Dinner came.
Mr. Carrington was already at the far end of the long table. Alone, serene, and unmovable.
For a moment, I almost mistook him as the owner of the estate. He wasn't doing anything particularly remarkable. He was just waiting there—his posture neither stiff nor was it practiced. It simply seemed to be the way his body had learned to exist. And that was what made him remarkable.
He inclined his head, the gesture noticeably small that I might have missed had I not been watching him so closely. Yet, despite the subtlety, there was something unmistakably graceful about it, a kind of effortless politeness only the old nobility could master naturally.
"How was you rest, Mr. Carrington?"
I took my seat at the other end of the table, facing the guest that came unexpectedly.
His hand reached for the glass of champagne. He lifted it with practiced ease, skilfully swirling the pale liquid inside.
"Adequate." He replied.
I nodded in acknowledgement and before I could think of anything else to say the maids came in to serve us dinner. A plate of beef steak was served at the table with roasted asparagus and jus wine as the main course, it's aroma making me aware of how hungry I was.
Metallic sound of cutleries hitting the porcelain followed next. I ate in silence, not minding my own guest. I haven't eaten anything substantial since waking, and only after some time did I decide to check on Mr. Carrington. He was busy cutting his own steak, the air of elegance around him cannot hide his noble background.
"Is there something you want to ask?" His movement stopped, and both of our eyes met.
I suddenly became aware of the knife I was holding, I set it down only to pick it up again.
"It was nothing."
It wasn't.
There was still a question lingering in my mind, one I had been trying to push aside since he arrived. I wanted to ask him about last night. I wanted to know why I remembered his voice when he had already made it clear that he had not been here.
But what good would it do?
He had already denied it.
Perhaps the problem was me.
The thought made my stomach twist.
My illness could be returning. Perhaps it was beginning to affect my senses again, making me see things that were not there and remember things that had never happened.
The meal finished in silence.
I was the first to rise. Pushing back my chair, I noticed something out of ordinary. A plate of untouched food—no, uneaten food. The steak was cut into tiny, uniform pieces but hardly any of it appeared to have been eaten.
My eyebrow raised in doubt. "Was the food not to your liking?"
His mouth slightly lifted as if there was a joke behind my words. He gently put down both the knife and fork he has been holding since dinner started. "I'm simply exhausted from the long journey."
My eyes lingered on him.
The explanation seemed reasonable enough, and yet something about it felt strangely unsatisfying. Still, I had no desire to interrogate him over a plate of untouched food, especially when my own body was reminding me that I was exhausted as well.
I let the matter go.
By the time I went back to my room, I went straight to the shower to relax my muscles. I was right. As soon as the warm water hit my skin I instantly felt the tension in my body slowly release. My hand massaged my arms, then down to my feet and legs where it abruptly stopped. There's a red mark on my thigh. A faint blemish that stood out starkly against my skin.
I leaned closer.
Bug bite?
I touched it cautiously. It didn't hurt. But whatever had caused it I didn't want to take any chances. I rubbed the spot thoroughly with soap, thinking all of the possibilities if it's left untreated.
By the time I finished bathing, most of the tension and soreness had left my body. The bath had done its job, leaving me more tired and drowsy.
I found myself crawling into bed and my hands slowly ran along the cotton sheet, the fabric soft to the touch reminding me of a hand that has softly grazed my skin.
A brief, fleeting touch.
My fingers stilled.
The memory—or perhaps another hallucination—came so suddenly that I opened my eyes.
Why would I think about him?
Shaking my head, I pulled the blanket to my head, my face getting hot from sheer embarrassment.
It's ridiculous!
No way...