Paint Me Anew (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Give It a Go

Anya shifted, jerkily, and her hand thrashed on the table. Her head shot up, and she rubbed her eyes, trying to get back to reality as quickly as possible.

"¡Aguas!" Yolanda exclaimed and patted Anya's shoulder. "Don't hurt yourself, mi vida. You've conked out at the table again."

Anya sat up straight and looked around. She was in Yola's office, above the book shop, of course. The leftovers of the nasty dream she'd been having were slowly dissipating in her mind.

"You make me feel bad," Yolanda said and put a glass of water in front of Anya. "I should've sent you home, but I properly need you. You're too good with numbers. I can't pass up the opportunity to apply your splendid brain to my planning."

Anya greedily drank the water.

"It's alright," she muttered, "I'm always happy to help."

"That's your problem right there," Yola laughed. "You're bending backwards for others. Who's going to take care of you, pollita?"

Anya gave Yola a groggy smile. "You are, Yolanda. And Varya."

The girl was sitting on one of many armchairs that Yola had furnished her office with. Large headphones covered Varya's ears, and Anya realised she'd never seen them before. It seemed, Klaus had sneaked in yet another present for the girl without Anya knowing. Anya sighed. It was getting harder and harder to keep it under control: Varya was clearly getting used to his generosity. Meanwhile, Anya was thinking ahead - at the time when said generosity was no longer present in their life. The other day, she'd found a pair of sunglasses on her bedside table, with a sticky note on them. It said, "Don't argue!" in his snazzy - angular and slanted - handwriting, with swishes and sharp lines, poking above and below the line - and she had been dangerously close to tears. She'd almost felt like stomping down to the ground floor, shoving the glasses into his hand, and shouting into his - stupid, beautiful, so beautiful - face, "Stop being nice to me! You're killing me!"

"How long have I slept?" Anya asked, straightening her spine, with a groan.

"For about an hour," Yola said. "Don't worry, I made sure Varvar finished her homework. Querida, you're knackered. Will you be alright to drive home?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm awake." Anya ruffled her hair, and tilted her head left and right, to 'send her blood to feed to the brain,' as her Mum used to say.

"You're so obviously sleep deprived," Yola drew out cheekily. "I get it, your fella is a lush piece of arse, and you spend your night doing anything but sleeping. And I don't want to meddle, but I'm worried for you. You're a zombie, pollita."

Anya nodded, unwilling to argue. It would need to be cleared up with Yolanda one day, of course - but Anya just wasn't ready yet.

A knock came to the door, and James Whitlaw stuck his head in.

"We're leaving, Yolanda," he said and then threw a mischievous look at Anya. "Hey, Anya, I've got a daydreaming Serb there, who's been sighing all day and throwing wistful looks at the ceiling of the floor below. The Dance is in a week."

"What's that?" Yola asked suspiciously.

"Nothing," Anya rushed to answer. "It's nothing. Thank you, James." She glared at the man. "Have a good evening!"

Whitlaw burst into laughter. "Alright, alright, I'll make myself scarce. Bye, Varya!" he suddenly hollered, making Anya jump up.

Varya blindly waved her hand in the air, without taking her eyes off the sketch - in a gesture that, to Anya, looked painfully identical to how Klaus reacted to any sort of a distraction when working.