“More than a life’s worth, if you know who to sell it to.” He meets my eyes, and for a second the mask drops, and there’s something behind it. Anger, yes, but also grief, naked and unpolished. “Maeve collected poisons the way other people collect friends. Or children.”
I pull the blanket tighter around me. “Maybe she had her reasons.”
He looks at me for a long moment, then stands abruptly and paces to the window. He stares out into the garden, where the snow is already erasing the tracks from yesterday.
“Do you know why you’re really here?” he asks, not turning.
I grip the arms of the chair until my knuckles ache. “To sign some papers. To box up the things no one else wants. To pay inheritance tax, I suppose.”
He laughs again, but this time there’s something almost wild in it.
“You think this is about paperwork?” He turns, and now he’s right up close, the fire catching the planes of his face, the sharp angle of jaw and cheekbone. “She called you back here for a reason, Nora. You’re not just a loose end. You’re the last thread holding this place together.”
The heat of the fire is suddenly oppressive. I stand, meaning to leave, but he blocks the way. We are nearly chest-to-chest, and for the first time I notice the scent of him: gin, smoke, and something far more enticing, a musky note.
He drops the book on the table, hard enough to make the glass jump. “What did she tell you?” he demands.
“Nothing,” I say, and it’s the truth. “She never told me anything. Not even why she stopped writing.”
His jaw clenches. “Of course she didn’t. She couldn’t even admit it to herself.”
The anger between us is physical now, thick as humidity, and I wonder, for a fleeting second, if he’s going to hit me, or kiss me, or both.
He steps closer, and I brace, but instead of violence, he just breathes. “You know what I think?” he whispers.
“I don’t care,” I whisper back, but my voice cracks on the last word.
He leans in, so close I can see the flecks of gold in the green of his eyes. “I think you’re afraid you’re exactly like her. That the house will eat you up and spit out whatever’s left.”
His breath is warm, and I realize I’m shaking—not from fear, but from something electric and unfamiliar.
He grins, slow and predatory. “You should be. It will, if you’re not careful.”
I move to the door, twisting the knob, but he’s right behind me, slamming it shut with one hand. The sound reverberates up my bones. He grabs my wrist, hard enough to bruise.
“Let me go,” I say, but it’s barely a whisper.
Instead, he traps me between the door and his body, the firelight flickering behind him. He touches my face, just under the scar, his thumb brushing the skin as if memorizing it for later.
“What spell did you cast to make her choose you?” he murmurs, lips so close I can feel the ghost of them.
My breath is jagged, and I hate that my first instinct is to lean closer, to close the infinitesimal gap. I want to break him, or be broken by him . . . or both at once.
He presses forward, pinning me to the wood. The pressure is not gentle, but not cruel, either—more like a dare than a threat. I realize, suddenly and with a sick, euphoric clarity, that I want him to touch me. That I want to claw at his perfect face, to leave marks that will rival the scar on my brow.
Instead, I push him, hard, and he lets me go. The sudden absence of his body is like stepping off a cliff.
I open the door and walk out, not looking back, my heart pounding like an alarm in my chest. The corridor is cold, and I welcome the chill, hoping it will banish whatever has gotten into me.
But the warmth lingers, under my skin, in the spot where his hand brushed my cheek. I make it halfway up the stairs before I realize I am smiling, feral and unhinged.
This house is going to ruin me, I think, and for the first time, the thought doesn’t feel like acurse.
By evening,the snow falls so heavily it blots out the world beyond the house. I pace the upper corridor, unable to sit, unable to read, unable to do anything except replay the morning’s confrontation in the library.
Every time I pass a window, I pause, pressing my fingers to the freezing pane and watching the wind convulse the hedges below. The dark outside is total; the only light is the yellowish flicker of the wall sconces, reflected in each piece of glass like the eye of some patient animal.
I stop at the end of the hall, forehead resting against a strip of cold stone between the window casements. My pulse hammers in my throat, and the skin of my face is still over-sensitized, as if the echo of his touch hasn’t faded. I try to will it away. I fail.
