Rite (Deridia Book 9) by Catherine Miller

Author:Catherine Miller [Miller, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-05-06T18:30:00+00:00

7. Between

Never did she think she would measure time by sleeps rather than the rising and falling of the suns. But she did.

Elrik would tell the time of day, if she asked it of him. But she stopped after a while. It didn’t matter, did it? They would have breakfast when she woke. He would always ensure there was a supper when next she was hungry. Anything at all that she wanted.

And they avoided talk of... of other things. It was cowardice on her part. Consideration on his. Or that’s what she told herself when they sat and looked at one another for too long, and her stomach turned to knots.

But it was better to stop asking for the time, when it seemed to move so slowly. She could only wash so many dishes. Bake so many things as she came to know the new kitchen. His stores were seemingly endless, and there were grains and flour so finely ground that it was paler than any she had known before.

She awoke one day. Realised it would be more of the same—more of the not quite talking. Of the same few rooms, with only Elrik for company.

And she rolled over. Tucked the blankets back over her head.

And let sleep take her once more.

It did. For a long while. Until there was a solid knock upon the door. She should answer it. Assure him she was fine, only tired. Somewhere deep in her bones.

But even that felt too much effort. The door too far away, and she was only in a plain shift, wrinkled and most assuredly immodest, and she would have to fetch a shawl from the wardrobe and he would go away, wouldn’t he? If she waited. And remained in her burrow.

She wasn’t hungry anyway.

He did leave.

And she was sorry for it, in some abstract part of herself. But the rest was simply relieved, as she slumbered once again.

He knocked for longer, the next time.

She could hear the muffled drift of his voice from beneath the tiny crack beneath the door, but she could not make out the words directly.

How long would it be before he simply opened it? He could linger in the doorway. Maintain his sense of propriety, the pretence that the room was hers. There was a lump in her throat but a dim sort of laugh came out all the same. It was too dark. He’d shown her how to use the lamps when at last she’d thought to ask, but even those would mean twisting and reaching and she was too lazy for that.

What would Valeria say?

She wouldn’t linger in doorways. She would bustle in when the second sun had risen, hands on hips and full of queries about sickness and wellbeing because surely she was near death if she was not washed and dressed and ready for their breakfast by that time.

And Emmaryn would wonder what it would be like to be mistress of her own home. To sleep as late as she wanted, for chores to wait for her, until she was ready to attend to them.

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