She ought to have told, nay, demanded him to get off her, but Claire was dumbstruck. Her muscles had completely locked up, unable to react in any way from beneath him.

Either he noticed her flustered state, or simply decided to let her be. He drew back and rolled over, pulling up languidly in a sitting position.

Claire stayed there for a moment, her chest heaving as she struggled to catch her breath and recover. The breeze cooled her skin as she sat up.

"Why...why on earth did you do that?" she sputtered, her hand on her chest. "You frightened me."

He ran his hand through his hair and sighed. "Defence mechanism."

"I wasn't trying to attack you!"

He cocked his head and regarded her with his piercing blue eyes. "Your hand was over my face in my sleep."

"That was—!" Claire blushed, realizing she couldn't quite tell him she had simply been admiring him. "There was something on your face."

He arched a dark eyebrow.

"Yes." She nodded, asserting more confidence in her lie. "There was something on your face, and I only aimed to get it off."

It didn't seem like he believed her, but his visage was more or else impassive. It wasn't easy to read him. "What are you doing here?" he asked instead.

Eager to change the subject, she smiled brightly at him. "I didn't expect to find you here. Good to see you again, Bartholomew!"

Both his eyebrows raised in slight surprise before furrowing into a scowl. "Who in the bleeding bollocks is—" He cut himself off and looked down, as though confirming his own existence. Coming to a realization, he grunted in exasperation. "Right. It's me."

Claire giggled. "Did you forget who you are? You don't seem drunk to me."

He glowered at her. "What are you doing here, fly?"

"Fly?"

"Even when there is an open window, a fly will still fail to find its way outside," was his simple explanation.

She frowned. "So, I'm a fly because I got lost that one time?"

He didn't say anything.

"My name is Claire," she introduced herself, flashing him a grin.

"What are you doing here, fly?"

She whined, "I just told you my name!"

"I heard it. And I asked you a question."

She narrowed her eyes at him in hope that he would notice her frustration and appease her. Nay, he merely returned a blank stare.

Relenting, she answered, "I followed some cute rabbits and got lost."

He sighed. "That. That is why you are a fly. First a cat, and now rabbits."

"And before that, I was with brulta!" she declared happily. "I saw them in the pond by Lovebird Bridge. I hadn't seen one in a long time. I was too afraid to go near the pond in our village because of a monster that crawled into the swamp around it. The monster was slayed by a knight, but I was still frightened, you know? So, I was excited to see them at Lovebird Bridge. I fed them, too. The children had caught some insects, so they let me feed those to the brulta."

While she spoke with cheer and enthusiasm, he stared at her oddly, as though he had stumbled upon a strange specimen. The face he made was so unique, it only made her smile more.

"Always playing with animals," he remarked. "Have you no friends?"

"Animals are fantastic creatures. They make good playmates, too—especially dogs. A dog is the best companion and friend, so they say. Sadly, I don't have one."

"A friend or a dog?"

She pondered about the question, and one image floated across her mind, dampening her sunny smile.

"I had a friend," she said in a low tone. "We grew up together in our village. People kept leaving because of the moordrone attacks and soon, there weren't many children our age. He was my close friend, but he ended up leaving too. He came to the capital."

"So go play with him then," Bartholomew said nonchalantly. "Do not waste time with animals and a stranger."

"You're not a stranger," Claire dissented, turning to look at him. "This is already our second meeting, and we know each other's names."

"Listen. About that—"

"Besides," Claire continued, her heart heavy from the earlier memory of Marcus. "I can't possibly meet with him now."

Bartholomew grunted, though she couldn't tell whether it was out of annoyance or something else.

"He's become a knight," Claire said softly. "He's now several classes ahead of me, on par with nobility. We are parallel lines that should never meet. Talking to him is out of the question, much less playing with him."

A short silence followed, infused with the implications of her words.

Bartholomew voiced them out. "That means you're no longer friends with him simply because he's become a knight."

Claire nodded, lowering her head sadly. "Well, yes. The reality is that we can never go back to how we used to be. Everything has changed, and it will continue to stay this way—where I keep my distance from him and he does the same."

Bartholomew's tone was pensive as he asked, "What is his name?"

"Marcus. Sir Marcus, actually." Claire didn't think twice before answering. She hadn't spoken to anyone about him, nor would she disclose the true nature of their past relationship. But at that moment, especially after the ordeal with him and Odelia, she felt lighter expressing herself even if what she said wasn't detailed.

She wouldn't have said anything if her listener knew Marcus to avoid trouble. It was a relief that her listener was a mere servant, so she was comfortable talking to him.

Which was why it came as a surprise to her when the mere servant said, in a tone of recognition that exposed not a shred of emotion. "Oh. Him."

Claire whipped her head to him so fast she could have twisted her neck. "You know him?"

Bartholomew looked out into the meadow, his face expressionless as he gave a hum of affirmation.

