Page 77 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

My mouth fell open. I started to shake my head, except I really couldn’t deny it. It made sense. Except…why? Why would he help me? I wasn’t—

“He was going to help someone anyway,” Isobel murmured, answering my unspoken question. “I guess he saw something in you he thought needed it most.”

I gulped, not sure how to deal with this honor but also growing more determined than ever to prove myself worthy of it. “Wow,” was all I could manage to murmur.

Fully dressed, Isobel approached me and took my hand before going up on her toes to kiss my cheek. “Come on. Let me show you everything.”

Half an hour later, I was even more staggered by Porter Hall than when I’d initially laid eyes on the place. Turned out, the cherub statue that had nearly impaled me that first day had once sat in a garden in Rome. And the fountain in the foyer had belonged in a spa house in ancient Bath, England.

I soaked in every word Isobel said as she showed me around, telling me who’d painted which portrait and from which exotic location they’d purchased each rug. Even the crown molding in one room had been removed from the home of some Russian monarch.

“And this,” she said, leading me into a new room where the only centerpiece seemed to be a rickety, ancient school desk-looking thing covered in peeling green paint, “…is Henry David Thoreau’s writing table. He’s Dad’s favorite philosopher. So he was excited to purchase it from the Pratchett Museum to keep them from going out of business when they had some trouble with funding. He only paid eight thousand for it.”

I shook my head as I gave a low whistle. “That is so crazy. I can’t believe one dinky, ugly little table could be worth so much. Looks as if a stiff breeze could blow it to pieces.”

“Meh. It’s sturdier than it looks.” She grabbed it by both sides and gave it a healthy shake. When my eyes bulged from my head and I swear my heart tried to pound its way out of my chest over her rough treatment, she laughed. “Oh my God. The look on your face when I did that was priceless.”

“Yeah,” I wheezed from winded lungs. “About as priceless as the table you just tried to shake apart.” Turning away from her, I wandered around, studying the pictures on the wall, most of them photographs of Henry David Thoreau or facts about him.

“God, this place is amazing,” I murmured, running my finger over a framed biography. “All the history, the stories, the different cultures. When I first came here, I thought all this gaudy shit was just a rich-people thing. But to learn the meaning behind each item…” I shook my head in awe as I gazed in wonder toward Isobel.

She wrinkled her nose. “A rich-people thing?”

I swallowed. Shit. I hadn’t meant to insult her.

“Yeah, you know…” I shrugged, only to realize, nah, she really didn’t know. Flushing, I sent her a wince. “It’s hard to describe the jealousy and declining self-worth a guy like me feels when he enters a house this…” I spread my arms to encompass the room, not sure how to properly define it. “This grand.”

Seemingly unoffended by my try at explaining myself, Isobel faced me seriously, before she leaned against Thoreau’s desk. “If you could decide between being poor but beautiful and popular and loved by everyone, or rich beyond your wildest imagination but so hideously disfigured to the point no one wanted anything to do with you, which would you choose?”

I stepped toward her and set my hand on her waist before murmuring, “We make ourselves rich by making our wants few.”

Her lips parted as if that was the most profound thing she’d ever heard. And it might’ve been, since it had originally come from the lips of Henry David Thoreau. Which was why I couldn’t continue to take credit for it.

I pointed past her toward the wall with my free hand. “At least that’s what Thoreau says.” She glanced back to find the quote printed and framed above the desk.

“Oh.” Scowling, she whirled back to poke me in the gut. “You cheated. That’s a cheater’s answer.”

I laughed and leaned in to kiss her temple. “Then I’d choose whatever option brings me back to you each day. Rich or poor, I don’t care. I just want you.”

The breath rushed from her lungs. Lifting her fingers, she drew a piece of my hair between her fingers and gently brushed it out of my face, whispering, “I like that choice. Even if it’s a cheesy line you just came up with.”

“I like you. And it wasn’t just a line.” Setting my other hand on her waist so I could grip her and pick her up, I scooted her further onto the desk until she was sitting on it fully and I was nudging my hips between her thighs. “Is it bad that I want to take you right here on Thoreau’s table?”

“No, but that might be a little more of a workout than it could survive.”

I sent her a wolfish grin. “Hell yes, it would.”

She laughed and gave my chest a little nudge to get me to back up. “I know a better place we could go.”

“Oh yeah?” I backed away, letting her hop off the table and take my hand before she led me to a closed door. Opening it, she stepped inside, bringing me with her. But I barely cleared the entrance before I halted abruptly, my mouth falling open…again, for probably the twentieth time today.

“Holy shit. Is this…?” I turned to raise my eyebrows at Isobel.

She nodded. “A recreation of van Gogh’s bedroom? Yes, it is.”

“Wow.” I reverently stepped deeper into the room, gaping at the red blanket and white pillows and high footboard on the bed to match the one in the famous van Gogh painting of his bedroom. The chairs, side table, and the window looked exactly as they should. I swear, even the vases on the table and clothes hanging from hooks on the wall were spot-on. The color of the walls, floors, and doors had me shaking my head in awe. It was as if I’d just stepped into the painting itself.

I wandered deeper into the room, pausing in front of one of the van Gogh art prints on the wall, where I let out a low, impressed whistle. “I wonder how much all this cost,” I said without thinking.

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