To take my mind off the prospect of discovering more about my host, I decided to sort through my spelled bag, pulling together a basket of laundry I’d need to start. My mementos fell out alongside Nemo’s manila folder, the few tokens of my past tumbling to the floor.
Shoving my father’s letter back inside, I ran a thumb over the necklace once more. It was barely past dinner time, but I blamed my restlessness as I unclasped the necklace. The cool chain slithered against my skin, making the back of my neck prickle. Pressing the disk flat against my chest, I tried to ignore how right it felt—like a countdown I hadn’t agreed to.
Even after I’d thrown it back in his face, the engraving stuck in my brain. Grabbing my copy of Dante’s Inferno, I thumbed through the pages until I found my own messy sketch at the back, nestled between cramped handwriting.
I had drawn mine with the top of the hourglass still full, the sand spilling slow and reluctant into the bottom. The one etched into my necklace was different: the top empty, the bottom nearly full. For someone who went out of his way to make me comfortable, Grim certainly had a funny way of reminding me I was on borrowed time.
My eyes skimmed the messy notes I’d scrawled alongside the sketch, and a restless sort of idea took hold—something to keep my hands busy while the branches soaked.
"House..." I muttered, shaking my head. It was ridiculous, talking to walls. The place needed a name.
"Can you get me a blank notebook and a pen?"
I’d never had an interest in sharing my story with anyone before, and I didn’t much now. But once, I’d also been resolved to live forever.
Ishani had loved my stories. She had wanted to hear every detail, as if she could sense the parts of myself I always held back. Her encouragement gave me the strength to crack myself open, to let the words spill free as I penned my memories.
The truth was, I wouldn’t be around much longer. I’d bargained away my soul to break the curse, and while my motivation had faltered at first, it didn’t anymore.
I knew what I wanted now, and that was to leave something behind. Something real. Something of me—Astoria Devlin Tempest—that would last, even when I didn’t.
The notebook was half-full, and my hand throbbed. As I flipped through what I’d written, I could trace my emotion in each letter—my penmanship growing heavier handed when I recalled Beatrice’s death, and lighter when I remembered holding each of my children for the first time. The pages bled my heart. The ink gift-wrapped my memories.
But there was sorrow here too, woven between the lines of joy and triumph. My story might not have a happy ending, but evenI could agree that the most tragic stories held importance… and mine was no different.
“Astoria?” The door creaked open and Grim’s voice broke through the stillness. He stepped halfway into the room, dark hair tousled, his eyes catching on mine like a tether. There was something new in him tonight—a looseness in his shoulders, a kind of tentative warmth he almost never let show.
Grim pushed the door wider and crossed the threshold, leaning his tall frame casually against the side of the bedpost, not even pretending to look away. He wore his usual sweater, sleeves pushed carelessly over strong forearms, and pressed slacks that still somehow looked sinfully casual on him.
He looked well.
Better than well.
The sharp, cold edges of him seemed softer, his ashen skin touched with a little more life. No bruises. No marks. His gaze dropped to the notebook resting open in my lap, then lifted slowly back to my face.
"I didn’t know you enjoyed writing," he said, his voice quieter this time.
“I suppose I’ve had nothing to say.” I closed the notebook before he could pry further, pushing myself up from the bed. A rush of questions rose in me, ready to spill out all at once, but Grim beat me to it.
“I don’t suppose you have anything to say about the branches littering the bathroom?”
I grinned, mentally reminding myself to hold my cards close. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.” I wasn’t sure when he’d be back, but honestly, I hoped it wouldn’t be until I had a halfway decent basket to show off.
“Mhm…” Grim ran a hand through his hair, a smirk following the movement.
My heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t in a long time.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, pushing off the doorframe and retreating down the hall. His long strides made it hard to keep up as I scrambled from the bed to follow, the scent of curry wafting through the air. “I brought back some of my favorites. Hope you like coconut chicken and red curry.”
My stomach grumbled in response, utterly betraying me. I eyed the spread on the kitchen island and raised an eyebrow.
Grim gave me a half-smile, already scooping jasmine rice onto a floral-patterned plate. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“This is kind of odd,” I said, taking the plate from him, “but also... sweet?” I carried it to the table, where he’d already set out two glasses and a bottle of wine.
“Odd isn’t exactly what I was going for.”
The air shifted. He wasn’t just being polite. There was something buried in his tone, some thread of honesty that didn’t usually make it out into the open.
