He’d lit several lamps scattered around the room, and in the golden glow of their flames Emeline saw the shelves were crammed full of books.
Hundreds of books.
Sorted alphabetically, by author.
Drawn to them, Emeline lifted her fingers, reading the worn spines. Her fingertips swept across the works of Rumi, Christina Rossetti, and W. H. Auden. She foundAntigoneandThe Iliad. MeditationsandWar and Peace. East of EdenandIf Beale Street Could Talk.
On one shelf was an entire row of books with blank, smudged spines.Sketchbooks?It made her think of the graphite she’d seen on his fingers yesterday.
She turned to look at Hawthorne, who crouched before the hearth, blowing into the flames, trying to make them catch. His gray wool shirt stretched tight across his back, revealing the wings of his shoulder blades beneath.
He seemed so human, here in his house.
On either side of him, two moss-green armchairs faced each other, with more books stacked on the tables beside them.Above, a vivid painting hung over the fireplace. Inside its frame, a woman was transforming into a tree.
The lower half of her body was bark and roots, plunging into soil, while her waist and chest arched upwards and her outstretched hands reached for the sky. The nymph’s dark hair was a knotted mass of branches around her head, sprouting bright green leaves.
It was the myth of Daphne—the nymph who begged the river god to save her from Apollo and was turned into a laurel tree.
“It must be a terrible thing to lose,” Hawthorne said, making her jump.
He looked up from where he crouched near the fire: to the woman in the frame. His left forearm was streaked with black ash.
“What’s a terrible thing to lose?”
Hawthorne’s eyes glittered as he studied the nymph. “Your humanity.”
“But it was her choice,” said Emeline, feeling defensive of Daphne. If the river god hadn’t turned her into a laurel, she would have fallen prey to Apollo. “She asked to be saved.”
Firelight flickered over Hawthorne’s face as his gray-eyed gaze caught hers and held it.
“Saved,” he murmured, considering this. “Is that really what the river god did? As a tree, her life is forfeit. She’ll never be human again. She’ll never laugh or sing, ponder or love, again. Don’t you think she would have preferred the river god defeat Apollo, or at the very least warn him away, instead of taking something so precious from her?”
Emeline stared at him, wordless. His attention was intent on her, as if willing her to hear something he wasn’t saying. As if he was no longer talking about Daphne, but something—or someone—else.
Her skin prickled as she tore her gaze away from him. “At least she’s safe. As a tree, nothing can hurt her.”
Hawthorne said nothing.
In the kitchen, Emeline shook off their strange conversation and insisted on doing her part. A plan was forming in her mind. Here, in his home, Hawthorne seemed … softer. More at ease. If she, too, lowered her defenses, if she proved herself friendly and helpful, she could try asking again about the message to Joel. She could explain why her career depended on it. Maybe he’d be more understanding this time.
Hawthorne passed her a wooden cutting board and two white onions for chopping.
She sliced herself almost immediately.
“Damn it.”
Bright red blood seeped up from the cut on her index finger. Hawthorne glanced up from where he stood roasting tomatoes on the woodstove.
“I should have warned you.” He came towards her. “Sable’s blades can sever fingers in one stroke. Let me see.”
Emeline contemplated the knife gleaming on the wooden countertop. It was a beautiful blade, with a razor-thin edge and an elegant rose pattern carved into the ebony handle.
“Sable made that?”
She remembered the way Sable rose to Hawthorne’s defense at dinner last night.They must be friends.
Hawthorne arrived at her side just as Emeline hooked the tip of her finger into her mouth, sucking gently to stop the blood flow. The taste of salt bloomed on her tongue.
