Too sad, he thought. The music was too sad.
Gizelle was excited for Christmas, so Conall took a breath, and sang her the happiest Christmas song he could think of, Santa Claus is Coming to Town. He drew her back from her dreams with his voice until she was lying peacefully in his arms and the voices were gone, swept away in the chaos of the jungle night noises.
Then she opened her eyes. “I remember,” she said softly, sitting up.
Conall sat up with her, dreading what she would say next. Did she remember cages and chains? Torture?
“I remember that today is the day Chef is making figgy pudding,” she said in glee. Then she smiled sunnily and bounced in place. “The bed is softer than the floor,” and she was stretching and yawning.
Did she not remember because she didn’t want to? Transference or denial or some psychological term? Whatever the reason, Conall was sure it was a mercy.
“Gizelle,” he said softly, gently. “You don’t have to remember.”
She sobered. “If I don’t, he might forget to share it with me. Scarlet says I’ll like it, and that it wouldn’t be Christmas without it. I’d better go tell him right now.” She started to scramble out of the bed.
Conall caught Gizelle’s hand at the last moment, the silence when their contact was briefly broken a curious, short burst in the din of their shared hearing. “It’s the middle of the night,” he reminded her, pointing outside to the moonlit porch.
“Oh,” she said, disappointed. “I suppose Chef won’t be up yet.”
Then she smiled, full of mischief and suggestion, and it heated Conall’s blood to his toes. “I can think of something we can do. You said you could show me more ways to do that!”
Conall realized he was grinning in reply, and then she was flowing into his arms for kisses.
Chapter 33
When Gizelle woke again, daylight was streaming in the windows and doors and she was still in the bed.
The bed was far, far more comfortable than the floor had been.
So comfortable that Gizelle was surprised she had slept.
But it didn’t feel like cheating, it felt like home, and the pillow beside her still had the dip where Conall’s head had dented it.
She rose from the bed and wandered around. Conall wasn’t in the bathroom or on the deck.
There was a sundress folded on one of the chairs, so Gizelle put it on.
She was sore, deliciously sore, in places she’d never been sore before, and it made her cheeks feel hot.
She scampered to the bathroom to see herself blush, but it was already gone when she got there, so she frowned at her reflection.
Lydia’s pretty braid was looking less and less tidy every day. Gizelle supposed she would have to go back to the salon and sit for hours again to have it look nice again. This explained why some people went to the salon every day, she guessed.
Looking good was hard work.
She wasn’t sure it was worth it.
Then she remembered that Conall had liked the braid, and she thought perhaps it was worth it.
There was a note on the counter in the bathroom, strong letters written on a piece of Shifting Sands stationery. Conall had left her a letter, she realized, heart soaring.
Maybe it was a love letter.
She puzzled at it, trying to make the letters resolve into words from sheer force of will until her stomach growled. She considered grazing, because it was the easiest, but probably she should eat like a person. Tex always had a bag of nuts behind the bar if she didn’t feel brave enough for the buffet.
As she walked, she continued to try to make sense of the letter. She knew her name had a zee, but didn’t see one anywhere. Maybe he had used a different name. What had he called her? Darling? Sweetheart?
“What’s that you’ve got, Rapunzel?” a voice interrupted her.