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

Roll with the Punches

2/2 for today <3

She'd stopped by the farm, confirmed that everything was alright, and headed to the Ekollon. She was being quite brazen these days, she realised: parking the Rover at the farm house, coming and going whenever she wanted, and even leaving Varya with the Fergusons. Neither Martin, nor Sally said a word about it. More so, they were extra polite and considerate with her. Anya, in her usual Slavic pessimism, didn't trust her luck; neither did she plan to get used to it. On the bright side, the Fergusons' fear of their landowner had unexpectedly improved Henry's life: to give Anya time to go to the Ekollon or the Hall, Sally was now spending more time with the boy. Anya had used the opportunity to educate Sally on proper childminding practices. The day before, the woman had managed to change his nappy without causing an outburst of rageful screeching. And washing up had been done when Anya had returned from the Nidhogg. Anya couldn't know if the new order of things would persist if Anya moved out, but the prospect of taking the job in the bookshop and finding them a place in town was looking less like a betrayal now.

She unlocked the door to his cottage, and even before she stepped in, he shouted a coarse 'Sod off!'

That doesn't bode well, Anya thought. He hadn't even made sure that Varya wasn't with her, unlike all the previous time. She pressed her tote bag - with the 'medication' tucked in between two loaves of her best pain integral - to her side with her elbow and peeked.

He was sitting where she'd found him on the first night, his back against the tall shelf. Anya had dusted it enough times to know the titles of the books on it, as well as the shape of a large wooden box, the only other item besides the rows of mystery novels and art albums, all new and untouched. She'd only ever seen him read an old, worn-out copy of Mrs. Dalloway, which he kept near his sofa. The wooden case had several drawers with neat knob handles, and three sections locked with tiny hook-and-eye latches. Anya had to confess to greedy curiosity towards the storage box, which in itself was rather astonishing. She'd cleaned enough homes to have weaned herself off any sort of noisiness.

"God, you just had to come today," he groaned, his eyes closed.

He looked awful. Anya softly put the bag down and took off her boots.

"Can I get you anything?" she started in a hushed voice, mindful of his possible headache. "Have you taken–"

She paused when she saw a half-full bottle of whisky in his left hand. A sharp feeling of disappointment flooded her, no matter how much she'd been telling herself that she had nothing to do with his habit - and according to his Uncle, the lack of. She'd been trying to convince herself he'd been sober because there was now a possibility of Varya coming to the cottage - and yet, she couldn't shake off a daft hope that her persistent visiting and feeding him and trying to make his life just a tad more comfortable had helped a bit.

His lashes fluttered, opening; and she saw his mesmerising amber irises, darkened by the pain, emphasised by the red-rimmed eyelids. He followed her gaze, and a venomous smirk twisted his lips.

"Ah yes, that." He lifted the bottle and awkwardly swayed it side to side, sloshing the drink inside. "I've been sitting with this baby for the past three hours. It's significantly harder to relapse than I thought. Apparently I'm a failure as an alcoholic as well."

Anya didn't say anything and just stood watching him.

"Don't look at me like this," he muttered. "Like you'd accept any of my choices and forgive my flaws, no matter what."

"They are your choices," she said, reminding herself more than him that she had nothing to do with his life and that it wasn't up to her to judge him and forgive him for anything.