The Princess's Servant

91. The Breakfast Table

Sybil smelled bacon before she felt her cheek against the pillow, or the warmth of wool. She heard the clangs and clinks of kitchenware and the low hiss of batter on a griddle, almost soothing enough to lull her back to sleep. That was, until it occurred to her where she'd been sleeping.

Cool sheets. A softness no grass could afford. The heaviness of a quilt. Sybil's eyes shot open as her entire body repelled itself from what she knew had to be Holden's bed. And for a moment, she just stared down at the cursed blessed beautiful thing, with its forest green blanket and subtle scent of pine. It struck Sybil then that the sheets were untidy and bunched on one side only. She'd slept alone. How had she gotten there? When? And where had Holden slept if not with her?

Sybil yawned, her need for answers outweighed by the deep indentation sleep had left. She checked a lock of her hair (still brown) and crossed the wood plank flooring to the door. She parted it and looked immediately to her left.

A spare blanket was scrunched up on the sofa. So he had taken the couch. Something twisted in Sybil's stomach.

"There you are."

Sybil had to squint her eyes to adjust to the bright light of the kitchen. She saw a silhouette first, then a glaring figure, and then a familiar one. Holden stood in front of a cast-iron pan, a pale brown apron tied around his waist.

"I hope you don't mind if I moved you to the bed," he told her. "You were just tossing and turning so much last night that I was worried-- I mean, I know the poison should be out of your system by now, but... Well, you never did see that doctor. And... I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

Sybil wanted to gush over the fact that he'd been worried about her, or better still, the admission that he'd carried her to his bed. But she had more pressing concerns, like parsing out how much of last night had actually happened. It was true that Sybil hadn't seen a physician, or so much as a nurse after the snake bite. Could the poison from that viper have created some elaborate -- if horrible -- dream?

"Feel free to take a seat," chef Holden told her. "Breakfast is coming up in a moment."

Sybil moved for the small round table in the center of the kitchen. It had three wooden chairs around it and she sat in one of them. She stared down at a sunny yellow plate on the indigo blue tablecloth in a sort of haze. "I was here, then?" she asked. "All last night?"

Holden cut her that weird smile he always gave when he didn't quite know what someone was getting at. "Where else would you have been?" came his reply.

Sybil felt as though someone had just lifted a boot from her chest. "I... had a very vivid dream," she told him, hoping that was true.

"Oh? A dream?" Holden asked. "You... wanna talk about it?"

Sybil stared at the plate next to hers. One, two, three, she counted. One, two...

"Cara?" She could hear Holden's voice, but she couldn't respond. There was her plate, and then there was his, and then, next to both of them, there was a third. One, two; three.

"There's another place setting," Sybil said, and Holden seemed to straighten out as she said it.

"Oh, yeah," he told her. "I, uh, have a visitor coming this morning." His tone was official, like the kind her (other) servants had often used when relaying stately information. And then he added, "Is that alright with you?"

Sybil exhaled. "Of course," she said, not certain 'no' could really be an answer in this situation. She felt her stomach growl and she grabbed for a piece of buttered toast that was sitting in the center of the table. She crunched down. Its warm and wholesome flavor flooded her mouth as she kicked her feet up onto the first rung of her chair. The clanging and clinking sounds resumed and Sybil felt the Earth turn once more. To her surprise, she even found herself smiling before she knew to stop.