Page 84 of Beyond the Cottage

The shadows in Ansel’s mind returned, gray instead of black today. Which meant a cycle of depression was creeping in, promising welcome numbness.

The parlor door opened, and Philip entered. He strode to his chamber without acknowledging Ansel.

Depression stepped aside for aggression.

Ansel blocked Philip’s way, and the fucker paused, his invisible stare radiating from the red hood. When he tried skirting around, Ansel stopped him with a palm to the chest.

Philip’s shrouded head tipped to Ansel’s hand. “What’s this supposed to be?”

“A warning. I don’t care for the way you speak to Gretta. If I hear you’ve insulted her again, I’ll break your fucking face.”

“Interesting… Has the gaoler developed tender feelings for his captive?”

“Tell me you understand.” Silence greeted Ansel. He grabbed a fistful of cloak, getting in close. “Maybe I’ll do it now to be certain I’ve convinced you. I don’t see your knife today.” He jerked the fabric, and the hood slipped off.

Ansel inhaled, stepping back as he stared in horrified awe.

Three livid scars slashed one side of Philip’s face. Their ragged edges started deep in his hairline and ended at his jaw. The flesh between them was the color of a dead fish’s belly, and the eye on that side had a milky blue film over the pupil. It was all the more grotesque for the unmarred perfection of the other half.

Philip’s good eye was a startling, icy green, and he had pointed ears. Ansel didn’t recognize his species, but it wasn’t human.

Laughing bitterly, Philip replaced the hood. “As you can see, threats to my face don’t frighten me much.”

“All the same, I want to hear you say you understand me.”

“Whatever ends this conversation.I understand.”

Ansel released him. An odd sort of courtesy kept him from peering into the hood’s shadows.

“You know,” Philip drawled, “I think I’m pleased she talked us out of giving you to the cops. Watching her turn your heart into ground meat will be far more entertaining.”

Gretta emerged from the bathroom in a humid, strawberry-lemon fog. She sized up the pair of them before snagging her boots on her way to a chair.

Philip returned to his chamber. Since Ansel had nowhere else to go, he snatched his book off a table and put on his spectacles. His eyes flicked across the page.

“Your book’s upside down,” Gretta said.

Jaw rigid, he righted it.

A long silence, then her palms rasped over her thighs as she sighed. “I want to say something.”

“No need.”

“I was hungover and embarrassed. It’s not the best combination for me.”

He nodded absently, skimming an essay on the molecular structure of camphor oil. The repellent had an alcohol base, but he’d been considering alternative methods of application.

“Are you listening to me?”

“Of course.” He jotted a note in the margin.

“Will you please look at me, then?”

He lowered the book with his brow raised.

Face flushed, she opened her mouth. Then closed it.

“What, Gretta?”

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