She wondered how on earth he could know Marcus, but the answer came quickly to her.

"Ah, I suppose you do, since you work at the governor's manor," she said, beaming and snapping her fingers. "You must have come across him once or twice."

"Once, twice..." He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe more..." He lowered his voice. "A lot more..."

"Anyway, that's him," Claire said, relaxing. She reassured herself that there was no way a knight would be friends with a servant. The two of them must have simply passed by each other a couple of times, and any interaction would be nothing more than a greeting or Marcus ordering him to do some work.

As she brought her knees up, her gaze landed on something where her feet had been. She picked it up, looking over the soft cover of the book.

"Is this yours?" she asked, flipping it open.

A hum was his response.

As she looked through the pages, a toothy smile blossomed on her face. It was a picture book.

"Don't you absolutely love books like these?" she asked, running her fingers along the drawing of two dancing foxes. "They enable us to understand the story without bothering us with words."

She flipped page after page—from two foxes finding a litter of rabbits, to them giving chase, and to the rabbits scattering in different directions. She giggled at the drawing of the rabbits cornering the foxes, then at the foxes being spit roasted while the rabbits danced. Only then did she notice Bartholomew's eyes on her.

"But you know what?" she said, turning to him. "I have made it my goal to understand written books as well." The memory of Odelia's mean-spirited words flitted across her mind, spurring her need to prove them wrong. "And just because we're illiterate doesn't mean we're simple-minded, right?"

He blinked. "We?"

"I'm going to learn to read and write," she declared with fierce determination. "I always knew it was important, but I never thought it would affect my work because I had always made do without it. So much so that I believed I didn't need it. That changed when I came to the capital."

"It is important," Bartholomew agreed, nodding. "There are some people with whom you can only communicate with written words, if not sign language. Will you move with a scribe by your side all the time? It would be inconvenient and frustrating, too."

His words rang a bell in Claire's head, much to her surprise. "That's just like what she said."

"Who?"

"Lady Hawthorn!" Claire squealed, awed by their similar views.

Bartholomew, on the other hand, looked completely taken a back.

"What!"

It was the most emotion she'd seen him express since she met him. Thus, she was rather intrigued.

"You must be surprised at how someone like me could be able to speak to someone so great, that too of nobility," Claire pronounced, unable to resist the smugness swelling within her. "Actually, I am an apprentice at her establishment, Thorne. Her daughter is my mentor." She tipped her chin up in pride.

He was even more shocked by that.

"What!" he exclaimed, leaning back and studying her like she'd just evolved into a new species. "What in the bloody balls is the meaning of this?"

Taking his astonishment as a good sign—he was obviously enthralled by the feat she had achieved—Claire scooted closer to him and crossed her legs underneath her.

"It is overwhelming, isn't it?" she chanted, beaming. "Miss Melody is a wonderful teacher. When I was lost—wandering the streets, she found me and took me under her wing. And Lady Hawthorn, well, she is a bit intimidating but she's wonderful too. She's arranging for my literacy classes at no cost. If everything moves smoothly, I might even start tomorrow. Isn't she just heaven-sent?"

For some reason, Bartholomew had gone deathly pale. "Bloody fantastic," he grumbled.

Claire tilted her head, closely watching his face. "You know, you kind of look like her."

He stiffened, seemingly possessed by shock after shock after shock.

She leaned her face closer to his, causing him to lean back cautiously.

"What? What is it now?" he asked. His voice carried a twinge of nervousness that Claire hadn't thought him capable of.

"Your eyes are similar," she said, looking into his azure eyes. They really were beautiful. "But yours are more like a grumpy cat's."

He furrowed his brow, scowling at her.

With an amused chuckle, she pulled back. "See, right there! While you both have hooded, intense gazes, her eyes are a lighter shade of blue and somewhat vibrant. Yours are darker and brooding, without any hint of relaxation. I haven't seen you smile once since I met you, so you look just like a grumpy cat."

He glared at her for a while, his jaw clenching. "Of all things...a cat," he grumbled. "What is with you and cats?"

"I just love cats," she chirped and gave him an impish smile. "Even grumpy ones." She reached for his hair, but he held her wrist.

"Do not bloody pet me," he warned between clenched teeth.

She didn't stop smiling, her face packed with mischief. "Why not? Grumpy cats like pets, too."

She pushed forward in an attempt to touch his hair, but his grip was too strong. "I am not a grumpy cat."

She thrust out her other hand, but he swiftly caught that wrist as well. She whined, opening and closing her hands at his hair, just like a toddler would when attempting to grab something out of reach.

Suddenly remembering something, she gasped and asked him with a twinkle in her eyes. "Do you want to see what I made?"

She didn't wait for his answer before pulling away and reaching into the pocket of her skirt, from which she pulled a white cotton handkerchief. She unfolded it to its full length, revealing uneven sides and a haphazard design of what she hoped looked like a hawthorn flower and berry. She offered it to him, and he took it in his hands to scrutinize her handiwork.

