It was a week since Rona provided me with the survival pouch, the conspiracy list, and the world's worst tea warning. In that week, I had:
Faked two fainting spells (training purposes).
Cross-checked every name on the "Wants You Dead" list with the estate staff (the stable boy looked suspiciously pleasant).
And religiously avoided drinking tea from anyone.
So when I heard soft, deliberate footfalls at the unholy hour of… late afternoon outside my room, I knew something was going to spoil my tranquility.
The door groaned open.
Enter: Lord Deadpan.
Clad in midnight-blue velvet and emotional suppression.
He entered the room as if he was paying a visit to a patient he didn't especially like—but felt compelled to go out of his way for so no one would be able to accuse him in court.
My lady," he stated, voice suave but cold, as if it had been ironed out.
"My lord," I retorted, theatrically placing a hand on my belly like the heroine of an opera tragic opera.
A thick, painfully awkward silence hung between us.
"So," I smiled as sweetly as arsenic, "did you visit to discuss our forthcoming child, or simply to gawk at me like I've defrauded the taxman?"
He tensed.
"I came," he said slowly, "to check that you're… well. And to talk about the future."
"Oh? Which bit?" I asked, sitting more upright. "The bit where I die? Or the bit where you give the kid your deceased ex's name?"
He blinked. That characteristic one-second lag that told me I had broken his brain again.
"I have no intention of naming the child after—"
"Oh, come on," I interrupted, gesturing with my hand. "Don't lie. You were going to title it 'Evangeline II: Sadder and Smaller.'"
His lip curled. It could've been a scowl. Or gas.
"I don't think mockery is an effective use of time, Alexandra."
"Then make me unproductive. It's the only thing I have left aside from ankles the size of turnips."
Another silence.
This one took five seconds.
And then, at last, he said something so stilted, so wooden, I almost gagged on my own laughter.
"I've… bought a bassinet."
I glared at him.
"You what?"
"A bassinet. For the baby." He shifted uncomfortably, looking away. "And a set of blankets. And a… rabbit plush. They recommended it."
A tiny, traitorous corner of me—the one that still possessed hormones and fuzzy recollections of soft things—almost went awww.
But I didn't.
I narrowed my eyes at him suspiciously. "Guilt shopping?"
"No," he replied stiffly. "Preparation."
"For raising the child without me?" I retorted.
His gaze snapped to mine then, hard and icy.
"You aren't going to die," he said bluntly. "If I can prevent it."
Oh?
Oh.
Was that. concern?
I blinked.
He blinked.
We blinked at one another like two befuddled owls.
Then, with no warning, he strode to the door.
"Well," I said, stunned. "That was. semi-affectionate.
He stopped at the door. "I'll send someone to put in the bassinet."
And thus the great emotional refrigerator departed the room.
I gazed at the closed door.
"…Does anyone else feel like I just got flirted with thru furniture?"