The Bride of Larkspear by Sherry Thomas

observing me, openly or surreptitiously.
    Disappointed—even though I knew she was not going to be there—I set out for the breakfast parlor, Grisham at my side. Only to come to a standstill on the threshold of the room. She is at the table, a slice of toast in one hand, a book in the other.
    Grisham barks to announce himself.
    She looks up, her gaze sliding over me as if I am part of the wall, to land with a smile upon Grisham. “Well, well, if it isn’t the true master of Larkspear. Come here, Grisham.”
    Grisham needs no further encouragement to bounce toward her chair, tail wagging furiously. She grabs his head and scratches his neck. “There’s my boy. There’s a good boy. How did it go with your lady yesterday? Did you have any luck? You did, didn’t you? You look smug, you dog.”
    “How do you know about his lady?” I can’t help my question.
    She glances sideways at me. “Oh, doesn’t everyone know he is hot for his little bitch?”
    My face scalds again. Fortunately there are no servants about to bear witness—the items for our breakfast are set up on the sideboard for us to help ourselves. I approach the sideboard, lift the silver domes, and cast about for something to say. “Don’t restrict yourself to toast. Your favorite dishes are here: baked mushrooms, potted hare, and fried ham.”
    “How do you know these are my favorites?” Her tone is just noticeably sharp.
    Do I dare open up any more of myself to her? Will she consider it an open invitation to hurt me further?
    I turn around and my gaze lands on Grisham. Poor thing had been frightened of carriages, after what had happened to him. Then one day, as I was getting into one, he leaped in after me. After that he was fine and carriages didn’t bother him anymore.
    Except I am not a dog and she is not a carriage. My limbs are safe from her, but my heart—
    My heart I have always hidden away, and precious little good it has done me.
    “We have known each other half our lives. What don’t I know about you?” I hear myself ask in a tone that might almost be described as tender.
    She blinks and glances away.
    I return to the table with my plate and take a seat. “What are you reading, if I may ask?”
    She looks down at the book, as if surprised to find it in her hand. “Baudelaire’s letters. Now, that’s enough licking, Grisham. You’ll ruin my skirt.”
    Grisham, at her firm tone, sits down rather sadly next to her chair.
    She reaches across the table, takes a piece of bacon from my plate, and gives it to him. “There, there, don’t look so downtrodden. There are better things to eat than broadcloth.”
    Watching the two of them, I am more than a little afraid at just how easily she might handle me in the future, with a scratch behind the ears and a piece of bacon. Will I be as easily satisfied as Grisham?
    “I have Baudelaire’s complete works, if you are interested.”
    She gives Grisham another pat on the head before turning her attention to me. “Do you read them, or do you merely have them about because they have been controversial in their day?”
    This time I do not hesitate as long. Telling the truth, like anything else, becomes easier with practice—and as I realize I am in no worse shape today than I was yesterday. “I read them because you admire his works.”
    She sets down the book and pulls apart a piece of her toast. “When have you ever cared about my opinions? The first time Baudelaire’s name came up between us you told me I liked him only because he was outrageous.”
    “And can you deny that there is some part of you that did like his work better because it infuriated so many?”
    A slow smile spreads on her face. “No, I cannot deny that.”
    Even sitting down, I feel a little dizzy. A real smile, for me.
    Her countenance turns serious again. “But that was not the entire reason, at best a quarter of it.”
    “Yes, I know.”
    She raises a brow. “And yet you mocked me for it every time we happened to