Page 16 of King Among the Dead

She watched him take his first drag, the way his cheeks sucked in, the way his jaw flexed when he exhaled. She’d never wanted to sit and watch anyone smoke before. It had always repelled her, in fact. But with Beck, she found herself transfixed – so much so she missed the question he asked her.

“I’m sorry?”

“How far along in the book are you?” He gestured toward it with the end of his cigarette.

She glanced down at the leather cover to keep from staring at him any longer. Smoothed her hand across the cover – and returned to the moors. To Jane and her grief. The lightning-struck chestnut tree and the wife in the attic.

“I love it,” she said, “even if it’s making me sad right now.”

He chuckled, and she glanced up again. He had the rim of his glass to his lips, eyes dancing above it. “I find that’s always true of the best books. The sweet parts are always sweeter if it’s hurt a little along the way.”

She smiled, and knew it was wistful. “That’s true of books, anyway.”

He nodded and lowered his glass, growing somber. “It’s certainly more palatable in a book. It can be difficult to be hopeful about real life.”

“Yeah.”

“But.” He sucked down the last of his cigarette and flicked it expertly into the fire. Dropped his boot to the carpet and sat forward, elbows on his knee. He was looser, now, his body relaxed, and it was a kindly sort of earnestness pouring off of him now, and not whatever he’d brought into the room with him at first. “That doesn’t mean youshouldn’tstill hope, Rose. At least a little, even if it’s only for small things.”

Simple words, but they carried weight. Dropped heavily into the space that separated them.

She nodded.

The fire crackled.

Beck sat back, less earnest. Inquisitive, she decided, brows lifting. “What do you think of Rochester?”

She hesitated, tongue pressed to her lip, wanting to phrase it in a way that would sound meaningful, and not young and hormonal.

He took her hesitation for answer, though, chuckling. “I can see you don’tdislike him.”

“Well. No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s just the fire.”

He smiled – wider than usual, wide like right after he’d killed Tabitha. When he’d cut her loose from the cabinet and first found her. Teeth glinting in the firelight, eyes shiny from the whiskey – gone now, she saw, as he ran a fingertip around the rim of the glass.

“You can pretend if you want to,” he said, “but you don’t have to. I won’t ever think less of you.”

She wondered if they were still talking about blushing.

“Don’t you find it surprising that Jane fell in love with Rochester?” He sounded genuinely curious, and not as though he were laying a trap. It wasn’t a challenge, not like Claire’s opinions had been. “They’re so very different, after all.”

“I don’t think they’re that different at all.”

“Really?”

“Everyone thinks Jane’s meek, but she’s just quiet. Careful isn’t the same as afraid. She’s smart. And – and a person can’t help trembling, sometimes. It happens whether we want it to or not.”

He pressed the tip of his tongue to his top lip and stared at her fixedly, listening, really listening.

“And Rochester is gruff and impolite – but it’s to cover up that he’s awkward. He feels a great deal more than he says, but he isn’t very good at putting any of it into words. Really, he’s meeker than Jane, with his secrets, refusing to allow himself to…”

“To what?”

“Love her.”

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