"I still have a ways to go before I can perfect it," Claire expressed. "When I first started using the sewing machine, it was really hard, and I made so many mistakes. But Miss Melody continued to encourage me. I could have done a much better job with a needle and thread, but I must master that machine. My co-ordination's improved, though. When I make a perfect product, I will give it to you. But for now, you can have that one."

He stared at her in confusion. "Does this not belong to you?""

She chuckled. "I have many more, so you can keep that one. Take it as a token of our friendship."

He tilted his head. "Are we friends?"

She mirrored his action, though a tad exaggerated as her short hair flipped to one side. "Are we not?"

He stared down at her while she viewed him from her crooked angle. She beamed, flashing all her teeth.

"You are a lunatic," he said.

She snapped her head back in place and frowned. "Do you not want to be friends?"

He opened his mouth, but she spoke again. "Is it because I talk too much?"

He glared at her.

Realizing this, she slapped her mouth lightly. "Of course! I am so inconsiderate! All this while, I've only talked about me, and you haven't had the chance to talk about yourself! You must be very upset."

"No, not reall—"

"You should speak, too, " Claire insisted. "Tell me something about yourself as I have done, and then we can be friends."

"That's not necessary."

"Will you accept my friendship even without talking about yourself?"

He merely stared at her, his expression unreadable. As the quiet stretched on, he proceeded to fold the handkerchief again.

He was clearly a man of few words, but Claire wasn't ready to give up. She pouted. "I have spoken so much to you. It's only fair that you reveal something to me, too."

"You said all of that on your own accord," he stated and mumbled, "Blabbermouth."

"I heard that!"

He scoffed, looking away.

She folded her arms over her chest and huffed in frustration. "Just one thing about you, please? It doesn't have to be as detailed as I have done."

Bartholomew finished folding the handkerchief and lifted his head, gazing out into the meadow. His countenance shifted to a serious expression; a reflection of a heavy weight he carried and a premonition only he could see.

"Someone I know is terribly ill," he stated, his tone grim. "There is nothing I want more right now than for him to recover. The longer he keeps in that condition, the harder it will be for me."

Claire's shoulders stooped at the revelation. The light-hearted atmosphere had changed in an instant, a glumness hovering above them like a stormy cloud.

"Is he someone dear to you?" she asked softly.

"He is important to me," Bartholomew admitted, lowering his head. "I cannot stress how much."

Claire took in the information, his despondency calling her to sympathise. At last she declared, "He will recover."

He turned to her and found a radiant grin on her face, much to his surprise.

"How can you be sure?" he asked.

"Because I have faith," she supplied easily with a slight nod of her head. "He will definitely recover and before you know it, he will be healthy and strong again. Is a physician looking after him?"

"Well, yes."

"There you have it," Claire said with an energetic clap of her hands. "If he's being taken care of, why wouldn't he recover? Nothing bad will happen to him, so rest easy."

He was speechless for a while as she beamed at him, her hazel eyes shining with warmth and reassurance. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath and exhaled. Then, he fell back onto the grass.

"Isn't it about time you went home?" he drawled.

"But I'm lost."

"Ah. Right."

She scooted back and bent over so her head was just above his. As she'd just blocked his view of the sky and leaves, he shot her an icy glare. She grinned in return.

"Can't I just stay here with you?" she asked innocently."When you're leaving, I'll simply come with you."

He didn't say anything about her suggestion. Instead, he grumbled, "You're blocking my view."

She grimaced and drew back, only to lie down beside him.

He sighed. "I didn't say you could—"

"Since we're friends now, can I call you Bart?" she interjected.

"What?" He turned his head towards her.

She suddenly started to giggle, her chuckles increasing until she was laughing loudly behind her hands.

"What's funny?" he asked.

"It's just..." she gasped, wiping a tear. "Bart sort of sounds like butt—" She trailed off into another bout of giggles. "—so...so in essence, I would be calling you butt."

He growled, "Don't you dare call me by that bloody nickname."

She only laughed harder.

"Butt!" she wheezed, slapping the ground beside her in complete ecstasy.

"For Griffin's sake, fly—"

"Alright, alright!" she cried, soon regaining control of herself. She sniffled and released a breath as her laughter came to an end. "I will call you Bartholomew. Happy now?"

She turned her head, meeting his gaze. He stared at her with his impassive yet sharp gaze, but his eyes roamed all over her, as though capturing the way she looked at him then—with her eyes shimmering and skin flushed, a blissful smile on her lips.

"Then again, how could you be happy?" she asked in a teasing tone. "You are a grumpy cat, after all."

He groaned. "For the love of—"

And she burst, again, into peals of air-piercing laughter.

Author's chatter:

Long chapter, I know, but hey—I only post once a week🤷🏽‍♀️