That's what matters.
Though the first night goes better, healing over the next two weeks has me bored out of my skull. The enforced bed rest, the brief visits, the changing of my bandages and a lack of interesting reading material take their toll. When my arms feel strong enough to brush the covers without a million things stinging and throbbing in pain all at once, it's easy to discreetly rest my hand between my thighs, and then lightly stroke as I imagine what might have been. If the night went well, and I waited in our rooms, and he returned with that smile and that promise. If we would've drowned in ecstasy, giving into ourselves and letting the lust do all the talking.
Sometimes I'm startled out of my thoughts by the doctor intruding, but mostly I'm left alone, to simmer in silence, knowing Morgan and Danny are waiting outside. Neither so interested to stay away from their duties for long.
Once, it sounded as though they turned away Rayse from the door. Probably a good thing. I don't quite see Rayse coming in with flowers and an apology. I wonder if I might have met a new end to assassins, if the Graves were not guarding my rest. They are unable to pass me any news about Ethel or Paul, and in Desmond's brief visits during his whirlwind of activity, he doesn't want to say too much on what's happening, either. Just some cryptic talk about how he thinks his efforts are yielding improvement, but it's a wait and see situation. At least I get some kisses out of it to keep me going, but those frustrate me in a different way.
With the severe lack of information from the outside world, escaping from this room feels as if heaven has opened itself up to me.
“Try not to die again,” Morgan says, his eyes intense as he studies me. Both Graves are decked out in their colors and in what seems to be a sort of boiled leather jerkin protecting their chests. Normally they don't bother with that, so it almost seems as if they were expecting an attack, somehow.
“No promises there,” I say gloomily. “But I'll try and be more sensible about running away in the future.”
Their looks of alarm make me grin, and Danny eventually just swats me upside the head. “Not funny.”
“It was a little bit.” I grin. “But seriously, I'm just glad to be out.”
“Hope so. Politics in this place seems a little... fraught at the moment,” Morgan warns me yet again. “We're not given the details, but servants gossip, and gossip loudly. You might hear all sorts of things.”
“Like the fact some of them think I was attacked by Desmond?” I say. “Jay told me that one.”
“Yeah, that's one,” Morgan agrees. “Another is that you definitely cheated with the stable boy, and that's why they locked him away. And the other guy they locked up didn't really shoot you, that's just how they're covering up what Desmond did.”
“Oh boy.” I wish they could have told me some of this earlier, but they were preoccupied, I suppose. Come to think of it now, both look like they're seconds from just falling asleep, even though their voices are brazen and alert. I calculate. Two weeks of constant guarding, in shifts of one, and sometimes sticking together for small talk. Yeah. I'd be tired too in that scenario. Tired, but not willing to let on about it.
They'll work themselves to death just to make sure nothing happens, but I might just disappoint them on that factor. Heading straight towards Rysin Claymore's study room, it's almost amusing to watch the panic bloom in their eyes.
“Don't go up there too soon – let them have some time to prepare for you at least.”
“You know something about what they're doing that I don't?”
“No – but all the same, I don't think it wise to burst in on them. Might aggravate your condition and all.”
“What condition?”
“Your uh...” Morgan trails off, suddenly aware he might have said something offensive. “Well you've only just recovered, haven't you?”
“I'm not some delicate flower,” I reply, wry. We head up to the third floor, where the office lies. More and more people look at us, some with eyes wide, others unsure what to make of our advance. “I don't plan to waste another second lying down if I can.”
Morgan lets out a huff, but adds nothing else on the matter. He just keeps up, along with Danny, though both might as well be nearly dead on their feet. I'm going to have to persuade them to take a long and well-deserved rest soon. My heart takes a huge leap when I enter the last stretch, and see the impossible, milling up around the office.
My clan colors. The bright yellow contrasts with the somber blue of the Claymores, and there's already a fair amount of posturing and aggressive gestures. When I stride up, people begin to notice my presence, and there's a few cries from the Hartson colors. Morgan and Danny look dumbfounded – clearly not expecting this outcome.
“Pearl! Oh, sweet lord, you're alright. C'here.” Ezran, the burly guy well known for guarding my father, swoops me up in a spine crushing hug. “They didn't hurt you, did they?”
“Ez, I'm fine. Seriously. Ow.” I laugh, thumping him on the shoulder until he relents, privately deciding not to admit he might have triggered an injury from my rough and tumble down the ravine. “Lord, you still feel like a steel bear trap with those embraces.”
Ezran beams, and I pat his gristly black beard. “My father – is he here?”
“Yes. It seems Rysin Claymore directly summoned for us. We wondered if it might have been a trap, but so far the hosting seems genuine.”
I shoot a questioning glance over to the Claymore and Hartson groups, and he lets out an uneasy laugh. “We've got a fair amount to work through, but the fact no one's been killed yet is a miracle in itself.”
“Our honor will make sure that our lord's son's wife remains healthy,” a dour faced Claymore vassal says. He looks ridiculously similar to Ezran, if perhaps a little plumper, and with a lighter beard contrasting with his clan colors. “I am... pleased that you have made a good recovery,” he says, doing a slight bow towards me.
Are you, though, I think, though this isn't voiced out loud. It's astonishing enough to see that there are Hartsons and Claymores in the same corridor, and they're not in a free-for-all shootout. It feels honestly like I just recovered and ended up instead in some alternate dimension. One where we're not cursing each other's names by the second and thirsting for death.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Have they been treating you right?” Ezran says softly, though the nearest Hartsons can hear.
I decide to be honest.
“I think considering the shit our families have gone through, they've been doing a good job. I've had some problems with some of the servants, but I never expected a warm welcome when I came here. They are sticking to their word.”
Never mind the Claymore vassal who took a fun pot shot at me beforehand. Mentioning that will not foster better relations. It's enough they're here now. I have to let go of that pain and hate.
Forgiveness will be slow, but I don't want to jeopardize this.
Perhaps the Claymore guard realizes what I've done, because I see something akin to gratefulness cross his face. “It's hard to change people's attitudes so quickly,” he says in an unctuous voice. “But our lord and his son have been extremely accommodating.”