12. Adelbert

Chapter twelve

Adelbert

All day, I spend buried between the pages of Elvish tomes, aiming to find confirmation of what I suspect to be the cause of the markings that are bonding us together.

I stumble upon a certain passage late in the afternoon that supports the direction of my assumptions. It's almost enough to share with the group, but I still need to corroborate the reason for the markings.

The whole process would have taken me less time if I weren't so consistently distracted by Florence's presence through the window. I've tried to keep my attention on my reading, but she's spending most of her day outside in the clearing around the house and moving in and out of view. She never pushes close to the boundary I marked out for her, and I almost wish that she would so I have an excuse to talk to her again and apologize.

I know my manners have been lacking and my frustration bleeds through my words at times. She does not need to be the recipient of all my ire, and I'm afraid my grumblings earlier might have made her think so.

My stomach grumbles, and not for the first time.

Have I eaten today? I don't think so.

I get up from my desk in search of food when a buzzing sound stops me. Glancing down, my eyes land on my phone dancing over a stack of papers with each of its vibrations.

I inhale deeply before answering.

"Everett."

"Bertie," my friend sighs out heavily, the weight of his worries evident in my nickname alone.

That damn nickname that I let him get away with. Thankfully my father has never heard any of my friends use it, or he would perform a monologue as to the proper usage of names and the weight their meanings carry.

I have never told my friends, but I sometimes like that I can forget about being an Alberad around them, and just be "Bertie."

My phone call with Everett is brief and it reinforces all the theories that have been brewing in my mind as well as what I read today.

I sit back down and reach for a tome I hadn't opened yet, spurred on by Everett's distress, and wanting to help my closest friend the best I can.

I lose track of time.

I am only made aware of its passage by the obnoxious sounds coming from my stomach, reminding me that I have yet to eat. Due to the long days of the summer sun, it's awfully easy to forget what time of day it is.

Allowing myself a break, I get up again and stretch the stiff muscles in my neck and back, and head for the kitchen.

It occurs to me that I have not seen Florence outside my window since Everett's phone call, so I alter course and veer in the direction of her wing of the house where I can sense her presence.

All day long, I have tried to block her out, unable to concentrate properly when she enters my mind. Knowing someone is in my house is both bothersome, yet not as unwelcome as I thought it would be. Or maybe it is only because it is Florence.

The melodic tone of her voice drifts through the halls and leads me toward her side of the house. I can just make out Sadie's voice on the other end of what must be a video call.

I pause. Is that sniffling?

Is Florence crying?

Standing completely still, I try not to eavesdrop but can't help the uncomfortable twitch in my chest at hearing the sounds of her distress.

I turn around and head back toward the kitchen, trying to give her privacy, only to stop again.

What if she needs assistance? She'd ask. Wouldn't she?

I grab the back of my neck and take a deep breath, indecisiveness gnawing at me. With a long exhale, I pivot again and find my feet moving toward her.

I clear my throat.

"Florence," I call from down the corridor, giving her the opportunity to send me away if she needs more time with her sister or to compose herself.

The conversation continues for a little while, and I make a concerted effort not to listen to anything they're saying, but the tone is indicative that they are wrapping up the call.

Florence appears in the doorway of her room, her long hair swaying with the motion as she tilts her head and gives me a soft smile.

"Were you looking for me?"

Her large eyes are slightly glassy, but she doesn't necessarily look distressed.

"Have you eaten dinner?" I ask, and immediately regret how brusque my tone sounds. Again.

"I, um, not yet." Florence's smile falters and she looks at a spot on the ceiling and toys with the ends of her hair.

I cross my arms over my chest and my brows draw together, not sure who I am more annoyed with—her, for not taking care of herself, or me, for not ensuring that she is taken care of. As my guest, of course.

"Why not? It is late."

"I'm okay. Don't worry about me," Florence says kindly with a smile that tries to reassure me.

"Why?" I ask, voice flat, needing a direct answer for the reason she has not helped herself.

Florence's eyes jump from spot to spot but she doesn't look at me. Her teeth worry her bottom lip, and she cants her head before answering hesitantly.

"Well, um, I'm not, um, one-hundred-percent sure where everything is or, um, what I can use." Her voice tapers into a whisper at the end of her admission and she looks down at her feet.

"I told you to help yourself."

Florence's eyes snap up to me and she straightens her back. Her tone is even and tempered as she says, "I met you literally three days ago and now I'm living with you on the other side of the world, without having any choice in the matter. I don't know where anything is or if there are certain things I shouldn't touch. So excuse me if I'm uncomfortable ‘helping myself' in the home of someone who doesn't want me here."

I take a step back, her words hitting me with a force I don't think she's aware of.

"I apologize." I incline my head at her and my brows furrow as a new thought occurs to me. "Have you eaten at all today?"

Florence rolls her lips between her teeth and gives a subtle shake of her head.

"Come." My fingers stretch as my hand starts to reach toward her of its own accord, but I quickly roll my fingers back into a fist and head for the kitchen.