“Ill? I thought fae weren’t supposed to fall ill. Has he been poisoned?” I try to tamp down the concern rising in my voice and when I don’t succeed, I cough to at least cover it up.
Gunter puts the scalpel away and reaches for what looks to be a pile of onyx salt. For a moment, I assume he’s contemplating his response, but when the silence stretches out for several seconds, I realize he’s deigned not to answer me.
I kick my feet against the base of the dais. “He rubs his temples often like he’s in pain.”
Gunter sighs, resigning himself to the fact that I am going to continue bothering him until I deem his answers satisfactory. His annoyance works two-fold. Even if I learn nothing about Nox, perhaps Gunter will decide I’m too much of a nuisance for him to get any work done, and he’ll be motivated to ask the queen to allow me visits to the library.
I don’t even really like libraries. But they’re indisputably preferable to dungeons.
“Nox suffers from chronic illness.” The way he shuffles his set of notes makes it seem like a betrayal, this admission.
Again, that opens up more questions than it answers. I’ve been suspicious since the day I stabbed Nox’s hand and the wound healed almost immediately that there is something different about him. Something unlike other fae. But I don’t know what to make of his illness. I would’ve thought that a male whose flesh healed itself within seconds could do the same with disease.
“What kind of illness?” I ask.
“I don’t see how that is of any concern to you.”
The truth is, it shouldn’t concern me at all. In fact, I should probably be reveling in the fact that my captor is holed up somewhere, miserable. “Well, am I at risk of catching this mysterious disease?”
“I wouldn’t think so,” says Gunter, and that sounds more like a not-lie than the truth.
I scrape my thumbs against the rough edge of the dais slab before I ask my next question. “Will he recover?”
It takes a moment for Gunter to respond, and I find myself swallowing. But then he turns to face me and says, “He always does.”
Something must have had my lungs strung up, because it’s physically evident when it loosens.
“This illness,” I ask, scraping my heels against the altar. “Does it ever cause him to act…differently than he would normally?”
Gunter goes still. His expression is devoid of any emotion, but the way he’s careful to wipe the feeling from his face is telling in its own way. “Why do you ask?”
Sensing I’ve pushed too far, I backtrack. “No reason.” I shrug, my shoulders tensing under Gunter’s hard stare. “Just wondering whether this illness was the physical or mental sort.”
“Did Nox demonstrate strange behavior in your presence.” Not a question.
I can’t help but wince. “Define strange.”
That doesn’t seem to ease Gunter’s concerns. “Tell me exactly what he did, how he sounded.”
Gunter whips out his notebook like Nox committed a nefarious crime and I’m the sole witness.
Regret swarms my core as I fumble for something to give Gunter. Something that will satisfy him without being too mortifying.
Normally I’m not opposed to being crass, to making everyone around me squirm a little, but there’s something about what happened between me and Nox, what didn’t happen, that I find unsettling.
What if I’d prefer to keep you?
The way I’d known in the moment that something was terribly wrong, yet my body’s natural response to danger had neglected to kick in. I’d known by the way he was looking at me that I should cry for help. The way his voice dropped an octave should have been a less-than-subtle indication that I should have been readying myself to fight him. Instead, I’d been intrigued.
No, intrigued was being too generous to myself.
I’d been mesmerized.
Though for my safety, that was likely something I should tell Gunter, I’d take my chances with my chronically ill captor before admitting such a thing.
“Just strange. Not himself. I don’t know how to describe it,” I say, and apparently Gunter doesn’t think much of my way with words, because he doesn’t push any further.
At some point, Gunter stops working with the vials. He leaves, then a few minutes later drags a huge wooden loom into my cell.
I stare at him for a moment, but if he notices my disbelief, he doesn’t mention it.
“Um. Gunter.”
“Yes?” he says, without as much as a glance at me as he sets up the loom by a stool in the corner.
“What are you doing?”
“Weaving,” is all he says, and I suppose he thinks this is explanation enough.
I set my grimoire aside, but I’m more than eager for a break from the spinning words.
“Is there a scientific property to wool I don’t know about?” I ask.
Gunter huffs and sits atop his stool, adjusting his spectacles before diving into his project.
“So you’re just going to ignore me?”
In answer, Gunter does not answer.
