*Fennec*
I walk downstairs, but I can’t make myself return to the library. I don’t want to write letters; I want to throw my mate onto the bed and slide a hand under the shimmering green thing she's wearing and . . .
I shake my head and readjust my breeches. All things considered, I’ve managed a decent imitation of Trevelyan, especially considering that I feel like a ragingly possessive pirate without a shred of sophistication to my name.
Since I can’t go out the front, I walk out the back of the house, making my way through the garden to the small door that leads directly into the mews.
I remember the stables as dusty and crowded, smelling pleasantly of straw and horses. Now the walls are whitewashed, and the floor looks clean enough to sleep on, if not eat on. My mate likes it to be
