Page 50 of King Among the Dead

“You’re welcome,” Kay said, easily, “but don’t think you’re getting out of laundry duty just because it’s your birthday.”

Beck groaned.

Rose grinned, giddy inside, high on sugar – and joy.

~*~

“I know better than to ask,” Kay said, already grinning wryly as they finished washing up after dinner. It had been steaks and broccoli, and Beck had produced a chocolate, raspberry cheesecake from the back of the fridge, decorated with dark chocolate curls and fresh raspberries. There had been more candles, and Kay and Beck had sung, and Rose was honestly proud she hadn’t cried again. “But there’s aRockymarathon on tonight, if you’re interested.”

She knew that it would be a kindness to spend more evenings in Kay’s room watching TV and keeping her company. Despite her dismissive remarks and nonchalance, she knew Kay got lonely up there on the third floor, more so now that Beck and Rose had grown closer over training and lessons.

But it was her birthday, and her mouth still tasted of chocolate and the glass of champagne Beck had poured her, and she wanted to be selfish tonight. She made a face. “I would, but I have all these new books…”

Kay chuckled, unbothered. “I figured as much. Go enjoy.”

“There’s plenty if you’d like to read, too.”

“Oh, honey, no. My eyesight’s so bad these days that it gives me a headache after ten minutes.” To Rose’s surprise, she reached out and hugged her. “Happy birthday, kiddo. Here’s to many more.”

“Thank you, Kay.”

Rose checked the back door, flipped off the lights, and toted her box of new books to the library.

Which was inhabited.

Only half the lamps burned, and a fire roared in the hearth, its heat pressing back the chill of the late-autumn evening which had wormed its way through window sashes and under doors. Beck sat in his usual chair, legs crossed, a glass of whiskey glowing in one hand. He stared at the flames, sharp profile gilded, hair soft on his shoulders. Beautiful as a portrait, and the sight of him brought her up short; she took a moment to stare openly, to appreciate the sight of him – and to ache with suppressed longing.

He turned to face her, and the ache became a sharp pain, right under her ribs.

He looked at her a moment, and sipped his whiskey. She wanted to ask why he was drinking – he hadn’t been out hunting. Hadn’t bloodied his knife and his knuckles tonight. Hadn’t done anything to get his blood up. But he brought the glass to his lips again, and again, firelight turning his eyes gold. He wrestled with something, she knew, but couldn’t guess what.

Finally, he set the glass aside, and unfolded himself gracefully from his chair. Crossed to the table where they studied and beckoned her to join him with a quick flicker of his fingers.

She went to stand beside him, and found that the table had been cleared of books, a black velvet drape spread out in their place. She set her own books down in the seat of a chair and wiped suddenly damp palms down the legs of her jeans. “What is it?”

“A birthday present. One just from me.” He took one corner of the cloth in his hand, and folded it all the way back.

Firelight rippled on steel. Knives. An array of them, slender stilettos, and hooked utility knives; a switchblade, half-folded out, and a hip knife with a jagged, glinting serrated edge that could saw through rope as well as it cut through flesh. She counted twelve; the tiniest was no longer than her finger, a little stabber to fit in a boot, or a sleeve. The hip knife was big enough that it would slap at her thigh as she walked; big enough to wear on her back, between her shoulder blades. All had handles of smooth, beautiful striated wood inlaid with white metal. Carved with…

Beck placed one in her hands, a wicked, sleek blade made for stabbing, and she saw that the hilt was engraved with a small, simple flower. A rose.

She traced it with her fingertip, shocked speechless.

When Beck spoke, it was in a low murmur, voice uncharacteristically rough – uncertain. “I had them commissioned. There’s a craftsman – very discreet. Trustworthy. He takes the cash and doesn’t ask any questions.” She heard him swallow, as she turned the knife over slowly in her hand, sliding her fingers down the cool, glass-slick flat of the blade. “I thought – I thought that having your own would be – and I had the hilts made to fit your hands. It won’t be exact, obviously, because I didn’t have your hand there with me, but I’ve measured it against my own, and–”

She looked up at him, and he cut off, lips pressing thin, eyes large and full of doubt. He’d worried about this, and that knowledge touched her, warmed her.

He wouldn’t meet her gaze. “The roses are just a bit of whimsy. I thought you might…”

It was a revelation, seeing him like this, awkward and fumbling and blushing. He would have blamed it on the whiskey or the heat of the fire, but she knew the color on his cheeks was about this gift, and her reaction to it.

He cleared his throat. “Do you like them?”

“They’rebeautiful.”

His head turned, finally. Expression still guarded.

“Beck, Ilovethem.” She cradled the knife to her chest, carefully. “How could you even worry?”

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