Fantastical (Fantasyland #3)(20)

No I was not.

I didn’t have any lemons to make lemonade but I was going to damn well do what I could with no lemons and no nothing.

So, when I saw the dried grass was filled with dead insects (ick), yes, you guessed it, I trudged right back through the cave (knowing big guy and his sweet horse watched me) back and forth, back and forth, yanking fresh, long blades of grass that grew close to the mouth of the cave and piling them up outside the antechamber we slept in. Then I inspected the entirety of the cave and its cave chambers, found a long stick and enough pieces of twig to build my own freaking broom, which I did, braiding the bristles at the top with a blade of grass and attaching it to the stick with more blades (this, by the way, was tedious and took a long time but, by God, I did it) and now I was sweeping out the old, dry, dead insect-ridden grass (as well as whatever else my admittedly not very great broom could pick up) even though my feet were killing me.

“Cora,” he repeated when I didn’t answer.

“Right here,” I replied.

“Stop.”

“No, I’m almost done.”

“I said, stop.”

“No,” I kept sweeping the big pile toward the pelt curtain, “just a bit –” The broom was suddenly yanked clean out of my hands and my head snapped up to see Noctorno had it. “What are you –? Oof!”

Clatter went the broom as up I went on his shoulder again.

“Put me down!” I beat at his back with my fists.

He did, dropping me on the hides I’d bunched up in the corner to get them away from my sweeping. I barely got my body under control when his strong fingers closed around my ankle and he yanked it up.

“Hey!” I yelled as he bent low and to the side to inspect the bottom of my foot.

“Bloody... damned… hell!” he roared and I jerked my ankle from his hold partly because I didn’t want my ankle in his hold and partly in a reaction to his scary roar.

“What –?” I started but stopped when he planted his hands at his h*ps and scowled at me so ferociously my breath caught.

Okay, now he wasn’t just pissed, he was pissed.

“You’ve scraped the soles of your feet straight to hell,” he gritted at me.

“I’m perfectly fine.”

“Your feet are scraped to hell,” he semi-repeated.

“Noctorno, I’m fine.”

“What, by the gods, were you bloody thinking?” he demanded to know.

“I was cleaning.”

“Yes, love, you were cleaning a cave which,” he leaned into me, “by all that is natural, is dirty.”

“But we’re living here!” I sat up to lean into him. “So, being humans and with opposable thumbs and the ability to cogitate, means we can better our surroundings so I’m doing that.”

“And injuring yourself in the ridiculous process,” he shot back.

I felt my eyes narrow. “It isn’t ridiculous. There are dead bugs in the grass under the bed we sleep in! That is pure ick!” I shouted.

“If you weren’t so bloody stubborn, you need clean rushes, you’d bloody well kiss me and I’d give you some bloody shoes!” he shouted back.

“I don’t want to bloody kiss you!” I yelled.

“Then you should have sat on your arse and kept your feet healthy and clean!” he returned on his own yell.

“I did that yesterday and I can’t do it again. It’s boring and my mother told me only stupid people get bored and I’m… not… stupid,” I fired back.

He leaned back and his brows knitted. “Your mother told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Your mother didn’t tell you that,” he declared bizarrely decisively.

“Yes, Tor, she did.”

“She did not.”

“Yes! She did!”

“Bloody hell, woman, she’s sweet as syrup and wouldn’t harm a fly but Dara Goode isn’t smart enough to think something like that much less enunciate it.”

I scrambled to my feet, planted my hands at my own h*ps and snapped, “Are you calling my mother stupid?”

“Gods, Cora, she’s beloved but she’s not bright. It’s not nice but it’s well-known. Even you told me she’s dull as a post,” he retorted.

“I never said such a…”

Oh shit.

I never said such a thing because the Dara Goode in my world, my mother, was not dull as a post. Nowhere near it.

But the other Cora probably said that about her mother.

Blast!

“God!” I exclaimed, looking at the ceiling. “I hate the Cora of this world! She’s an utter… oof!”

There I was again on his shoulder.

“Tor!” I shrieked, beating at his back and kicking out my legs. “Let me down.”

“Quiet,” he commanded, squatting to pick up one of the sacks.

“I said… let… me…”

Crack!

Another slap on the ass.

Serious ouch.

God, I hated it when he did that.

“You’re having a bloody bath and you’re putting on some bloody clean clothes and some damned, bloody shoes,” he declared.

Oh.

Well then.