Total pages in book: 159
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144433 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 722(@200wpm)___ 578(@250wpm)___ 481(@300wpm)
I flinch at his words. "But I need to know what's going on. Won't they at least comm you to tell you how things are going? It's safe for them to comm you, right?"
"Yeah, but they won't. They'll just show up here to collect me." Salvotor beams at me. "Either way, you're looking at another day or two and that's at top speed. You should just go about your day."
I want to collapse into a puddle is what I want. The thought of a few more days of not knowing what's going on is killing me. Is Zhur all right? Is he safe? Is his brother even now torturing him? Or is he shipping him off to a remote prison, never to be seen or heard from again?
It's such a joke. I really thought that once Zhur got his feet under him and got back to his “normal” life I'd return to mine. I'd go back to farming half-assedly, cattle raising half-assedly, and spending my time trying to befriend everyone in town. Instead, I can't stop thinking about Zhur. What he's thinking about. If he's safe. If he's got a good mane conditioner. If someone on the ship's taking the time to make him breakfast with extra meat, like I do.
Does he miss me? Even a little? Or is he just so glad to escape Risda that he's never going to look back? I can't concentrate on anything while he's gone. It's a good thing the bots handle the day-to-day aspects of the homestead, because otherwise things would be dire. Even now, I'm not going into town to visit friends. I sent a comm to Simone that I wasn't feeling well and that I'd be back in a few days. For what seems like the first time in my life, I'm not feeling particularly social. I just want Zhur to come back.
"You look sad," Salvotor observes.
"I'm worried. And I miss Zhur."
He nods sagely. "I miss Dopekh, though we're not really talking right now. He's mad at me and I'm mad at him but we can still miss each other. Relationships are hard. You know what you need?"
"For Zhur to come back?"
Salvotor shakes his head. "You need to hug some cows."
CHAPTER
ONE HUNDRED TEN
ZHUR
I eye myself in the mirror of the lavatory, imagining what my brother will see. A stranger, I imagine. The praxiian male reflected back at me, with his choppy orange mane and low-end, patchwork clothing, will not be the male that my brother knows. Kef, I'm not even sure I know myself these days.
All I can do is move forward as the person I want to be, though. And as the days grind past agonizingly slowly while aboard the Scarlet Gaze, it becomes clearer to me. I don't want to be Heir. I don't want a busy life of navigating politics and soothing ruffled diplomatic feathers. I did it because it was expected of me, but I didn't do it because I loved it, or even particularly enjoyed it. I was Heir, that was what the Heir did. But just a short time with Maeve has showed me that I'm good with other things.
A short time without her has also shown me that I miss her far more than is sensible. I can't sleep at night, because I want the scent of her in bed with me. I want the feel of her smaller body next to mine. I miss hearing her talk. I miss her smile.
I worry what schemes she is up to without me to talk her out of them. Maeve does love a plan. Not a good plan, just any plan. That's one of the things I adore most about her—her endless energy to attack things in an effort to help. She would be an excellent Heir.
Either that or she would tank the economy in a week trying to fix it. The thought makes me smile. I rake my fingers through my mane, trying to coax it into a semblance of decency and give up when it looks worse after a few moments of fussing. My clothing is wrinkled and worn, but I'm not trying to impress my brother. I just want to stay alive.
With a deep breath, I exit out of the lavatory and out of my quarters. I head down the long hallway of the ship, and as I do, I pass by the mess hall. Ruthie—the small human with all the metal on her face—is in there, and she gives me a thumbs-up. "I don't know what you did to the noodle dispenser but you're my new hero."
Her words fill me with a foolish, quiet pride. "I just did a bit of maintenance to keep busy." Yesterday, while we were waiting for my brother's reply from my offer of parlay, I thought I would go mad with waiting. I made myself a bowl of noodles—or tried to, but the machine let out a pathetic dribble of water and my noodle cake got stuck. So then I took the entire machine apart to see how it worked, cleaned the parts, repaired a bent switch or two, and then put the entire thing back together. It now works perfectly, and I want to tell Maeve all about it and how proud I am that I fixed it, because she would understand.