Masquerade {A Penderry's Bizzare Fanfic}《COMPLETED ✔️》

•Chapter Five•

"You didn't answer my questions," Blaire said, the taste of blood lingering on her tongue. It was bitter and almost metallic, but still crossed with that pungent fruity flavour. "Who are you and why did you help me?"

"Is it not right to help another in need?" she heard the unnamed man sigh after speaking. "My name is Alfred Westman; your companion led me to you."

Good work, Victoria, thought Blaire.

Jack growled, he was after some of the credit too. Westman rolled his eyes, knowing what the dog wanted. "And you as well, Jack. I believe your friend's name is Victoria? I must say, I have never known any animal to be named after a member of the royal family, but I do admit that it suits her."

"How did you know that?" asked Blaire, genuinely confused. Her head continued to ache, and she groaned as she rubbed her temple. Her stomach was in turmoil, the acids mixing together in a sickening concoction.

"An educated guess that I based purely on her personality." Westman answered, gathering some wood and putting it in the centre that had been outlined with stones. "She is feminine and strong, with a hint of a dominant attitude. Much like our queen."

Victoria barked, her tail wagging. She was panting as she looked up at Westman with her dark eyes, and if he looked close enough there was something to indicate that she was smiling.

"I see that has sparked your attention, your majesty."

Westman's attempt at humour was obvious, and a sneaky grin found its way onto Blaire's lips. She could tell that he wasn't the joking type, though she knew this already. "Do you hear that, Victoria? You're a queen. Then again, I always knew you had blue blood."

Victoria barked, licking Blaire's cheek. It was a canine's way of affection, a kiss of sorts. Westman went on with preparing a fire, having become quite the professional at doing so. His coat hung from a branch, and his shirt remained in a crumpled ball. It wasn't until Blaire actually saw these items, did she realise that her grandfather was in fact shirtless, wearing only trousers. No socks or loafers to cover his feet.

Oh...oh, my...

Blaire's cheeks turned beetroot red, and she covered her face and turned away. She admired that Westman had no shame in exposing his torso, it didn't seem as though he cared anyway. It was just skin. Never had she imagined that she would be blushing over one of her distant relatives, especially one that had been a friend to her all her life in her time. Westman was as handsome in life as he was in death, if not more so. His features seemed much more defined, though his hair wasn't so well kept.

"Is something the matter, Miss?"

Westman managed to get a flame, and blew onto the wood to make the fire rise. Taking a step back, he was satisfied that it would last for most of the night. His attention turned to Blaire, wondering what was going on. He spoke out once more, with a hint of natural concern.

"Is everything all right?"

Blaire breathed, composing herself. She lifted her head with a nod, making an excuse. "I'm fine. I suppose I am still feeling rather ill. Oh no-"

Blaire's reflexes kicked in, and she vomited. Westman looked away, lightly grimacing at the sight. He had accepted the fact that he possessed a weak stomach, after the events at the Octave Mansion in November; he vowed he would never eat pig again.

Keep it down, he told himself. Keep it down.

At least there was no pig involved this time.

Blaire gasped for air, coughing at the same time. Out of politeness, Westman went to reach out and pat her back, but she flinched and harshly shook her head as she could sense what was going on behind her.