Salamander

Chapter Twenty Seven: Air of Hostility

Chapter Twenty Seven

I followed Mariam into the cottage, the smell of meat instantly hitting my nose as we went through the front door. Byron had just put the fourth plate of what had looked like steak on the table when we entered the kitchen. “You’re awake,” he said to me. He was wearing the same clothing he had worn the day before, only this time he wasn’t wearing his brown coat. His white shirt and vest was terribly wrinkled and his pants were covered in dirt.

            “Barely,” I said groggily.

            He pulled out a chair at the table, which was at the center of the kitchen. “Sit,” he said.

            “I want to see Lance.” I looked at the hallway at the other side of the living room.

            “He’s resting,” Mariam said.

            “Best not to disturb him,” Byron said.

            I looked at the wooden plates neatly arranged on the table, along with the crudely-shaped forks and knifes. “You set four plates.”

            “Just in case the smell tempts Lance to come out.” He sat down in the chair he had originally offered me. “Well, if you’re not going to eat, be my guest.”

            I threw my head back and allowed the last drops of orange juice Mariam and given me to fall into my mouth. I walked over to the table and put the empty glass on the table. Byron looked at it with a content smile. “I grew the oranges myself.”

            I scoffed. “In that garden out back?”

            He shook his head, the smile still on his face. “My wife had planted orange trees around my forest before she had died.” He ate a forkful of eggs and washed it down with a glass of his home-made orange juice.

            I sat down in the chair across from him. “I suppose there’s chickens roaming about the forest, too?” He gave me a questioning look, but I raised my brows at the eggs on his plate.

            “Oh no,” he said as Mariam sat down to my left. “The Imperial farm is not too far from here.”

            I chuckled. “Does everything associated with the city have to have the word ‘imperial’ in it?”

            “That’s what this place is,” Byron said. He waved his fork around gracefully. “Prestigious.”

            Mariam quietly began eating the eggs, but I could see the immense hunger in her eyes. I could feel that same hunger too, and I didn’t spare another moment not eating the eggs on my plate. They were half-raw, cooked in a way that I absolutely hated, but I still ate them. I was too hungry to push my plate away. We ate in silence, the atmosphere becoming immensely awkward and tense. Mariam’s jaw was set, and I could see that she was uneasy, either because of Byron of me. Or maybe it was both of us.

            “I just want you guys to know that I’m not crazy,” Byron said, breaking the silence.

            Mariam dropped her fork, clanging against her wood plate. “You are,” she said through a mouthful of eggs.

            Byron scooped up another forkful of eggs and brought it to his lips. “It’s in the eyes of the beholder, I suppose.” He shoved his fork into his mouth.

            I shook my head. “Anyone who was sane would think what you’re doing is wrong.”

            Byron swallowed and drank another gulp of orange juice. He studied me, either looking at my expression or thinking back to what I had said the other day, about how I had killed my father. He pursed his lips and looked down at his plate, swiping the remainder of his eggs around its surface with his fork thoughtfully. “You could’ve left,” he finally said. “But you didn’t.”