Page 2 of By Mistake

"No, I'm fine, just— I have to go." Andrus fled, ignoring when Kalhan called for him to stop, and didn't stop running until he was home again.

He would be damned if he admitted to Kalhan that he didn't have the funds to replace everything, and that not even the kindest vendor would replace his goods for free.

He didn't have much pride left, but he had a smidgen, and that smidgen was already so bruised it couldn't take much more abuse.

He slammed the kitchen door behind him, dropped his practically empty basket on the worktable in the middle of the room, and fled to his room just off the kitchen.

Growing up, his family had still lived in the main portions of the house.

After his parents had died, though, Andrus hadn't seen any point in continuing the farce.

He'd sold every last thing he could—furniture, fabrics, paintings, all of it—and moved into the servant quarters, taking the room that had probably once belonged to the butler or housekeeper.

There was a little woodstove that kept the room warm when he could afford the wood, a narrow bed, and a dresser for his meager collection of clothing and the few cooking implements he'd retained.

It was all he needed. The bed was covered in a quilt his mother had made that he hadn't been able to part with, and the rag rug on the floor he'd made himself.

He'd also dragged in an old chair and table from other servant quarters, giving himself a boring but cozy sanctuary.

On the table were some old, ragged books, the cheap kind sold by street vendors that he'd gotten even cheaper, if not free, because they were torn or missing pages or had some other defect.

A sanctuary he'd been so certain would be filled with the scent of food tonight, of onions and carrots carefully roasted and spread on toasted bread.

Of mashed turnips and tea for breakfast. Of not being hungry for just a few days!

He'd been so excited, over something so small and stupid, and he couldn't even have that.

He sat on the edge of his bed and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes in a futile effort to stop the tears.

Why did he bother to keep trying? He had no family. No friends. No support at all. Soon he wouldn't even have a home. Nobody would miss him when he invariably froze to death on the streets. Maybe he should just give up.

Wiping his eyes, Andrus forced himself to his feet, and then out of the room before such dark thoughts could get hold of him. He wouldn't give up. He wouldn't give anyone the satisfaction of that victory.

Back in the kitchen, he stripped off his dirty jacket, washed his hands, and then grabbed up his lonely little onion and turnips, putting the basket away in the pantry before cleaning them thoroughly with water he'd drawn from the well that morning.

His home had running water, but they hadn't been able to afford it for as long as he could remember, though he had vague memories of bathing in a copper tub while water streamed from the faucet, his mother singing as she washed him.

One onion, two turnips. He could still make a mash, have a little of it today and save the rest for tomorrow, and maybe by then he'd have managed to scrape up more coin. Or he could forgo the firewood. It wouldn't get dangerously cold for a few more weeks yet…

Ignoring his burning eyes, Andrus fetched his knife and bowl and set to work on chopping. Once the vegetables were ready, he'd take them to his room to actually cook, but there wasn't enough space there to do the prep work.

He'd just finished cleaning the knife when a knock at the door nearly caused him to cut his own fingers.

Setting it hastily aside, he turned to the kitchen door as the knocking came again.

Who in the world would be visiting him? How would they know to come back here instead of knocking on the front door like most people?

Even Farthing still insisted on using the front door, and he knew the main portions of the house were closed up.

Heart racing, Andrus opened the door—and froze, disbelief and mortification rushing through him like an icy wind. "Investigator?"

Kalhan smiled and touched fingers to his forehead in greeting. "Hello, I hope I'm not overstepping, but I… well, I was worried about you, and I hated you lost all that food." He stooped slightly and lifted not one but two large baskets filled near to overflowing. "Can I come in?"

"You didn't…" Andrus stepped back and opened the door wider, because his pride was not going to ruin this for him.

Even if it burned to his core that Kalhan pitied him.

Closing the door, he trailed after Kalhan, who was setting the baskets on the worktable.

"You didn't have to do this for me, Investigator.

I'm sure there are better uses of your time and money. "

Turning to him, brow furrowed, Kalhan said, "What could possibly be a better use of either than helping people?" He reached out and took Andrus's hands, clucking as he stared at them. "These need proper tending."

Before Andrus could reply, or pull his hands away, Kalhan let one of them go and reached into a pouch at his waist, pulling out what was immediately recognizable as a healing ointment—a good one, not the cheapside ointments that were still more than Andrus could usually afford.

"You don't have to—"

"Hush," Kalhan said gently but firmly.

Utterly bemused, Andrus obeyed, mostly because it had been so very long since anyone had touched him caringly. Kindly. Kalhan's hands were warm, solid, with callouses that made them more reassuring. Andrus had stopped trusting soft hands a long time ago.

When his hands had been tended, Kalhan slowly released them and stepped back with a smile. "There, should be fully healed by tomorrow at the latest. Um, my name is Oresti Kalhan, I should have said that sooner, my apologies. Oresti, please. Is it true that you're Lord Andrus Bothwell?"

