KARENSA
It had been two days since Gervais escaped a conversation with me. Though we still interacted mostly whenever I gave him his mug of tea, he'd kept his distance from me these past two days.
“Goddess, if only I didn't have work to take care of,” Uncle Dimi moaned out, plopping down on the couch opposite the loveseat I was sitting on.
I'd been trying to learn how to knit because I wanted to make something for Èmeric. I would have made one for Gervais, but it would be a waste of my time. After all, he was going to die.
I saw no use in making something for him. He wouldn't take anything to the grave, right?
“Your mum —”
“Was a great knitter. I know. You don't have to tell me that.” I rolled my eyes, stifling a cry when the needle pricked my index finger. This wasn't the first
