XXXIII. Damsel

                                    

                                          
As Florence slept in his arms, sunlight warm on her skin, strands of her blond hair a glowing crown on her head, Emory could not help but think she looked like an angel, although they both knew she wasn't. And as she snuggled closer, hand loose against his chest, he was reminded of how surreal it was to dream while awake. It had been so long since he felt it—the gentle rush of wonder, like breathing summer sunsets and spring scents all at once.
The last time was when he and Henry went back to the tree house after they were told that Eliza was not coming back. They imagined her flying with the winged creatures she drew in her book. They talked about her heaven, how it exciting it must be like. Clear skies and endless sunshine. And as children, they felt it, too, just as how they felt it when Eliza was alive and took them to her wonderful worlds.
"I'm hungry," Florence mumbled against his chest.
"Of course you are," he said, rolling away from her. "Can I have my arm back now?" he asked, kissing her temple.
She lifted her head and rested her chin on his chest.
"Oh, God, I think you killed it," he said, lifting the arm with his good hand.
"How will you cook for me now?" she asked, lightly scratching his chest.
He caught her hand and squeezed with warning. "Stop it or you'll never leave this bed."
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" she asked, pulling her hand free to tease a trail down his belly.
"You're sore," he said, rolling away. "And we're both hungry."
She moaned and rolled to the other side of the bed. It took them some time to find all articles of clothing, stopping once in a while to share a kiss, or argue about missing buttons and laces. When they finally found their way into the kitchen, Emory gathered flour and told her to steal eggs from the coop outside. He smiled when he heard her exclaim words he could not make out, and turned to face her with a smile when she ran back into the kitchen, her eyes wide and glimmering with wonder.
"It's beautiful out there," she said. "Birchfield is beautiful."
He chuckled, revering at the way she looked—tousled hair and crinkled dress, face glowing from a night of passion and morning sunlight. "We'll explore it later," he said, resuming his work. "The eggs, Lori."
She disappeared again, and he watched her through the window as she picked a wild flower and laid it on Henrietta's grave. With a sigh, he shook his head.
It took a lot of patience and a shout out the window before she found her way back inside with a handful of eggs. "Thank you, Princess," he said, leaning down to accept the kiss she planted on his chin. She followed him around, and he kept bumping into her as he worked. When he finally had enough, Emory easily lifted her lithe form off the ground and sat her on a stool. Leaning on the table behind her, he gave her a thorough kiss and groaned when they got a little carried away. Forcing a step back, he gave her a warning look. "Stop moving around."
As he cut tomatoes and herbs for the bread baking in the oven, she nibbled on a stolen cheese. "How do you suppose she did it?" she asked.
"Who?"
"Elene Lennox."
He shrugged. "Threats? Manipulation? As his wife, she knows every bone of the skeletons he hides in his closet. She'll only have to use those." Throwing her a grin, he added, "You tell me. You're the woman."
She grinned. "She knows how to swim with him."
He slowly nodded. "And knows how to drown him."
She sighed, giving him a dramatic, awestruck look. "You have some hidden wickedness in you. I should be afraid, but all I can think about is that I'll love being our queen."