Page 100 of Grim
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mayday.” I smirk beforeresting back against my seat and surveying the restaurant while we wait for her meal.
The inside of Simone’s feels less like a restaurant and more like a relic.
Candle sconces flicker against old brick walls, their flames casting soft gold light over velvet-backed chairs and dark wood floors that creak like they remember every footstep. The air is thick with garlic, bay leaves, and the weight of stories no one bothers to tell anymore.
Above us, iron chandeliers drip with fractured light while portraits of the long dead watch from the walls with eyes gone soft from age. No music plays. Just the gentle hum of voices and the low hiss of something sacred happening in the kitchen.
The scent of roux mingles with something sweeter—bourbon maybe. Even the quiet here feels intentional, like the building is listening.
And Rue—alive, luminous, entirely unaware—sits at the center of it like a flame at the heart of a candelabra.
“This place is so warm and inviting,” Rue says, glancing around with a soft smile.
“Timeless, I would say.”
“Yes!” she exclaims, and a couple at another table glance over. She grins sheepishly and buries her face back in her phone. “Timelessis a great word for it. I feel transported.”
“And now you see why the Sisters are so protective of their domains.”
She looks a touch confused. “Why?”
“Because time is a construct in many ways. A human invention to demarcate a type of travel we cannot always see. Oh, sure, we notice it in the wrinkles on our skin, the leaves on a tree, or the setting of the sun. But what is that? Movement, surely. But is it linear? Forward or backward only? Trees grow new leaves. The sun rises again the next day. Here anyway,” I add, thinking about the constantly waxing and waning OtherWorld moon.
She stares out the window, her voice soft as she speaks. “Well, I’m about to die, so I’d say time seems to be marching pretty far forward. A line that goes right off the end of a cliff.”
“Look around you again. The candles in the wallsconces, the lace in the curtains, the soft browns and dusty veneer. We are here now. In a place that exists in multiple times at once. Kinda takes the sting out of capital-T Time’s punch, wouldn’t you say?”
Rue’s eyes dance in the reflected light coming through the window. She answers with a beautiful smile.
“But shh,” I say while bringing my finger to my mouth. “Don’t tell the older sister. She gets veryupset when holes are poked in her symphony. She likes her sheet music to be read in order.”
The double doors to the kitchen swing open, drawing our attention to a boisterous Charles bringing over a steaming bowl of red stew.
“Bon appétit, ma chère,” Charles says, setting the dish in front of Rue.
“Hey, that’s my line. And I thought I liked you, Charles,” I state to the man who cannot hear me.
He waddles off, and I turn my attention to Rue, who’s absorbing the steam and rich, salty aroma of her lunch.
She lifts her fork and scoops a mound of amber-colored rice and broth, then spears a succulent piece of shrimp onto the end before lifting it to her delectable mouth. I watch her, enrapt, as the bite disappears into her mouth, and she moans. Her eyelids flutter closed as she chews softly, and her face morphs into a portrait of pleasure.
“Good?” I ask dryly.
“Sweet fuck, Kane. I feel like I’ve snorted a line directly from the heart of the ocean.”
“Disturbing metaphor, but based on the sounds escaping you, I’d venture to say it’s delicious.”
“It’s the best thing I’ve ever eaten. Ever. Not even close.” Rue purrs again as she scoops another forkful and devours it.
“Careful there, Mayday. Keep making those noises with that look in your eyes, and I’m liable to get insanely jealous of a stew.”
Before Rue can answer, we both look over to find a woman in a white dress and matching hat hovering next to the table. “How is everything?” she asks, her French-accented lilt warm and gentle as she smiles fondly at Rue. “You enjoying that étouffée?”
“I am. Thank you, ma’am,” Rue says, smiling at the middle-aged woman.
“Mon plaisir.I will have to let my husband, Jean, know. We do so love to hear our guests are having a nice time.”
“Please pass my compliments along to the chef.”
