Page 36 of Taming the Beast (Fairy Tales of New York)

“I imagine the display must be stunning.”

“It is.” When he wasn’t taking his shears to them like a madman.

“Why roses?”

“I like them. My mother liked them. Our house in London had a rose garden. She’d take cuttings from here and replant them over there. She spent a lot of time on them.”

“Ah,” said Mercy with a slow nod and a warmth that made her eyes shine and meant who knew what. “Well, after that,” she continued, “I took each storey as it came. Obviously your floor didn’t need much exploring and I didn’t go into the staff wing or Zel’s apartment, but the five storeys I have checked out are impressive.”

“They are.”

“Did you know Zel calls this the Madison Mausoleum?”

“It is pretty dark and gloomy.”

“Do you like it?”

He shrugged. “It’s home.”

But that wasn’t true, really, was it? He didn’t have a home. He never had had one. Various ambassadorial residences across Europe didn’t count. Nor did barracks and tents in godforsaken parts of the world. This place certainly wasn’t it, even though he’d been living here for years now. It was merely convenient. Citizens of the world, both he and Zel, and that had always been fine with him.

“So what’s down here?” she said, turning to the door to the basement which sent a stab of alarm shooting through him.

Too much. “Nothing.”

The look she shot him was assessing. Thoughtful. “What are you hiding down there, Seb? Bodies?”

No. Just his past. His hang-ups. His memories. Very much not for Mercy’s or anyone’s consumption. “I’m not hiding anything at all.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

The problem was him. And her. The problem was huge. “There’s no problem,” he said, because what else could he say?

She looked at him for a long moment, her eyes seeming to see far too much. “OK,” she said eventually, removing her hand from the door handle which should have made him relax, but didn’t. “If it’s that big a deal, forget it.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he heard himself say. “Go on down.”

And while one half of his brain was demanding to know what the hell he was doing the other was telling him that this – his hand on the handle, turning it, opening the door and drawing it back to expose his deepest fears to her – somehow, had been inevitable from the start.

*

Why had Seb not wanted her to come down here? Mercy wondered as she hit the lights, slipped down the steps and gazed in admiration at the sight before her eyes. Just as she’d suspected the cellar beneath the Madison townhouse was magnificent.

Brick walls stretched out in front of her, rising up to form an arched ceiling high above. The floor was stone, smooth and cool beneath her feet although dusty. Lining the walls were the racks that stood perhaps ten feet high and extended from where she stood right to the far end of the cellar and in between, halfway down was a round table, to be used, she supposed, for tastings.

Lovely space, lovely proportions, and above all, some seriously lovely wines.

“Wow, Seb,” she murmured, walking a little further into the cellar, her gaze roaming over the thousands of bottles laid on their sides, all dusty, clearly untouched for years. “This must be worth millions.”

She glanced back to see he’d folded his arms over his bare chest and his expression back to tonight’s default setting of grim neutrality. “Possibly.”

“Your collection?”

“My father’s.”

“How much of it have you drunk?”

“None.”

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