Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 162269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 811(@200wpm)___ 649(@250wpm)___ 541(@300wpm)
“I’ll talk to him,” Apollo cut in.
Alfie turned to Apollo. “I don’t imagine True will be of a mind to be lenient with anyone in that faction.”
“I won’t make any promises,” Apollo assured.
“Then as you wish,” Alfie said.
“I’ll go with you,” Tor murmured.
“Excellent,” Apollo replied.
Alfie looked again to Mikaelsson. “Are we finished?”
Mikaelsson nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, dismissed.”
Mikaelsson nodded again, stood, dipped his chin to Apollo and Tor, then he left the room.
Alfie sat back in True’s chair and turned his gaze to the two men.
But it was Apollo he addressed.
“You have an instinct about this priest?”
Apollo shook his head, but said, “I have heard that name before. In other reports. He is the man who had his hands shorn off by his own comrades.”
“I remember,” Alfie replied. “He also is the man who led Melisse into a trap and nearly got her killed, this after they’d shorn free his hands. My feeling is that indicates a rather extreme level of zealotry.”
“Thus, it would be interesting, whatever he has to say,” Apollo replied.
Alfie could see this.
Apollo put his hands to the arms of his chair and murmured to Tor, “We’ll be away?”
“Once I talk with Cora. Tell her where we’re going,” Tor said.
“I shall also talk with Maddie. Half an hour? On the front steps?” Apollo suggested.
“I’ll call for our horses to be brought ’round,” Tor offered.
Apollo nodded.
They both stood, said their goodbyes to Alfie and left the room.
When the door closed behind them, Alfie looked down to his sticks that were resting on the floor by his chair, hidden from view.
He had been practicing on them as frequently as he could. However, he was finding to his frustration that his lower half was heavy and unwieldy, which made progress slow-going and tiring, so that frequency wasn’t as frequent as he’d wish.
He could navigate across a room.
He could not get himself from True’s study to his chambers without resting in chairs placed along the hall the entire way, this being done for the purpose of allowing him just that.
And stairs were impossible.
But navigating that hallway, under the carefully averted eyes of soldiers he once commanded, was a mortifying enough daily occurrence.
He couldn’t even think on attempting stairs.
He closed his eyes, lifted his hand, and pinched the bridge of his nose just as he heard a knock on the door.
He dropped his hand and opened his mouth but closed it when he heard the latch turning and knew who it was.
He sighed and ignored his stomach warming.
This before who he knew would walk in without waiting for him to call his leave for her to do so, walked in.
Bronagh.
She closed the door behind her and bustled his way, asking, “Is your meeting done?”
Gods, she had far too many curves.
And too much hair.
And those bloody freckles.
“Alfie?” she called, and he started, lifting his eyes from her bosoms to her face.
Her cheeks were pink, but her manner was efficient.
He had, after insulting her gravely, managed to force her to listen to his apology, which she had accepted.
He had then managed to talk her into considering him as friend, which was harder to make her accept.
It was also hard for him to accept.
That said, all he had to do was look at his bloody sticks, his fucking useless legs, and it became a good deal easier.
“Is your meeting done?” she repeated.
“Yes, but I’m waiting on some missives I need to look over,” he told her.
She appeared crestfallen, which was a rather dramatic reaction to his reply.
What on earth?
“I’m uncomfortable in True’s chair, Bronagh,” he reminded her of something he’d shared before in one of their many conversations, for she kept him company in his chambers often, now no longer simply as his nurse. “But I’ve spent so much time in that damned chamber, that damned bed, I’d rather be here than there. If you wish to stay and keep me company, get your book or your knitting, and be here with me.”
“I’d hoped to talk you into going on a carriage ride.”
He blinked slowly, nonplussed.
“A carriage ride?”
She threw herself in the chair Mikaelsson had vacated and Alfie again found himself gritting his teeth as she did, for much of her jiggled (and it was enjoyable to watch) while her hair bounced (and that was enjoyable too).
“Yes, Alfie, a carriage ride. You know, those wheeled conveyances, led by horses that—”
She would be outrageously annoying if she wasn’t so adorable.
“I know what carriages are,” he said with a sigh.
“Yes, well, the day is crisp and cold, but we could get a rug. And I know this bakery that does these vol-au-vents filled with the richest, meatiest stew you’ve ever tasted—”
“I can’t go on a carriage ride with you, Bronagh.”
“Why not?”
He refused to look down at his sticks.
Even if he did, she knew the direction of his thoughts.
“We can have the vol-au-vents brought to the carriage and eat them in there, Alfie,” she said softly.