned.
He held a finger to his lips. Standing up slowly, he crept toward the open window, making sure his footsteps couldn’t be heard.
He gripped the windowsill so hard his fingers ached, turning white with the force of it as he leaned out and looked around. The ground beneath the window was damp and overgrown with weeds he needed to cull. He could see bugs crawling beneath the leathery leaves, rustling softly. But nothing more than that.
“What are you looking for?” she asked.
“I thought I heard something,” he muttered. “I must have imagined it.”
“Maybe those mysterious herbs you used to make my cure drove you mad.”
He gave her a flat look before pushing himself away from the window and heading back to the table. The dread was still there, in the pit of his stomach.
It made him want to search every corner. Tuned into his surroundings. Seeing figures in shadows. Listening to silence and begging it not to take shape.
Anxiety turned his stomach.
“I have to go now,” he said.
She frowned. “Your breakfast.”
“Take my portion. You need it more than me.” He gave her a strained smile.
