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Chapter 7 - After Midnight

Trouble sleeping that night was an understatement, with the constant tossing and turning that had left me punching my pillow in frustration and finally muttering "Enough." and turning on my bedside lamp, spilling light across my room. I sat up wide awake as my eyes adjusted to the light and tried to think of something to occupy myself with since obviously slumber wasn't coming any time soon. Unfortunately I knew why.

L. It was all because of L.

"Damn him," I muttered, kicking off my blanket and swinging my legs over the side of my bed. On top of the ridiculous amount of sugar I'd consumed since he'd been home, my mind couldn't stop replaying everything he had said since he had spied on me in the library that afternoon. Truly another man had arrived home than the one I'd avoided for years. This one actually was interested in what I said and thought, and dare I even think it, actually cared. I remembered when we had talked about Huxley and he had let me cry on his shoulder, most likely uncomfortably, but nonetheless. It was a kind gesture and I couldn't get over it. The old L never caused trouble with Andrew, he may have rolled his eyes when he was around, but never aggressively angered him like he had at supper. L had lived in his own world at Wammy's. Whatever the rest of us did had no relevance to him. It was only when he'd bump into one of us that he even realized our existence. When that happened with me, we fought. It was how things were.

I stood up and pushed a handful of hair off of my face. He had said he didn't want things to be that way anymore, with him being a stranger among us. Why? What had changed? I would have to ask Wammy if L had been enlightened somehow on his last few missions. This awakening was leaving me dumbfounded.

I decided to go hunting in the library for something to read and picked up my red dressing gown that was hanging on my bedpost I belted the robe around my waist and opened my bedroom door carefully so as not to make a sound.

The hallway was always softly lit so I had no trouble walking and thinking at the same time which was fortunate with the state of my racing mind. L wanted to be friends, why now after all this time? It wasn't like I hadn't tried in the past. Anne and I had always invited the boys to our tea parties when we were young children. Winston had always been a good sport, Fritz had been so little that we could always park him down and he'd stay where he was put, but L never stayed for longer than to steal a biscuit off a plate and go off to do something on his own. Throughout childhood he'd always been apart from the rest of us, except for Win, sitting reading if we were all carrying on in our play on the lawn, never joining in even if we urged him to. After a while of constantly being turned down, we stopped asking and simply accepted the fact that he didn't want much to do with any of us. Some children were like that, I had learned to understand. Near was one of them. He really didn't want anything to do with anybody even to argue. I could certainly say that L at least liked a good row.

I stopped at one door and opened it a crack to see both Kensey and Ella fast asleep and shut it again. I had gotten to bed so late I hadn't done my rounds, so I tried to make up for it as I made my way to the library. At the next door, I heard the unmistakable sound of video game sound effects and sighed. Matt. The boy was obsessed. I considered telling him to go to sleep, but thought better of it. After all, I couldn't.

I reached the library with no incident and switched on the light by the door. I knew I wanted a novel, definitely one I'd read before because any new story would send my brain into overdrive analyzing each plot point and that was the absolute opposite of what I wanted.

I strolled to the wall of bookshelves and scanned the titles, waiting for something to catch my eye. I started to run my fingers over the bindings and abruptly drew my hand back, annoyed with myself.  Please, I silently prayed, don't let me adopt L's mannerisms, especially not the unnatural way he sat on furniture. I shook my head and noticed The Hound of the Baskervilles sticking out a little on the shelf at my eye level. I smiled. Some Sherlock might do nicely. Fictional detectives were easier to understand than real ones.