Page 12 of Monster Among the Roses (Fairy Tale Quartet 1)

“Hey, you made it out of the rose garden alive,” Creepy Kid cheered as he lifted his face from the show he was watching. He smiled, revealing a gap in his top teeth.

“Kit, you’ve met this man before?” the cook asked, startled.

“We met outside,” I answered for the boy. “He showed me how to get to the conservatory.”

“This is Mr. Hollander,” Constance told the cook, whose mouth fell open.

I gave another lame wave. “Or you can just call me Shaw.”

“This is Mrs. Pan, the cook,” Constance introduced before motioning to the boy. “And her son, Kit.”

I smiled to both. “Nice to meet you.”

The cook and her son stared at me as if I were an alien being who’d been beamed down through the ceiling.

Clearing my throat, I shifted a step in reverse. “So, uh, I was just curious if anyone knew how to get to the library.”

“Yes, of course.” Constance bounded forward. “I’ll show you.” She darted past me, her face flushing red.

I waved a goodbye to Mrs. Pan and Kit before hurrying after the housekeeper. “I hear there’s a theater somewhere in here, too,” I added, sidling in beside her.

She nodded. “On the second level, sure.”

Mimicking her serious nod, I bobbed my own head. Second level. Good to know. “So am I really the first handyman Mr. Nash’s ever hired?”

Constance began to cough and her face morphed into a purplish hue. I wasn’t sure if she felt embarrassed for being caught talking about me, or if she was genuinely choking on something. It seemed pretty genuine to me.

I began to panic a little. “Are you okay?”

Her head jerked up and down. “Yes. Fine. Uh, sorry, there…there’s the library, just there, straight ahead down that hall.” She pointed, already backing away from me. And then she was shifting around and taking off in the opposite direction.

“Okay. Thank you,” I called after her. Then I sighed and faced the end of the hall. I guessed I was on my own from here on out.

An ornate set of double doors, one of them propped open, stood before me, almost inviting me to come closer while at the same time warning me away. I went closer, but with each step, my pace grew slower until I was practically a sloth by the time I reached the library’s entrance.

Holding my breath, I peered inside.

And there she was: Isobel Nash, Kit’s monster among the roses.

I watched her from the doorway as she lay on a sofa, her stockinged feet kicked up on one end with her legs crossed at the ankles and head propped on the opposite armrest while she read from an e-reader.

I wondered if it were possible for someone to irritate you as much as they intrigued you because that’s exactly what she did for me. I didn’t like her, or at least I didn’t want to like someone so testy and degrading, except I kind of craved more encounters with her. There was an exhilarating addictiveness about her presence. Maybe that made me messed up. I’d never thought of myself as masochistic before, but butting heads with her had been electric. She was a worthy opponent.

Then again, when she didn’t know anyone was watching her, she didn’t come across as such a harsh, heartless woman, and I still felt the pull. I wanted to get closer, peel away layers and learn more about her, see what made her her. So maybe it wasn’t only her antagonistic side that drew me. Maybe it was just her.

I remembered what her father had told me about how isolated she’d become, except she didn’t appear lonely or miserable at the moment. She seemed quite comfortable and content to bury herself in her story. I actually envied her that and could picture myself stretching out next to her or curling around her to read the words on her screen over her shoulder. Spending my days lazing on a sofa and reading would be a dream come true, especially with someone who smelled like roses tucked on a couch with me.

Not that I should let my mind wander into that territory. I was supposed to talk to her, just talk. Engage the mind, not the body.

Oh, but that body—

Down, boy.

Forcing myself back to the task at hand, I glanced around the room and decided I’d turn hermit too if I had this in my house, because finally, I’d found a room that didn’t look bare.

The shelves were crammed with books, overflowing really. Many were stacked on the floor with no other place to go. The place was dim; the two floor-to-ceiling windows it housed didn’t let much light in. And the dark walls with a limited amount of hanging lamps didn’t brighten things either. If this were my library, I’d lighten the color of the walls, install some more overheads and then build more shelves for all the books.

But first, I’d clean the grimy windows.

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