CHAPTER 19

 

TAC’MOT

 

A sparkly stick with teeth slides across the counter.

We both look up to find Brax.

“She might need that this morning,” he says gruffly.

I blink down at it.  “Where did you get a Gryfala mane comb?  Better yet—how?”

Brax shifts.  “It was in my brother’s things.  I guess he was hoarding his mistress’s treasures.”  His eyes darken as if he’s recalling an unhappy memory.

When the Gryfala only clasps her hands, peering down at it with interest, he emits a rattling noise from his nasal chamber.  “You don’t even want to manage this on your own?”  His tone is full of sharp-edged impatience—yet his hands are gentle as they suddenly ghost the brush over her mane, his claws separating strands before lightly dragging the teeth through it.

She holds very still, which is either because she is afraid to set an obviously agitated Brax off by moving, or she is processing the fact that this male just took liberties she hasn’t invited.  She doesn’t chastise him though.

Curious.

But when he finishes and slings the brush onto the counter, she jumps.

“Brax,” I pin all my ears and chatter my teeth at him—a surprise for us both.  I’ve never done this to him before.

But it’s the Gryfala’s softly admonishing tone that has his scales changing color.  Shockingly, instead of turning to a brighter, more threatening orange and red shade, his scales even out to a soft, burnished gold.

His stripes still stand out against it, but they don’t look as harsh now, for some reason.

He moodily stalks across the galley, but pulls to a stop when she starts speaking to him.  His back is facing us, and while I know he can’t understand a word she utters—when she’s finished speaking, he actually bobs his head in a low nod.

It’s quite conciliatory-looking.

What is this?

Tentatively, she reaches out and pulls the brush towards herself.  She looks so perplexed that I move in to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  She looks up at me, and—

We’re startled apart by the plate that’s dropped to the tabletop with a bang.

“Here,” Brax snaps.

Blinking, I ask, “What is that?”

“Something sweet enough she will actually eat,” he bites out.  “Last night before I fell asleep, I remembered my brother going on about how it was ‘his’ mistress's favorite.”

The Gryfala doesn’t automatically take a seat at the table.  I’m not sure I would either.  My eyes travel to the dish bearing a food I’ve never before seen.  It’s hot.  At one point it looks like it was flaming hot, evidenced by the bubbling, still-steaming middle despite the fact Brax had it on the table cooling before we entered.  This is no thawed rat he’s grabbed for himself.  This took preparation.  This took ingredients.  This took a recipe.  Clearly, he had this made long before our arrival in the galley.  How… interesting.

“Move,” Brax says as he shoves between the Gryfala and I.

Feeling a little stung, I hop back, but I am too curious to make a fuss over it.

Because Brax looks near to snarling—but not at her.  No, more like he’s fighting with himself.  He turns, reaching to pick up the dish, and moves it to the counter where the Gryfala is still standing, frozen.

Tentatively, she reaches out to take the spoon he’s holding out to her.

“No.  You’ll eat it from my hand, or not at—” he starts to insist, but just as suddenly, he drops the spoon like it’s liquid nitrogen, and backs away.

She bites her lip, retrieving it before it can sink into—and below—the food.

“Tank yew.”

The words are softly spoken but clear, thus it is easy to guess their meaning.

Brax opens his mouth—before he just as suddenly shuts it, and ignores her.  He goes so far as to slam himself down in a chair and violently chase his food around with his fork.

The Gryfala takes a bite of what he has prepared for her—and whimpers.

Brax’s tail flicks.

When she cleans the plate—which takes her almost no time, and I feel terrible because I know this means she has been very hungry—she stands and approaches Brax and it is almost comical how tiny she looks compared to him.

I don’t know what possesses her to do it.

She places a hand on his arm.  Ultimately, it doesn’t matter that her intention is seemingly to give a simple, innocent thanks.  Brax shoots to his feet, the momentum causing his chair to backflip.  I hop forward to catch her when she stumbles back.

“Give Gryfala a click and they’ll take a lightyear!” he snarls as he breaks for the galley door, his toes spreading wide with every stomp of his feet.  For some reason, they seem to fascinate the Gryfala more than his behavior shocks her.  She lets me guide her to a seat, collecting her new brush as I right Brax’s chair.

“He spent nearly a full span preparing that for her,” Lem says in an amused tone.  “For all the times he’s sneered at even the mention of Gryfala, I find that very interesting.”

I look down at the Gryfala thoughtfully.  She gives me a tiny smile and I return it before responding to Lem.  “As do I.”