As the days go by, life is slowly returning to normal. The food taster still does his job, and the guards still follow me everywhere, as per advice of ever careful Sagaristio, but there're no more poisoning attempts and no more attacks on me or anyone else in my surroundings.

Emilio keeps to his room most of the time, in sharp contrast to his past demands to be allowed outside. I assume that this fearfulness will pass, but Sagaristio thinks that for now it should be encouraged, at least until we're sure that Messenio has acted alone.

"He didn't just want to fuck him," he says. "He wasn't that out of control. Emilio was openly asking questions, talking to the servants, trying to figure out the identity of the poisoner. Perhaps he's gotten too close the truth, and Messenio decided to silence him forever—as well as have some fun in the process."

The word 'fun' makes me wince, but the theory sounds reasonable. We should remain on high alert until we're sure the crisis is fully behind us.

Slowly, as one uneventful week passes, and then another, the dramatic events begin to fade from my memory, and so do Emilio's bruises. Now that he's a door's distance from my room, I see him more often. In fact, I'm beginning to find his company quite enjoyable, him being smart and well educated. He's also genuinely pleased to discover that I have a library.

"I thought you were just a bunch of barbarians," he says as I lead him into the tall room, its ornate walls almost completely concealed by the dark oak shelves full of books. "Have you actually read any of those, or do you just steal them on your raids, like jewels and livestock?"

"We're not stealing," I say. "We're collecting taxes."

He rolls his eyes briefly and turns to the shelves. His eyes light up with excitement, an expression I'm pleased to see after the listless stupor he's been lingering in after the attack.

He makes a few tentative steps, and then heads to the shelf with a row of similar thick leather-bound volumes.

"The adventures of Aikateros?" He turns to me, his eyes shining. "I've read those a few years ago. Loved them. Father had a huge library, too, although I don't think he's ever read a book in his life."

I smile. This sounds familiar.

"Neither did my father. Books were only expensive possessions to him. He brought them from his travels, and I...yes, I couldn't get enough of them." I run my finger lovingly down the spine of a thick volume. "Aikateros's adventures were the best. Couldn't put them down. I'm surprised you've only read them recently—they read the best when you're ten or twelve."

He shrugs. "Didn't have access to the library then." As I puzzle at his words, wondering if Bawdrick's children weren't allowed to read at too early an age, he reaches out and pulls one book out, opening it on a random page.

"Oh, the island of the mermaids! I loved this one."

"Me too." I nod. "How he stole their tails when they slept, and then the princess had to marry him to get them back."

"And then their first son has conquered the underwater kingdom."

We grin at each other, embarrassed by our own excitement over something so childish.

"Let's go," I say. "You can read it to me out loud."

And so, during the middays, when I used to rest alone, I have company now. He reads to me, and sometimes we discuss the stories, and other times we just put the books away and talk. I find myself telling him about my childhood and my travels. He's a good listener, and even though he never tells me about his own past, his sharp wit and erudition make it easy to share things with him.

As I preside in the court during the mornings, I sometimes find myself wondering what he would say about the issues at hand, looking forward to spending time with him in the afternoon and hearing his opinion.

Even though his past animosity hasn't disappeared completely, he's clearly getting more comfortable around me. When I call for him, I can see glimpses of eagerness in the outward display of reluctance he keeps putting on as he rolls his eyes and sighs before entering my room.

I keep reminding myself that he may still be an enemy, but it's getting harder to think of him that way. One time, I even fall asleep when alone with him, lulled by his reading and the warmth of the lazy afternoon. I wake up with a panicked feeling of impending danger, but I find Emilio napping peacefully by my side, his head resting in the crook of my arm. I brush his hair out of his face, and just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, feeling inexplicably calm.

It becomes a part of our routine—the reading, the talking, the resting together. He no longer tenses at my proximity, and even though I don't try anything, I begin to think it may be the time to take the next step. As much as I enjoy the intellectual connection that's forming between us, I want more. I want to feel his skin against mine, I want to hear him to cry out in passion, I want him to beg me for more, and I want to give him more. No amount of talking and spending quiet time together can replace that.

Yet there's no sign of interest on his part, and I fear that if I press too hard too early, I may lose what I already have.

The thing is, I quite like what I have right now.

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