Page 41 of Enchanting the Elf
“Yes, I have,” I acknowledge, keeping my back straight in case he can hear my poor posture through the phone and can berate me for that too.
“I have not detected you crossing back into my wards around Alberad. Upon inspection, I found the wards placed around your home would not allow me access.”
I fight my hardest to keep a grin off my face nor to let this small victory become apparent in my voice.
“Is there something you needed from me,Vater?”
“There is one month left until your presentation. It would be beneficial to you to share it with me before the others. I would not want you to humiliate the Alberad name with any lacking skills, be it content or presentation based,” my father needlessly reminds me yet again.
“I—”
“Do not interrupt me, boy. I have another meeting to attend today, therefore, I shall return tomorrow to hear your presentation,” Nithard Alberad states succinctly, his tone inviting no argument.
Reaching deep within the well of patience I always need when dealing with my father, I say, “I thank you for the offer.However, there is no need for that,Vater. I would prefer to keep my research private until the day of the presentation.”
“I do not understand you,” he hisses.
“Apologies,Vater. I do not mean to offend you,” I say as calmly as I can manage.
“Well, you did. Now, do not embarrass me. I will see you next month.”
My father hangs up and I slump back in my chair.
Not needing to dwell on that conversation, I get up and pace the length of my study. The litter of discarded items scattered across the floor mock me in my failure to control them. But I ignore them, stepping around them as I redirect my thoughts to Florence.
As I stood with Florence in that hallway, I was completely entranced by her as she shared her thoughts with me. The way she views the world, the way she chooses to see the positive in situations—even in me—befuddles my mind.
When Florence first arrived at my home, I allowed myself to enjoy her company, her humor and light, before I realized how temporary her presence here would be and that it would benefit neither of us to form any kinds of attachments when they will only be dispelled as soon as the bond is gone.
The last couple of weeks have been strained between us. Over dinner one night, I explained to Florence why I am against the concept of fated mates and that I think it is unfair to have our choices in something so personal taken from us. Since then, she has given me a wider berth than usual. She has remained polite but our conversations remain depthless, so unlike her initial weeks in my home.
Have we really been living together for almost two months?
I stop pacing and gaze out the window toward the spot that Florence favors. The rain seems to have finally stopped and a ray of sunshine pierces through the low clouds, illuminating a brightpatch of grass across the clearing. I pick up the fallen globe from the floor and spin the world on its axis as I evaluate the odd sensation in my chest.
I find that I am missing the easiness of the companionship Florence and I shared until my confession brought an end to it. I have attempted to restore some semblance of it through our nightly dinners, but Florence seems set on remaining polite but distant, not quite her usual effervescent self.
I place the globe back on the shelf and rub at my temples. The fated bond is chafing against my consciousness, wanting me to make her comfortable and, I could even venture to say, “happy” here. Never before have I had such a need for another person’s happiness as I do hers.
Surely it is the fated bond forcing these thoughts. Right?
My eyebrows draw down to a point of discomfort when it occurs to me that Florence has stopped her incessant humming.
Am I the cause of that?
This is unacceptable. I pride myself on how well I read others, even without accessing their emotions. How could I have been so blind to Florence’s deteriorating emotional state?
I rub at the discomfort in my chest, and a plan comes together, determined to get Florence to her initial level of vivacity again.
Tonight, when I prepareJägerschnitzelfor us, I’ll pair it with wine andSpätzle. Maybe change the setting too. That might aid in bringing back some of her spirit.
After a few more failed attempts to concentrate on my work—too preoccupied with planning dinner—I close the study door behind me and start hunting for supplies for what I have planned.
I sense Florence out in the garden, quite possibly taking advantage of the clear sky after this morning’s downpour, and head to the seldomly used dining room to gather everything Ineed. I finish setting up outside before entering the kitchen to start preparing the meal.
Usually, Florence is here when I start cooking. Her company is a more or less pleasant balm that quiets some of the constant worries and stresses that occupy my thoughts. However, tonight I start cooking earlier than usual and don’t expect her to be in the kitchen.
I prepare the egg noodles, side dishes, a mushroom sauce, and a bottle of white wine.
