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Diamond snorts. “I agree. Tomorrow, you’ll start looking for your place here.” He helps me to my feet with my crutches. “For now, you should go back and rest.”
“Shouldn’t I help clean up?” I don’t want them to think I can’t pull my weight here.
“In time,” he replies. “First, you heal, but your eagerness to take part is appreciated, darkling.” He nods to Spade. “Help her get back. I have to take care of a few things.”
That night, my dreams are full of circus acts and being part of them, of Heart sweeping down and lifting me into the air, Spade balancing me on one of his horses, and Club licking knives before they fly toward me. Eventually, I don’t dream at all, and it’s the best sleep I’ve had in years.
Chapter
Twelve
I’m limited on what I can do while I’m on crutches. Dr. Louie says it’ll be a few weeks before I can try walking without them, so I resolve myself to healing in the hopes I can walk faster. I can’t do anything heavy for now, so I resort to helping in other areas.
I’m really bad at rigging and tying knots, and after struggling to get the knots tight enough for a few days, the master rigger takes pity on me and sends me to find another task. I’m incapable of helping clean the animal pens on crutches. I try, though, despite Spade telling me I can’t, only because I want to at least attempt it. I get about a foot swept in an hour before he aggressively demands I leave it until I’m better.
That’s how I find myself in the kitchens. While I’m forced to take breaks from standing because of my leg, I excel here. For years, I cooked perfect meals for Roger and the neighbors and friends he wanted to entertain. I’ve made meals for a lot of people and a few, so I’m good at it. The food comes out amazing, and the kitchen staff happily accepts me each day as I go in and help. I’m there for three days before I’m found.
Heart comes striding inside the kitchen tent, his eyes sweeping over all of us before finding me as I balance on my crutches and knead dough. I’m so focused on my task, I don’t immediately notice, not until he reaches over my shoulder and pokes one of the dough balls.
“I was wondering where you were, Queen, and here you are, slaving away in the kitchen,” he muses, watching as I work.
“I needed to find a way to contribute,” I reply. “I can cook, and they welcome my help. Unfortunately, rigging wasn’t my strong suit.”
“Ah, yes. Joey mentioned you tried it. Don’t worry, not everyone is strong enough for rigging.” He shrugs. “Joey said he was impressed with your attempts.”
“You’re lying,” I say, looking over at him. “I was terrible at it.”
“Yes, but you were decent for someone who has never done it,” he retorts with a grin. “Don’t take it to heart. Spade is terrible at rigging too, only because he hates anything constricting. Even a tight knot can send him into . . . Well, I’ll let that be something you find out on your own.”
When he falls into silence, I glance over my shoulder. “Was there something you needed?”
He tilts his head and watches me for a few minutes. “They say you’re good at cooking.”
“I am,” I admit. I’m not bragging, just stating the truth. I had to be good or else. “I spent years cooking every meal and preparing it again when it wasn’t perfect the first time, hosting parties and get-togethers and guests Roger would bring home from work. This is what I know, so yes, I’m a pretty good cook now.”
He’s silent again, watching me. “Do you want to be?”
I pause, my eyes on my hands. They are coated in flour right now, and I have dough beneath my fingernails. The crutches dig into my underarms as I balance on them and try not to fall.
“Do I want to be good at cooking?” I clarify.
“Yes.”
I stop what I’m doing and turn to look at Heart. He’s a beautiful man, even if something sinister flickers in his eyes. “I think cooking is a good skill,” I say slowly, considering my words.
“But do you enjoy it?” he presses. He grabs my hand and presses it against his cheek. It leaves a white handprint behind when he lets go, his eyes glittering in amusement.
“Why did you do that?” I murmur as he leans closer.
“I’d like to be marked by you, Queen. Even if it’s only temporary.” He leans back with a grin. “Now answer the question. Do you enjoy cooking?”
Biting my lip, I look down at the dough. “No,” I admit softly. “No, I don’t.”
“Then don’t do it,” he says with a shrug. “Here, you do what you enjoy, so stop cooking.”
“But—”
“No buts,” he says. “Unless it’s your butt, then that’s okay, but you don’t have to only do this. Try things and find what you enjoy. If it’s not this, that’s okay. We won’t suffer for it.”
