When had it happened?
"Autumn. " His voice grew more forceful. "What's going on?"
The "when" couldn't be pinned down, she decided. The shift had occurred millimeter by millimeter, the engine of change driven by exchanges between them both big and small. . . until, similar to the way the lovely night fell and laid claim to the landscape of the earth, what began as imperceptible culminated in the undeniable.
He bolted up to his feet. "I'll get Doc Jane - "
"No," she said, holding out her hand. "I am fine. Just tired, and satiated from the food. "
For a moment, he gave her his strawberry look, that discerning eye of his narrowing and locking on.
Clearly she passed muster, however, as he sank back down.
Forcing a smile to her lips, she motioned to the second tray, the one that still had the silver covers over its dishes. "You should eat now. In fact, perhaps we should get you some fresh food. "
He shrugged. "This is fine. "
He popped the berries that hadn't been good enough for her into his mouth as he revealed his dinner, and then ate everything that had been left behind on her tray as well as all that was on his own.
His attention diverted was a good thing.
When he was finished with his meal, and the remains of her own, he took the trays and the stands and put them outside in the hall.
"I'll be right back. "
With that, he disappeared into the bathroom, and soon the sound of running water drifted out to her.
Curling onto her side, she stared at the closed drapes.
The lights went out and then his quiet padding came across the carpet. There was a pause before he got upon the bed - and for a moment, she worried that he had read her mind. But then she felt a cooling breeze against her and realized he'd lifted the covers. For the first time.
"Okay if I join you?"
Abruptly, she blinked back tears. "Please. "
The mattress dipped down and then his naked body came over against her own. As he gathered her in his arms, she went willingly and with surprise into him.
That odd, ambient chill went through her again, bringing with it a sense of foreboding. But then she was warm, even hot. . . from his flesh against her own.
He must never know, she thought as she closed her eyes and rested her head on his chest.
He must never, ever know what beat within her heart for him.
It would ruin everything.
Chapter Fifty-Three
As Lassiter sat at the base of the grand staircase, he stared upward at the painted ceiling some three floors above him. Within the depiction of warriors astride stallions, he searched the painted clouds and found the image he was looking for, but did not want to see.
Wellsie was ever farther back in the landscape, her form even more compact as she huddled into herself in that field of gray boulders.
In truth, he was losing hope. Soon she would be so far off into the distance that they wouldn't be able to see her at all. And that was when it was over: she was done, he was done. . . Tohr was done.
He'd thought No'One was the answer. And, you know, back in the early fall, he had gotten psyched that all was resolved. The night after Tohr had finally bedded that female good and proper, she had arrived at the dining table without her hood or that awful robe on: She had been in a dress, a cornflower blue dress that was too big for her and lovely nonetheless, and her hair had been loose around her shoulders, a cascade of blond.
The pair of them had had an accord that came only after two people banged the crap out of each other for hours.
He'd repacked his clothes at that point. Hung around his room. Paced for hours, waiting to be summoned by the Maker.