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 can pour tea," I say, stung. I even get up and get the kettle myself, holding onto the handle so I don't burn the pads of my palm. "I am not completely useless."
"I have not yet seen proof of that," Maeve retorts, but her tone is changing to one of amusement. "Pour me one and put a bit of sweetener in it and I'll finish up with our breakfast hash."
A “hash” sounds dreadful, but the scents coming from the hot skillet are divine, and my stomach growls. I carefully pour the tea and look around for something that looks like a sweetener. I find a small tube with a symbol scratched on it and hold it up. "This?"
"That's salt."
"I can't read your language."
I expect her to snap at me, but she gives a wry chuckle. "Okay, that's fair. Don't sweeten mine then." She turns and plates the food, giving us equal portions, and then moves to the table. "Let's eat, shall we?"
The food is excellent. After my torturous stint in the barn, it is the best thing I have ever tasted. Since she is not using traditional manners, I will not either, and scarf the food down as quickly as I can pick it up with my sticks. Maybe if I finish quickly she will volunteer another round of food. I sip the tea and it's awful, but it's warm and flavorful—even if the flavor is terrible. She clearly does not know how to brew it properly, but then again, she is human.
Maeve uses a pronged eating utensil instead of the proper sticks. It looks hand carved and crude, but she wields it easily enough. She nibbles at her food while I sit in front of my empty plate, her expression contemplative. After she takes a sip of the tea, she toys with another bite and eyes me. "We're both adults here, right?"
"I am adult, yes." She looks young for a human and it occurs to me that I do not know much about human ages. "Are you an adult?"
"I'm twenty-eight."
"I am, as well. Is that an adult among your people?"
She grins, her teeth large and square, but it's a friendly expression all the same. "Yeah, it is. So here's my thing, Zhur. We're both adults. We can figure this out like adults, right? You need a place to stay. I assume you're in hiding and I don't want to know the reason behind it. I could call the authorities and get you removed, but for one, I don't like being in the spotlight and if I call about a stranger on my land, they're going to be all over me constantly. I don't like being surveilled. And two, I have been where you are."
I want to retort that we are nothing alike. That I am Heir and she is a human who talks too much. But her food was delicious and she is smiling and I am yet ravenous.
So I pretend to pay attention. I steeple my fingers and ignore the hay that flutters onto the table. "Go on."
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SIX
MAEVE
This is going well. I'm pleased. I mean, sure, I ended up cooking for the guy again, but he poured tea and he's acting decent and not demanding things. Maybe we can find a way to get along after all.
I'm not expecting miracles. Ever since I was taken from Earth, my needs are simple. I need to be free, and I need someone to talk to. Zhur isn't my ideal companion by a long shot, but I'm no longer bored and on edge when he's around. Having him here—even when he annoys me—has been a welcome change from the monotony of Risda. I'm willing to extend the olive branch as long as he acts decent.
And so far this morning? No tantrums at breakfast. I'm calling that a win. I take another bite of my food and notice how his gaze tracks my fork. Either he thinks the one I carved is odd—aliens don't use forks, just a thicker, tapered chopstick-type implement—or he's still hungry. I watch him for subtle signs, but he displays nothing. His manners are impeccable, and despite his personal lack of hygiene, it's clear he's a tidy eater. He glances around the table once or twice as if something is missing, and his fingers flex.
"Napkin?" I ask.
He frowns, his hands moving restlessly again. "It just seems...strange to me to not have a fingerbowl with which to clean my hands."
The way he hesitated over the word “strange” makes me think he was going to select a much stronger description, and I chuckle to myself. "Humans use napkins. It's a square of fabric you use to wipe your hands."
"So...you smear the filth from your hands onto fabric? And this is...proper amongst your people?" His words are careful, as if he's trying to hide how revolting he finds the idea.