I pause. Scratch my cheek. Try to figure out why I said that.
“I like talking to you” is what I say, and ultimately, it is the truth.
Three seconds go by before he says anything.
“Aye,” he says, and I hear the sound of him dragging a chair over to the other side of the divide. “I like talking to ye too.”
“Just don’t peek,” I tell him.
Pause. “No promises there.”
I smile—a lot—so much that I’m glad he can’t see it, and I lower myself into the bath. I don’t know whether it’s because I haven’t bathed properly in apparently forty-one days,* but it’s perfect. The perfect temperature, the perfect amount of water—it smells like it has oils in it to the perfect combination. The shape of it holds me to the perfect cradled recline.
I breathe out.
“’Tis a grand bath,” he tells me.
“It is.” I nod. “Thank you for letting me use it.”
“Thank ye for taking yer clothes off in my home,” he says nobly, and I try my best not to laugh, but I do and then so does he.
“Grubby, dirty, messy,” I hear Briggs say under his breath, and I snap my head in his direction, peering over the side of the bath.
He’s so little he can’t see in, and when I spot him, he’s staring at my pyjamas, carrying them away.
“Briggs!” Jamison sputters.
“Filthy girl,” Briggs keeps growling as he wanders off.
There’s an uncomfortable silence.
“I think he meant my clothes.”
Jamison starts laughing. “Well, fingers crossed.”
I hear the sound of his chair push back, and he stands. “I’ll be back in a second.”
“Okay.” I nod and he leaves.
I sink down into the bath and try not to look the feeling I’ve got that I’m doing something wrong directly in the eye.
Why do I feel like this?
As though I owe Peter everything when I’m quite sure he’d be sure he owes me nothing.
He’s such a strange boy. All instinct and wild animal, and that is, for the most part, very exciting and almost dreamlike to live alongside.
There is, however, a fine line between dreams and nightmares.
Peter can be callous and impetuous; he’s incredibly temperamental. He’s hotheaded, he’s arrogant, he’s proud—but then there’s that boyish charm. And you can excuse so much because he’s never known a parent. Every time I’m with him and he’s good to me, it’s akin to successfully petting a lion. I’m immensely proud and relieved and delighted that the lion’s decided not to bite me, but he can bite me, and when he does, it can be quite severe.
The bites, I think they might be worth it for getting to lie down with a lion—it’s a special kind of thing that only happens once in a lifetime, I suppose. I do wonder, though, might the span of my lifetime be significantly less because of it? And if so, is that worth it?
I hear the door open again.
“Jem?” I call.
“Bow,” he calls back. “Decent?”
“Not remotely.”
He sniffs a laugh from the other side of the divide.
“You didn’t leave me a towel,” I tell him.
“Did I not?” He pauses, and it hangs there. “How awful o’ me. Sure, I’ll hand deliver it then, will I?”
“Jamison.” I glare at him though he can’t see me, and he laughs at his own joke. Then he slings one over the top of one of the panels, and I stand up, wrapping it around myself.
I step out from around the divide, and Jamison’s eyes fall down my body and his mouth falls open a little. He blinks twice at my ankles before his eyes pull back up over the rest of me.
I swallow as I fasten the towel to my body, extra tight.
“Your brownie took my clothes.” I purse my lips.
He nods once, smirking. “Filthy girl.”
I say nothing, just shift my weight between my feet, staring at him, sort of stuck.
It’s not the worst feeling though, here with him, like this—him trying not to look at me, me trying not to like it as much as I do.
He holds up a finger and turns to his bed, fetching something.
He carries back a pile of clothes.
“From Bets.”
I stare at the clothes in his arms and shake my head.
“I haven’t paid for them yet.”
“I paid for ’em.” He shrugs.
I stare up at him wide-eyed as he puts the clothes in my arms.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly.