Vocab Story #2

( Note: My apologies for the awkward cut-off. By the end of this, I was pushing 700+ words, and I sorta gave up. This piece has potential, but I figured I better limit myself before I post a whole chapter :/)

     Though the evening had been full of lies, I cannot deny myself the obvious truth: Mister Daily was, if nothing else, a generous host. What a wonder I didn’t slip under his spell as he divested me of my fox fur coat, easing it from my shoulders ever so gently as though his domineering hands feared the enticing smoothness of my skin. Had I been any other woman, I would have swooned after hearing his mellifluous voice, sweet as honey and so, so convincing. I knew better. I hardly batted an eyelash as he escorted me, one hand on my waist, into the dining room not one second after I’d crossed the threshold of his mansion, the parlor of which had been furnished with chairs of oak and velvet, and cornucopias of exotic flowers. Something—a sixth-sense sort of something I cannot in good conscience divulge at this time—told me they were only there for the night. Following my departure, the chairs would revert into threadbare sofas, the flowers into picture frames with monochrome portraits. But for now, there were lilies. Soft white lilies. Brick wanted me to feel at ease as he treated me to dinner, and a talk regarding my return to New York.

       For some reason, it felt as though he’d been waiting for me.

     He pulled out my chair and bade me to sit with a gentleman’s smile. I played into his hands and seated myself like a polite young lady at the long varnished table, swathed in a clean blue tablecloth. The perfect illusion, I thought; we were separated by an ocean, and not necessarily literally. Before me laid a line of fine silverware, imported from England in the early 1700s: forks and spoons and a china plate. Not one knife. I hadn’t expected anything less. The table was a place for eating and speaking, not trouble. As Brick lowered himself into a chair opposite mine, his gaze traveled aimlessly through the room, searching for any absurd objects he might have forgotten to hide away. Then he focused his attention on me.

     A door to the right of the empty table creaked open and a line of servants in black and white carried in glimmering silver domes of food. I could have smelled the stewed beef from a mile away, and God was it angelic, but I was careful not to appear voracious. I could participate in many of Brick’s games, but I could not dare devour his cuisine. He dug in, ravenous, while I fidgeted with my napkin and pretended not to notice. Conversation was slow in the making.

     After a drawn-out pause, Mister Daily motioned at the platters between us with his fork and said, “You’ll have to forgive me for cooking a feast. No one could tell me what you like.” The dishes catered to both the herbivore and the carnivorous.

     “Well, I appreciate the forethought,” I replied bashfully.

     He hummed. That was his way of changing the subject. “So, Lily,” he started, “how were your travels through the years?”

     I tried to look as ambiguous as possible, folding my napkin into a wedge. “They were fine, thanks,” I answered. “Blessedly peaceful. Not much to report. I reconnected with a few old friends—”

     “Did you hear anything about Columbia Jane?”

     For a moment, my eyes widened, betraying my collectedness. How had Brick known about Columbia? I suppose I should’ve predicted he would; it was no secret, his obsession with her, his lifelong vow to have revenge on that time wizard. I should have known he could smell her on my coat. Even her speech patterns were engrained in mine; I had definitely been in cahoots with her. Still, I frowned at Brick like I didn’t understand and said, “No, unfortunately. I’ve heard nothing.”

     His nose wrinkled. “Regretful.”