She was stalling. And you're acting, she thought as he wagged his finger at her. They both were. Pretending to be people they weren't anymore. Her eyes followed him to the candle, thinking this. Then she let out a long exhale through her nose and gave a small shrug.
"Well, it's the middle of the night, for one thing," she started. "I thought you'd be asleep as likely as not. And even if you weren't, I didn't think you'd be on the lookout." She didn't say anything about how the maids had flooded her with stories of Valerian and 'his bottle' or that she thought if he were awake, he might not be sober enough to make it up to the attic. Maybe their stories were overblown, she'd told herself. "But also... I didn't know if you'd want to come. After the other day.
She frowned, reality creeping into the attic. "I probably shouldn't have put it there at all. You know I'm, I mean, I'm not really a 'guest' here. It's too dangerous for you, if you were accused of trying to help me escape or something - Not that I'm trying to escape," she added quickly. Not right now, anyway. But Olive would be lying if she said she didn't long for the freedom of living in the wilds and across the countryside. She didn't miss lots of things, though: not having a safe place to turn, not having enough to eat. And in those years, she'd seen several men like Valerian: men the war had left too maimed to be 'useful.' But Valerian was lucky; those men didn't have wooden legs or regular employment or a home. They'd been left as wandering beggars, limping along with rough-fashioned sticks. The thought of the same thing happening to Vale turned her stomach cold and she suddenly wondered what she'd been thinking. It had been very selfish, to ask him to come up here. She looked back up at him then, her expression earnest instead of teasing; she wasn't play-acting her eighteen-year-old self anymore. "You can't risk losing your place here, Vale."
