Page 30 of To Scale the Emerald Mountain

How long was I out with my mouth hanging open and blood running into it?

I quickly run into the kitchen and turn the faucet on the sink. Not bothering with a cup, I put my mouth straight to the water and take in a mouthful. I swish and spit repeatedly before putting my nose and upper lip under the water.

Did Locane see me? If he did, had he worked out what happened?

Much like the one I saw in my combined dream/vision with Nana, this vision weighs heavy. Perhaps not as important as the creation of the god’s emerald, but it was more detailed and clear. The one with the emerald was obviously far in the past, but this one was impossible to tell if it was past, present, or future. There were no clear indicators to give a timeline that I could remember; but it feels fresh.

After cleaning myself up I walk into the cozy living area. Pausing in the center of the room, I listen. The house is quiet.

In the buzzing, silent energy, unease creeps in again.

Shaking myself out of my daze, I go upstairs to get changed for the day. I pay no mind to quiet my level of noise—certain that Locane got a wonderful night of rest after leaving me hanging with his cherry-picked shreds of information. I try to not let it bother me too much and start this day off with a positive attitude. Maybe that will rub off on him.

Not likely, but maybe.

Taking more careful stock of my armoire in the daylight, I choose a white sleeveless shirt to go with flowy black pants. Both are made of breathable cotton. Perfect for a warm day.

My eyes steal a peek at my appearance in the vanity mirror. I pull my hair up, securing it so it swings between my shoulder blades. Slight shadows sit under my green eyes, and the sight of my own face makes me inexplicably unsettled. Turning away quickly, I shake the feeling off and plaster a forced smile on my face.

The sounds of cooking come from the kitchen when I go downstairs.

“Good morning!” I trill pleasantly, waltzing through the kitchen door as if I regularly grace these walls. Locane barely glances over his shoulder at me and continues stirring something in a bowl. “What are you making?” I ask, leaning against the island.

“Breakfast.”

I laugh. “You don’t say? What specifically are you making for breakfast?”

“Cinnamon peach pancakes, omelets, and spiced sausage.” His tone is matter of fact but without the unfriendly air I’ve grown used to.

“Mmmm,” I hum happily. “Isn’t cinnamon more commonly a colder weather flavor?”

“Anything can be made to fit any season if you know how to pair your ingredients correctly.” He goes to the large range and starts ladling batter into a skillet.

Locane turns to put the bowl on the island when I notice he’s wearing an apron. It’s buttery yellow with a bouquet of sunflowers embroidered in the bottom corner. I laugh loud; an embarrassing snort escapes through my nose when I cover my mouth to stifle it.

“What’s funny?” Locane raises a brow. He doesn’t seem humored in the slightest.

“Oh, nothing. Just the dark rain cloud in the kitchen wearing the most sunshine apron I could ever imagine.” My shoulders shake with more ill hidden amusement.

Locane looks down at himself as if he has no idea what I mean. “I just changed into fresh clothes. I do not want to get them dirty.” His face tells me that’s the most obvious thing on the planet, and I’m dense for not realizing it.

The face of anger sitting on top of the bright, happy apron makes me break out in peals of laughter again.

“This is not a good way of showing appreciation. I guess next time I’ll skip the home cooked meal and you can figure it out yourself,” Locane tells me cooly.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you. For what truly sounds like a delicious meal.” And I mean it.

Locane moves with ease as he cooks, not even thinking about the motions. Trying to discreetly take in his handsome features, I notice the pallor of his face—the gauntness of his cheeks.

“Are you alright?” I ask with a legitimate concern.

“Yes, why do you ask?”

“Well, you don’t appear entirely well. Kind of pale. And like you haven’t had a good meal lately,” I tell him honestly.

“I haven’t had the best meals lately. But yes, I’m fine. Just still drained from the overexertion yesterday. After more rest, I’ll be fine.” He continues preparing the food, not missing a beat.

“Is today a rest day then?” I’m anxious for more enlightening conversation. And almost as anxious to hold a staff in my hands again.