Steelhands - Jaida Jones [88]
“I see now that you’ve only come in order to spy on me,” I told Luvander, setting the plates down as he pulled aside my curtains, examining the view for himself. “This business of brioche is all a ruse.”
“A very delicious ruse, though, you must admit,” Luvander said, peeling away from the window and folding himself neatly into one of my chairs. “Well, I suppose you can’t admit that since you haven’t tried it yet, but trust me, it is divine. You’re right about your view, by the way. Very pretty.”
“Are you humoring me now? I really can’t tell.”
“A true gentleman never jokes about beauty,” Luvander said, getting up as soon as he’d sat to fetch the kettle. I hadn’t even heard it whistling.
From where I sat, I could see the thick purple scar on his throat, hooked like a fisherman’s lure where it disappeared beneath his shirt collar. It made me wonder if any of us had truly managed to escape unscathed and whether I wasn’t being a little foolish about my hands after all, feeling so sorry for myself all the time without any regard for the way the others must have been feeling.
It was a sobering thought, especially as I was someone who had once suffered extremely selfish and insensitive behavior. Perhaps I wasn’t as different from the others as I’d always believed.
“This mug has a chip in it,” Luvander said, scuttling about in my kitchen while I allowed myself to get lost in thought. “Good gracious, were you trying to start a fire in that wastepaper basket?”
“What?” I asked. A horrible sense of foreboding crept over me before I’d even followed his gaze. It was too late for me to stop him, since by the time I’d realized what was happening, he’d already charged over to the bin, where I’d crumpled and left the remains of several of my unfinished letters to Thom.
I should have burned them, even though I hadn’t been expecting guests. This was all my fault, and it was going to be unbearable.
“ ‘Dear Thom,’ ” Luvander began, in a voice I could only assume he believed resembled my own, “ ‘I hope you will take this with the spirit it is intended when I tell you that in lower Charlotte they are singing a song about my—’ Balfour! Really? You had only to tell me that you needed help composing a love letter; one must never mention their manhood in such a vulgar manner. It is entirely unromantic.”
“I thought it would be funny,” I said, feeling hot under the collar. Since it seemed Luvander wouldn’t be joining me anytime soon, I began to cut into my own brioche, eating it to hide some of my humiliation.
“Well, true, but then what about this letter? ‘Dear Thom, I no longer recall the name, but you wrote last that you’d been enjoying some variety of exotic wrinkled nuts—’ ”
Before Luvander could read any further, I’d launched myself at him—rather bravely, since I usually took my lumps without protest—from the kitchen table, doing what I could to reclaim what little remained of my dignity. If I’d allowed him to go on, I might never have been able to write another letter to my friend without feeling as though everything had some sort of double meaning.
The papers tore, Luvander nearly knocked a cup of hot tea into his own lap, and the sound of my neighbors thundering down the staircase suddenly filled the halls. It was the closest I’d ever felt to living at the Airman again, and just like that it seemed that my good mood for the day hadn’t been ruined after all.
SEVEN
TOVERRE
In the end, it was Laure who’d come up with the daring next step to solve the mystery of Gaeth’s unannounced disappearance. It was dangerous—and not in the romantic sense—and initially I was completely against it. While it had taken her a while to talk me around to it, once I’d had time to think it over, I found it a rather inevitable choice.
Simply put, we were going to break into his room. Like common thieves, I’d said, which only seemed to excite Laure even further.
I couldn’t call it the more sensible option, since when was there ever sense at all