Page 3 of King Among the Dead

Beck made tea: a quiet, comfortable sort of bustling about. And it was only when he slid a chipped blue mug across the island to her that she realized she was standing mute in the center of the room, fingers knotted together, wondering if she ought to be frightened, or give in to the greater, stranger urge to feel comforted by these circumstances, and the company in which she’d found herself – quite suddenly and impossibly.

She stepped forward, and took the cup in both hands, savoring the warmth that seeped through the porcelain. “Thank you.” She didn’t just mean about the tea.

Beck dipped his head in a deep nod, and she thought he understood. “So. Rose.” He poured himself a cup and added several spoonfuls of sugar from the bowl. “How long were you with Tabby?”

The tea was earthy, and almost too sweet, and wonderful. “Four years.”

“And how many years has it been since you aged out of the system?” When her brows went up, he said, “I have a sense for these things.”

“A year.”

He nodded. “Well, then. You’re a free woman. Free to go wherever you want, and do whatever you’d like.”

She’d never considered such a thing. It terrified her, honestly.

Warmth touched her hand, and she realized she was trembling so badly that she’d slopped tea out of her mug. She set it down with a harsh breath.

“That’s a lot to realize all at once,” he said, voice still low, silky, soothing. “You don’t have to make any decisions yet. I have spare rooms.”

“Oh.” Her pulse gave a hard little bump. “Oh, well, I don’t want to bother you.”

He met her gaze, and again his arrested her. Deep-set eyes, clear, and so very alive. They fairly sparked, though his posture spoke of calm rationale. “It’s no bother. I have the room. And company is nice.” He paused. “The right sort of company.”

Rose thought of Miss Tabitha’s blood. Its path across the table, and down the front of the rumpled old dress. It still freckled Beck’s nose and cheeks; small, dark dots like true freckles in the low light.

Thought of the still-healing welts on her own back. Of the bruised fingers. Of the hours spent in that pie safe – overnight, once, hours and hours, until she’d grown so frightened she beat against the walls of it and a staggering, sour-breathed Miss Tabitha finally unlocked it.

She took a steadying breath and reached for her tea again. “I think so, too.”

He smiled, then, flashing canines sharp as fangs. “It’s nice that we agree.”

~*~

When her stomach rumbled, he pulled the makings of sandwiches from the fridge: thin, marbled ham, and swiss cheese, and thick, salty pickle wedges, all on seed-topped bread that he said he’d made himself. Rose offered to help, but he waved her off, and shewastrembling with leftover nerves. She climbed onto a stool at the counter and watched him work; his long, golden fingers moving deftly as he assembled sandwiches, slicing them both on the bias with a flourish that twirled the knife in his hand.

A clean, bright knife, winking in the lamplight.

“What did you use?” she asked, when curiosity proved too strong.

He slid a plate in front of her with tawny brows lifted in question. Thunder rumbled outside, the low, faraway kind that had become nearly constant. The occasional flash lit up the mullioned windows.

“On Miss Tabitha,” she clarified. She didn’t want to saywhen you killed her.

He nodded, though, understanding. “A knife.” He lifted one arm, and flexed it, and the blade slid out from a holster hidden inside his sleeve. A long, slender, clean-edged thing with a carved handle that made her think, oddly, of him. His honey-brown hair and his sharp, clean lines. The blade was already clean, gleaming before he retracted it. “You have to take proper care of your tools,” he said, and picked up his sandwich.

She picked hers up, too. The first bite was all salt-sharp-vinegar, delicious. All she’d had for three days was a bite of stale bread and milk, and she knew she couldn’t eat this delicately, elegantly. Knew she would shame herself in front of his strange and delicate, elegant man.

But he smiled at her as she ate, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Eat up,” he said, between his own bites. “There’s plenty more.”

~*~

When her belly was full, and the tea was gone, she helped Beck with the dishes. He washed and she dried; white and blue china printed with flowers, and horses, and carriages. They went in the rack, and then he turned out the lights, ignited a small oil lamp, and lead her back down the hall and up the stairs.

The light flickered and swelled as they ascended, up two switchback landings, and she glimpsed the gilt frames of old oil portraits: men and women with stern expressions, severe clothes, and hands folded in their laps. She didn’t have time to stop and study them, but she recognized Beck’s cheekbones in several, those honey-colored eyes; a mysterious set to the lips that was neither smirk nor smile.

He led her down a long, carpeted hall, and through a heavy, solid wood door, into a room that smelled cool and dusty – but, like the rest of the house, not unclean. Nothing like Miss Tabitha’s, with its mold and boiled cabbage.

She lingered in the doorway, though, until he’d clicked on the bedside lamp. Revealed a curtained window, and a four-poster bed with a blue velvet coverlet. An ornate dressing table with a flaking mirror. All of it old and lovely.

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