084: Snowdrop Tree, Part II
She looks over her shoulder. The dark-skinned stranger retreats into the mansion. "He seems kind."
"He is." Her friend's eyes follow the stranger. Her friend is frowning.
She turns her gaze forward and continues on the well-known path, guiding her friend along. "Do you know him well?"
As she suspected, her friend smiles, cheeks tinting red. "A little. We both take rooms here. We usually get breakfast and dinner together. Sometimes I see him reading by the fireplace in the sitting room."
She nods, saying nothing.
They reach a bench under a snowdrop tree. It is secluded, a little distance from the path, and allows a view of the garden near the mansion. She pulls her arm free of her friend's, gathers her skirts about herself, and sits.
Her friend sits next to her. The smile has softened.
"Tell me more about him," she encourages. Not because she is interested—she has too much on her mind to be interested in strangers taking rooms at mansions—but because it is clear that he means a lot to her friend.
Like a lovestruck fool, her friend tells her about the bitter coffee the stranger drinks—every morning, just before breakfast—about the books the stranger reads—history, myths, romance—about the food the stranger eats—he is a pescatarian—about the colours the stranger wears to small celebrations—white and gold. Her friend has seen the stranger watch street-performers in the square, heard the stranger hum popular songs, and watched the stranger dance without finding the courage to ask for a turn.
During a pause, she nudges her friend. "You should talk to him."
"I do talk to him."
"I mean more. Go see how he's doing—ask him to join us later."
Her friend glances at the mansion. "We've never really talked outside our meals."
"And you don't want that to change?"
"That's not what I said."
Written by: Katrine H. (@katrinehjulstad on Instagram)
"He is." Her friend's eyes follow the stranger. Her friend is frowning.
She turns her gaze forward and continues on the well-known path, guiding her friend along. "Do you know him well?"
As she suspected, her friend smiles, cheeks tinting red. "A little. We both take rooms here. We usually get breakfast and dinner together. Sometimes I see him reading by the fireplace in the sitting room."
She nods, saying nothing.
They reach a bench under a snowdrop tree. It is secluded, a little distance from the path, and allows a view of the garden near the mansion. She pulls her arm free of her friend's, gathers her skirts about herself, and sits.
Her friend sits next to her. The smile has softened.
"Tell me more about him," she encourages. Not because she is interested—she has too much on her mind to be interested in strangers taking rooms at mansions—but because it is clear that he means a lot to her friend.
Like a lovestruck fool, her friend tells her about the bitter coffee the stranger drinks—every morning, just before breakfast—about the books the stranger reads—history, myths, romance—about the food the stranger eats—he is a pescatarian—about the colours the stranger wears to small celebrations—white and gold. Her friend has seen the stranger watch street-performers in the square, heard the stranger hum popular songs, and watched the stranger dance without finding the courage to ask for a turn.
During a pause, she nudges her friend. "You should talk to him."
"I do talk to him."
"I mean more. Go see how he's doing—ask him to join us later."
Her friend glances at the mansion. "We've never really talked outside our meals."
"And you don't want that to change?"
"That's not what I said."
Written by: Katrine H. (@katrinehjulstad on Instagram)
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