Chapter 22: Ninety Days Are Up

On the second of March, Gethin cooked.

He did not cook. He heated things, and he was good at toast.

I came down from my room at six and found every pan he owned on the hob.

"What's this?" I said.

"A stew."

"You've never made a stew."

"I've been told it's a stew." He wiped his hands on a tea towel.

He looked at me too quickly.

"It's day ninety."

I stopped on the bottom stair.

I had known the date.

I had known it for a week.

He had never said it, not once, and neither had I.

"Sit down," Gethin said. "Please. I wrote this out and I've lost it."

I sat at the table, and he did not sit.

He stood on the far side with his hands on the back of a chair.

"Ninety days," he said. "No rent, no questions, and nobody rescues anybody. That was the rule."

"It was a good rule."

"It was a stupid rule. I broke it before the first night was over, and you threw it at me for three months."

"I did."

"I'd like to throw it away." He swallowed. "I'd like you to stay."

I didn't answer, and his colour went up.

"Not as the lodger," he said, in a rush. "You'd pay half the bills, because I know you'd want to.

"Your name goes on the door.

"The room upstairs stays yours, for your boxes. You could shout at me in either bedroom."

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