On the fifth day, I dressed in a floaty black dress that had no elastic or grabby material that would irritate my back and stepped from my room. I had cabin fever, and as much as I didn’t want company, I needed a change of scenery.
I stared at Nila Weaver with awe.CLIMBING TO MY wobbly feet, I ignored Jethro and beelined straight for the saddlebag. Inside, I found my running shorts, t-shirt, jumper, and summer sandals.
The instinct to turn around and make sure I was permitted to dress came sharp and strong. How had he worked his wizardry to make me second-guess my right to dress?I would put a stop to that nonsense that very instant.Slipping into the clothing, I winced as the shoes brushed against cuts and punctures. The painkillers he’d given me hadn’t worked their magic just yet.
The second I was dressed, I snagged a waxpaper-wrapped sandwich from the almost empty bag.Striding away a little, I inhaled the sandwich like an urchin or homeless vagabond. Food. Glorious food. I’d never been so grateful for something as simple as a sandwich before.
It tasted unbelievably good. Roast chicken, crisp salad, and creamy mayo on fresh white bread. I wanted another. Hell, I wanted ten.
Here. Something landed by my feet. I ducked to pick it up, throwing a look over my shoulder. Jethro had stood and buckled his trousers. He ran a hand through his silvery hair, watching me with a livid expression.That evening, Kes had four additional sketchpads delivered to my room.
I found the passion I’d lost with overworking and stress. Enjoyment and creativity came back with a vengeance. My hands turned black with lead from sketching well into the night. The pages became littered with rainbows and the barbaric sensuality of diamonds. I embraced a carnal wardrobe of want and inhibitions, creating my most daring collection to date, pulling ideas from my imagination like silver threads, splashing them onto the paper thanks to my trusty pencil.When my mind was blank of artistic drive, I would turn to the large volume of Weaver history and read my ancestors’ scattered thoughts and notations. I wasn’t gullible enough to write things of importance—the Hawks would only read it. A diary was the window into someone’s soul, and I had no intention of them seeing into mine.
But I did scribble two questions.What weapons are best used against ice? A chisel or a candle?