Page 61 of The Beast of Ashwood Manor

By now they knew that Gil and I were consorting behind closed doors. They knew it when Gil would go in early and come out late, and no doubt they knew it when he left early this morning. I hadn’t been able to wake up with him, but at least he’d stayed most of the night with me.

Whatever was happening between us had taken hold over me, and every time I thought of him, I couldn’t help but smile. He had to feel it, too. There was no denying it. Something within me cared deeply about him, and I wanted to know more. I wanted to knowhim.

So, when I met him in the library to go over my reading, I asked him, “Since I’m learning this so well, will you let me read some of your poems?” When he hesitated, I said, “Unless you don’t want me to. I understand.”

“It’s all right, Cale. I can go over a few and see if you like them.”

I smiled and handed him a piece of paper. “I wrote my own if you want to read it.”

Taking the paper, Gil looked down at it, his eyes roving the words, and I hoped they didn’t sound stupid to him.

I looked it over as he did, reading over the simple words that I melded with what we both came up with before when we went to the beach.

The sea is lovely

It soothes like rain

Waves wash over my heart

Soaking like a sponge

Out here, I am free

The wind is but a whisper

And the sea, though cold

Is a reminder that I am alive

Gil looked up, taking off his specs, and beamed. “I love it, Cale.”

“Yeah?” I bit my lip and looked down at it, happy that I had written anything at all.

“I think more than anything, I’m proud that you’re writing at all, after not knowing so much at first.” Gil kissed my temple, then sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Do you . . . want to come up to my room tonight?”

Blinking at him in surprise, I nodded.

We cleared away the books, and I went up with him to his tower, going around and around the spiral stairs until we got to the top. Inside, a low bed sat against the wall. Near the window sat a desk with a jar of ink and papers in a messy stack. On the walls were drawings of people, animals, and objects, like fruit.

“Did you draw these?” I asked.

“Yes,” Gil responded.

“They’re amazing. You’re very . . . imaginative? No, that’s not the word. You create well. I adore it.”

Gil smiled and looked down, where Dyna meowed up at him. He pushed the window open and let her outside, then he closed it behind her.

“Won’t she be cold?” I asked.

He made a face. “I don’t wantusto be cold.” He picked up some kindling and lit a fire in the hearth before stepping over and showing me a few of his poems.

I sat on the bed reading them while he had supper brought up to his room, marveling at his deep words—words I couldn’t understand at times and others I understood all too well.

We ate together on the bed, talking about parts of his poems that we liked, and I found myself falling into the words of loneliness he expressed.

“I wish to escape this hell, to taste the real world once again.” I read it over again slowly, liking the way it sounded.

I felt Gil’s lips press against my jaw, then again against my neck, and my focus broke. Putting the paper down on the end table, I faced him and pulled him against me. Our clothes were soon off, and as Gil lay on his back, I positioned myself on top of him, wanting to feel more of him this way.

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