Andrus's heart sank. For a moment he was tempted to lie, claim to be a servant, but what was the point? His lie would be found out eventually, and everything would hurt that much more. "Yes, that's me. I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble, Inspector."

"Oresti," he repeated firmly. "It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

"I sincerely doubt that," Andrus said sourly, "but it's nice of you to say so. What do I owe you for the food?" He absolutely did not have that kind of money, but he'd hand over what he did have and hope Oresti would let him pay the rest back later.

"You don't owe me anything," Oresti said softly, a frown cutting deep lines into his face.

"You are nothing at all like what I've heard.

" He reached out a hand, but let it fall when Andrus jerked back.

"Is there anything else I can do to assist you?

A couple of women at the market said they saw someone push you.

If that's true, then I will track the vagrant down. Do you—"

"There's no point," Andrus said. "Yes, I was pushed. Yes, I know who was responsible. It doesn't matter. No offense, but there's nothing a mere investigator can do. I appreciate your kindness, I do, but you're better off giving me a wide berth like everyone else."

"I'm not very good at doing like everyone else," Oresti said. "I also don't abandon people in need." He hesitated, then said, "Also, I owe you an apology."

"What?" Andrus asked. "How in the world could a man who doesn't even know me owe me an apology?"

Oresti grimaced. "I believed all the rumors about you just like everyone else. I never even tried to see if they were true. One minute in your presence is enough to put them all to rest. So I'm sorry."

Andrus's eyes stung. Why was this stupid bastard so nice . "I didn't know there were rumors." Though he wasn't surprised. Just as he wasn't surprised no one would hire him. Help him. That someone had shoved him. "Bet I can guess who's responsible," he muttered.

"Who is it? Why do they dislike you so much?"

"It doesn't matter," Andrus said. Why was he running his mouth so much? He knew better. Oresti was being kind now, but he'd change his mind eventually, or move on to something else and simply forget him.

Just like everyone else.

"You should go."

Instead of leaving, or even replying, Oresti went to the baskets and started removing the contents, puttering around the kitchen as he put everything away. When he was done, he stowed the baskets in the pantry and re-emerged with a block of tea. "Where's your kettle, I'll—"

The sound of a sharp whistle blowing for all its worth cut through the air, and Oresti sighed. He set the block of tea on the table. "I'm sorry, it looks like I'm being summoned. Would you— That is, could I come see you again later? Possibly tomorrow. I don't know what they need of me."

Andrus meant to say no, because why on earth would he want Oresti to come back? What was the point? But when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were, "If you must."

Of all things, Oresti grinned, and why must he be so distractingly, impossibly beautiful?

"I'll see you later, then, my lord. Be careful with your hands until they're fully healed.

I'll leave the ointment here should you need it.

" He touched two of his fingers to his forehead in a playful salute. "Until later, my lord."

The door closed quietly behind him, and Andrus just stood there trying to figure out what in the gods' names had just happened.

Did Oresti want something from him? Andrus snorted.

What could he possibly want from Andrus?

He'd just brought Andrus groceries for crying out loud.

There was nothing he could offer a man like that.

Well, it was possible—remotely, very remotely—he wanted the same thing as Farthing, the cretin responsible for Andrus's ostracization.

Andrus couldn't bring himself to believe it, though, no matter how na?ve that probably made him.

Oresti could very clearly have anyone he wanted; he had no need to waste time and money on the likes of Andrus just for a fuck.

Lips curling as his mind stirred up every unpleasant conversation with Farthing he'd ever endured, Andrus scooped up the block of tea and went to the pantry to take stock and plan out as many meals as he possibly could.

He didn't like being in Oresti's debt, but he wasn't going to waste a full pantry either.

As he stepped into the pantry, though, he drew up short—and nearly burst into tears. There was so much . Bread, eggs when was the last time he'd had eggs? Was that sugar ? Salt, pepper, other spices. What had made Oresti even think of something as frivolous as spices?

There was butter, cream, both spelled against spoiling.

Sausages, other meats he didn't even entirely recognize…

Oats, flour… more vegetables than he'd had at one time in years.

The tea he was still holding was good tea.

A jar of honey. Everywhere he looked, he saw something else.

How had so much fit in two baskets? How had he purchased it all so quickly?

Gnawing on his bottom lip, looking over the absolute fortune in food, Andrus tried to make his brain work.

To think logically, precisely, plan how to use every single item down to the last grain of salt.

But his stomach was growling and his head was aching and he just wanted to eat without stress for once in his life.

So to the hells with it, he would. Just this once. Then he'd go get firewood, and then he would come home and plan out the remaining food properly.

Sniffling, he gathered up bread, eggs, and sausages and went to his room to cook up a feast.