Drawing Blood

Chapter Fourteen

I was tired the next day - grateful that it passed in a blur. I had spent the day reading a book, locking myself in my room, recharging from Saturday's adventure. Before I knew what the time was, Will had hollered up the stairs to call me down for dinner, adding that it would get cold if I didn't hurry up. He had offered to cook after seeing how I was and had left me alone for most of the day. Appreciating his gesture, I had lost myself in the pages of Jane Eyre again, even falling asleep at one point, waking sometime in the late afternoon.

The time spent with him wasn't too taxing, and we ate in the living room, chatting whilst watching a program on fishing; his excitement unmistakable as two celebrities wrangled with a monster carp. I didn't mind too much that he interrupted our conversation every now and then to point at the television; informing me on what kind of bait they had used. I didn't mind that the silence between us was sometimes long, and frequent. I didn't even mind that I didn't know what he was talking about. What made a change was that we were in the same room, bonding instead of avoiding each other. Even if it was over something I had no interest in.

"Dad, remind me why they chose these two particular celebrities to go fishing, again?" I asked, adjusting the knife and fork in my hand, placing the plate in my lap.

"Well, they love it," he answered, as though it was plainly obvious. He shovelled a portion of mash potato into his mouth, turning the volume up on the television. "They travel all over to go and fish."

"So where are they now?"

"Cornwall."

I put some of my own potato in my mouth, hungry all of a sudden. "I've always fancied Cornwall."

"It's beautiful down there, you'll love it." He flicked his gaze towards me, his brow furrowing. "Maybe you should go down there for a holiday? I hear Sennen Cove is lovely."

"Take you with me, you mean?" I threw back at him.

He laughed. "I wouldn't come home."

I allowed my gaze to roam over the place. He had lit the fire, I saw. "You finally gave in, then?"

He nodded, knowing what I meant, "It's cold today. The snow they threatened hasn't come yet, but the north chill finally arrived."

I found myself engaged in a short conversation with him, about how the elements could get the better of this place. I agreed; the wind had been fierce against my window. I had been scared enough to jump into bed to finish my book at one point, wondering if it would send glass all over the floor. "At least it's died down, now," I muttered.

"We'll have to make sure the shutters work in case we get a storm, this year," he divulged.

"When was the last time you used them?"

His eyes never left the television. "A few years ago," he said. "We had winds up to ninety miles per hour."

"Wow."

He put some more food in his mouth. "It's not like Brighton, up here. The Winters can be bitter."

"We have storms in Brighton," I told him.

"Not like the ones around here, you don't."

Frowning at his response, I found myself taking in the old furniture and antiques that were littering the place. "When was the last time you decorated?"

"I like it as it is."

"Can you find anything?"

"Organised chaos, I believe Sofia used to call it."

He had mentioned my real mothers name, and I wondered if he had realised. Usually, it was a difficult subject for him. "What was she like?" I asked him tactfully.