Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55756 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 279(@200wpm)___ 223(@250wpm)___ 186(@300wpm)
She doesn't say anything as I sit down to eat.
Mrs Crocombe comes bustling in, wiping her hands on a tea towel stuck into the ties of the floral apron around her waist.
“Morning, Mrs Crocombe," I say.
“Oh, it’s you," she says with a smile. “Hope you weren't too cold down there in those awful cells.”
"What awful cells?” Nina frowns.
“There’s cells in the dungeon. I stayed in one last night because…”
“Because why?” Her pretty green eyes are wide and fascinated.
“Because I killed a guy.”
“Eat up!” Mrs Crocombe declares, placing a fresh plate of croissants between us, as well as a plate of sausages, eggs, and bacon. I didn't even see her cook those. It is my turn for my eyes to go wide. This is more food in one place than I think I have ever seen except in one of those buffet restaurants where budget-conscious diners play roulette with E. coli infections from handsy small people.
“You are too kind,” I say. “This is amazing.”
She seems very pleased at my appreciation.
“I’d happily spend every night in a cell if this was breakfast every morning,” I say.
"Why are you sleeping in a cell?” Nina repeats the question.
“Murder, remember?”
“Oh. Right. Yes. Sorry. You did tell me. Why did you murder someone?”
“I am fairly certain he was going to murder me if I didn’t murder me first. I don’t know, of course, but I had a feeling that was how it was going to go.”
“Oh. Well. That’s alright then, isn't it?”
She seems a little spacey sometimes, like she’s in two worlds at once and the rest of us are only privy to one of them. I am curious about her. I’ve never seen her down in the village. Kind of seems as though she is as much of a prisoner as I am.
“So you married Bryn? What are you? Twenty? He’s got to be forty. What makes an American come here and marry… oh. Never mind. I get it.”
Bryn’s just walked in shirtless. They say age is just a number, and that’s not true, but holy hell, those abs and that face. He looks like a vengeful demon himself. The hot kind.
The only hotter one here is Thor. I’m glad she didn't marry him. Went for Mr Tall, Dark, and Growly instead.
Bryn spots Nina first. I see a smile spread over his face, a sweet expression of love and affection. Then he sees me and that expression fades immediately.
“What are you doing…” he trails off. He doesn’t want to finish that sentence, apparently. Maybe Nina here doesn’t know there’s a whole underground prison here. She strikes me as the type clinging to the last remnants of innocence. I don't imagine it lasts long here. Mine has been shattered six ways from Sunday. “I don’t think the two of you should be talking.”
He thinks I am a bad influence. That’s cute.
“Why not?” Nina asks the question sweetly, not petulantly.
“Well, one of you murdered someone recently and the other is my wife.”
“I’m bored,” Nina says. “She’s nice. The hammer thing sounds like an accident.”
“I will whip you both if you get into a hint of trouble,” Bryn promises. “And then Thor will have you again, Anita. Understand?”
I’ve never had this much personal attention from authority figures before. It’s kind of exciting. I’m used to slipping through the cracks and going unnoticed. But that’s not exactly going to happen here.
“I’m on my best behavior,” I promise him. That makes Nina laugh. I don’t know why.
“What?”
“When you say that, you sound like you’re lying.”
I’m not lying, weirdly. I’m telling the truth. This place is basically a jail I’m choosing to stay in. If I wanted to be gone, I could have walked out the front door just now instead of coming up for breakfast.
Bryn sighs. “Just… don’t do anything stupid.” He’s looking at me, not at Nina.
“I just came for breakfast. Like I was told to. I don’t want any trouble.”
He growls and continues on his way, back through the kitchen down to some other part of the dungeon. I wonder if there are more cells down there.
“Your husband doesn't like me,” I comment to Nina. I don’t know if she likes me either, strictly speaking. But I am the only other person under thirty in the household and a girl.
“He doesn't like anybody who might hurt me,” she says. “He’s got good reason. A lot of people have hurt me. Though they were all family. You’re not related, so I think we’re good.”
“Family,” I agree with one word and a roll of the eye that indicates my disdain for such structures.
“Is your family local? You’re from Direford?”
“Well, I don't know who my dad is. I think he was a soldier. My mum drank herself into an early grave when I was sixteen. So. Yes. I’m local. And classy.”
A reply that blunt usually makes people uncomfortable. Nina nods. “I lost my parents a long time ago, and then my brother twice, sort of.”