Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

What Matters

Author's Note:

Watch out for 'spice' at the end of the chapter ;)

K. xx

***

"It's alright. The ground was soft enough," Anya said and put the tray on a table next to his recliner.

The furniture piece - a complicated modular item that would remind her of a dentist's chair if it weren't that elegant - had been ordered for Klaus, along with a specialty office chair for his study, and an armchair for the small sitting room, which he, Anya, and Varya used instead of going to the other side of the house, which was occupied by Anders and Amira. The central part of the ground floor - the parlour, the Grand Hall, two withdrawing rooms - and the corresponding space on the first floor, containing the long gallery, guest bedrooms, and a large dining room, were accessible for the public during tours. Anya always found it very fortunate that there was a certain sense of separation between the two halves of the household. The five of them had Sunday dinners together, though, which mostly passed in silence and occasional exchanges of polite but empty remarks.

Klaus turned slowly. A second ago she wasn't sure what expression she'd see on his face - but she definitely didn't expect the hurt, distressed grimace that was twisting his features.

"What Whitlaw said–" he started.

"I don't believe a word of it," Anya interrupted him firmly.

His words hadn't been what she'd thought he'd open with. Klaus froze, his lips softly parted. Anya wanted to rush to him, to press into him, solely craving to comfort him, to erase the pained frown from his face - but she didn't move, somehow guessing that he needed her to stay away, to give him a chance to speak.

"I would never–" He stopped and shook his head. "Why don't you? I'm sure that's what everyone is saying." Klaus' voice grew venomous. "Apparently anything to do with my past is public domain these days."

Anya took a grounding breath in.

"I don't believe it, because I know you," she said. "The present you," she amended. "Maybe twelve years ago you were different. Although I doubt that the core of your character could've changed that much. But you see, I was at your mercy at the beginning, and all you did was try to get rid of me. And I've lived with you for the past three months, too." She gave him a small soft smile. "In the hotel, you said you'd been in love with me for months. And yet, you'd never made a move on me. You never ask where I go and who I spend time with. You literally apologised for asking me to come back home when flirting with me."

He exhaled noisily and dropped his gaze under his feet. "I was– No, that's not right. The whole situation was different then."

He rubbed the back of his neck, in the gesture she'd seen myriads of times: he would push his right hand under the collar of his jumper, onto his left shoulder, and onto the muscle between his neck and shoulder, moving it up and down, drawing forceful circles. She wondered if the muscle hurt, and whether she could offer him a massage. Later, when it's all talked about and resolved.

"I was young, we both were. It was all heightened. Hyped up, if we're being realistic," he continued. "All she cared about was her career, her science. On hols, we spent time together in Fleckney, and then she wouldn't call or write for a whole term. She would plainly tell me that our relationship - any relationship - wasn't her priority." He shook his head again. "She was brilliant. Highly intelligent; a genius, essentially. As much as I whined and wallowed in self-pity, hoping it would give authenticity to my angsty, immature art," he jeered, "even I understood that she was right. We got together when we were fifteen; mostly, I think, because we could relate to how horrible the other's family situation was."