Page 115 of Hollow Court
Several beats of silence passed before Davin casually re-opened his book, dipping his quill in the inkpot once more. It didn’t feel like he was ignoring me. More like he was giving me space to speak if I wanted to, without the obligation if I didn’t.
Since I had no idea what to say, I appreciated the lack of scrutiny. I took the time to gather myself, willing my heartbeat to slow in my chest while I sipped absently at my drink. I wasn’t sure if it was the whiskey that had such a calming effect, or merely Davin’s presence.
I was hoping the former, but when the minutes ticked by and I realized the only thing missing was Davin’s low, bantering tone, I knew I was probably lying to myself.
Finally, I broke the silence.
“What were you working on?” I asked.
He finished the note he was making, dipping the quill in the ink once again before responding. “Looking into laws that might be pertinent to the vote.”
“You write with your left hand,” I blurted out.
What was wrong with me?
Davin’s gaze flitted to the glass in my hand, which was, apparently, nearly empty. Well, then. Vaguely, I recalled that I had been too anxious to eat dinner, and it had been a couple of months since I had any liquor, since no one here seemed particularly offended by my preference for wine and champagne.
“I do,” he confirmed.
His tone was suspiciously neutral, like perhaps he was fighting back a laugh. I pictured his scabbard, on the left side for a right-handed pull, and the way he had uncorked the whiskey with his right hand.
“Do you do anything else with your left hand?” I asked curiously.
He made a choking sound, and I played back the words in my head.
I hastened to explain. “I meant…because you wear your sword on your left hip, and—”
“Obviously, that’s what you meant,” he said, mirth sparkling in his cobalt eyes. “What else would you mean?”
“I hate you,” I told him flatly.
“I know.” His voice was lower then, more serious.
Silence fell again, more charged this time, punctuated by the gentle scratching of his quill against the pages.
“Aren’t you going to ask why I’m here?”
The feather on his pen stopped mid-swoop, and he raised an eyebrow. “Would you give me a real answer if I did?”
No. Maybe.
“You could at least give me the opportunity to artfully hedge the question,” I said with a half shrug that felt far less graceful than usual.
He shot me his signature stupid perfect gorgeous smirk. “By all means, then.”
I gave him honesty instead. “I’m tired of doing that.”
“I know,” he said again, the smirk falling from his features. “Not much longer now. Only a handful of weeks.”
My stomach sank. It was an effort to breathe.
“That isn’t better,” I said, my voice sounding hollow, even to my own ears.
Davin took a long sip of his whiskey, setting his quill aside and closing his book.
“I know,” he said for the third time.
It took finishing the rest of my whiskey to dredge up the courage to ask him what I really wanted to know.