Page 19 of Vampires of Eden
“Great,” Kathryn says, seemingly unaware of the odd tension pulled taut between me and Daniel like an invisible and electrified rubber band. “Help has arrived. You two have met before, yes?”
“We have.” Daniel flips his goggles down and turns back toward the wall. He resumes sanding.
Jesus Christ.
Have I done something to him that I’m unaware of? What’s his problem?
“Perfect,” Kathryn says, stepping aside and gesturing for me to enter. “Daniel can show you what needs to be done, and all the tools are here on the counter. There are extra sanding sponges in the kitchen if you need one.”
This space is too small. Especially considering the irritable first-gen vampire that obviously hates me. I don’t know how Kathryn doesn’t notice, but it’s as if there’s violent electrical currents emanating from Daniel’s body and bouncing off of the bare walls.
I smile politely. “Maybe I should start in the bathroom upstairs? Or the one near the garden. Divide and conquer?”
Kathryn folds her arms. “You haven’t done this before, have you?”
“No, I have not.”
“Okay. So, let Daniel show you what to do, first. I figure, if the two of you work on this bathroom, me and Roland can work on the second one, then all four of us can tackle the big one upstairs. I think it’ll be fastest that way.”
Taking a deep breath, I roll my shoulders and decidedly ignore the tingling, staticky sensation racing across my forearms. “Alright, yes, that makes sense.”
Kathryn smiles, a playful undertone beneath her words. “Unless, of course, his highness insists on doing thingshisway?—”
“No,” I tell her, grinning and lifting my palms, understanding the jest. “That’s not it at all. I’m fine. Thanks, Kathryn.”
She grins. “I’ll come back for the two of you in a bit for a tea break. I don’t know why my mate insists on baking bread today—as if we don’t already have enough stuff to do.” She rolls her eyes, then crunches across the plastic covering the floor and leaves the bathroom.
The monotonous friction of Daniel rubbing sandpaper against the wall is too loud in the silence. It’s awkward.
I clear my throat. “Hey, so… do you mind showing me what to do, please?”
He pauses, but doesn’t face me. “There’s an extra sanding sponge on the counter. Use it to make sure the walls are completely smooth. Everything to my right is finished, so start in the far corner to my left.”
He continues sanding.
Great.
“Okay…” I glance around and there’s a charcoal-colored sponge atop the porcelain sink. Looks like the same one he’s using. “Does it matter if I smooth it back and forth? Up and down, or in a circular mot?—”
“No. Just make sure it’s smooth to touch with your fingers. After we clean up, we’ll start sealing.”
Nodding, I walk over to my designated corner opposite him and assess the wall, then touch it with my fingertips. The texture is rough and gritty from where the demo crew removed the old tile. I look up. The ceiling is pretty high. I’m not short, but I’ll need a step ladder to reach the corners.
With the sanding sponge against the wall, tentatively, I start with a circular motion. Soon, the tiny bathroom is filled with the abrasive hum of our work. It reminds me of white noise, or maybe an aggressive wind rustling the dry autumn leaves of a maple tree.
The longer we work, the more I find myself relaxing into this noisy but concentrated atmosphere. The dark clouds that constantly float in the background of my mind—Oliver and the rejection, the fact that I’m a complete and utter failure in romantic relationships, and the real possibility of losing my autonomy and being obligated to Lord Cherrington—it all fades away.
I’m focused on this wall and the details of it. The tiny cracks and crevices that will likely need to be filled in and re-sanded before we do the priming. The snowfall of dust as it coats my hands, sweatshirt and pants. I lose myself in it because the sensation is cathartic. Much needed.
I’m not sure how much time has passed when Kathryn peeks her head back inside the bathroom.
“Gentleman, Roland insists that we take a tea break and try these cinnamon croissants he’s baked. Meet us in the kitchen?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling as Kathryn leaves us alone again. I don’t think I’ve ever had a cinnamon croissant before. Don’t they use butter in those?
“You’re slow.”
Blinking, I look over at Daniel as he tugs the plastic goggles from his dust-covered head. His inky-black hair looks as if it’s streaked with gray because of the debris. He sits on the opposite side of the bathtub from where he initially was when I arrived.
