“I know. Take them anyway.”
I wonder what he thinks when he looks at me. If he sees a burden. A stray. A problem he hasn’t figured out how to solve. Or if, beneath that unreadable expression, he’s simply deciding how he’ll kill me when the time finally comes. I wonder if he’s imagined it already. Planned every detail. Chosen theplace. The weapon. Whether he’ll look me in the eyes when he does it.
Maybe that’s why he’s being kind. To make the ending easier. Isn’t that what predators do? They wait. They watch. They learn exactly where to sink their teeth.
I step forward, reaching out to take the clothes from him, then hold the bundle against my chest. I should refuse them. Keep my distance. I’m sure the men will smell them on me. Perhaps I won’t ever see those men again. Maybe this is finally it for me. The fabric is heavier than I expected. Cleaner. It smells faintly of him and clean laundry soap instead of mildew, smoke and damp earth. I run my hand over the sleeve before I can stop myself, startled by how soft it feels beneath my calloused fingertips. I’d forgotten clothes were supposed to feel like this. Comfortable. Whole. Meant to be worn instead of endured. No one has given me something simply because I needed it, and I don’t know if I should treasure it, or be afraid of it. But for one selfish, dangerous moment…I let myself want something as ordinary as being warm, and give Death a quiet, soft smile.
“I’ll show you where the bathroom is,” he says, and I watch in disbelief as he turns and makes his way down the dimly lit hallway. Bathroom. Not washroom. Not bucket. Not cold water dragged from theold well outside. I follow him down a narrow hallway lined with dark timber and old framed photographs that I try not to stare at too obviously, though my eyes keep catching on them anyway. A woman standing in front of a rose garden. A little girl with serious eyes holding a pile of books that look far too heavy for her to carry. A boy with dark hair and a smile that looks nothing like the man walking in front of me, but does at the same time. I wonder if Death was a child once. If he scraped his knees. If someone told him to come inside before the dark swallowed him whole. If he ever believed monsters lived beneath beds before becoming a monster himself. Or becoming what monsters feared.
He stands before a room with a door at the end of the hall, and steps aside. Steam curls faintly from the clawfoot bathtub already filling beneath a brass tap, the water catching the dim yellow light like melted gold. I stand in the doorway with his clothes, unable to move for several seconds because the room is too clean for a woman like me.
“Everything you need is in here. Towels…” He gestures to the folded towels set out on the stool beside the bathtub, even though he’d already handed me one. “...Shampoo. Soap. The water runs hot so check that it’s safe before diving in there.”
I look at the tub, then at him.
“You’re leaving?”
His jaw tightens as though the question has struck something it wasn’t meant to touch.
“Yes.”
“Oh.”
I don’t know why the answer makes my fingers tighten around the soft fabric I’m holding. I don’t know why I wait for the catch. For the laugh. The shove. The hand on the back of my neck. The reminder that doors and privacy are not for me. But none of it comes. He simply stands there, one hand resting against the doorframe, watching me with an expression that gives nothing away except the terrible feeling that he’s trying very hard not to look at all the places my dress has failed to hide caused by the life I crawled out of.
“I’ll be out there if you need anything. Take your time.”
My throat grows tight around words I don’t know how to use, and without another word, he turns and leaves the room, closing the door with a soft click behind him. I stare at it for a moment, confused by his kindness, then take the first real bath I’ve had in over four years.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
WINTER
The water had long since gone cold. I hadn’t noticed. I stand slowly, every muscle protesting as I step out of the bathtub. Water streams from my skin in steady rivulets, disappearing into the drain along with dirt I’d carried for the longest time. The water left behind is a dark shade of brown, and I simply stare at it. Humiliated. I hadn’t realized there was so much of them left on me. Smoke. Ash. Blood.
Their touch.
Years of scrubbing floors until my hands split open, years of hauling water from frozen wells and sleeping beneath threadbare blankets that never kept out the cold. Years of believing no amount of washing could ever make me clean again. The water says otherwise. I wrap the soft towel around myself with hesitant hands. It’s thick enough that it actually dries my skin instead of pushing water from one place to another. It all feels…extravagant. Purple blooms across my ribs and shoulders, yellowing fingerprints stain my arms, and angry scars weave themselves over my pale skin like someone tried to use me as a butcherblock. I reach up, combing trembling fingers through my wet hair. It slips between them. Clean.
I close my eyes. I’d forgotten what it felt like. The clothes Death left for me rest neatly on the stool where I placed them. I hesitate before reaching for them, afraid they’ll somehow disappear the second I reach for them. Afraid this is all some cruel dream I’ll wake from the moment the fabric meets my skin. Slowly, I pull the oversized shirt over my head. It smells like warmth. Like this house. Like him. The shirt falls almost to my knees, swallowing my frame beneath soft cotton that hangs too large for me. The sleeves drape over my hands until I push them back, staring down at myself in quiet disbelief. I’ve never worn clothes that belonged to someone else before. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me blush a little.
I fold my dress carefully, despite every stain that mars the lace. It’s all I have to leave this house in, and I’ll be dead before I reach the boundary to the farm if they saw me in anything else. I leave it resting on the stool beside the empty bath before reaching for the doorknob.
The hallway beyond is quiet, and I hesitate before stepping into it. The polished timber creaks beneath my bare feet, each sound making my pulse jump. I half expect someone to shout. To demand or explain why I’d taken so long. Instead, the house answers with only a distant groan of old wood settling around me.My fingertips trail along the smooth wall as I walk. Everything here feels lived in, but not. Not perfect. But loved.
My feet carry me farther before I realize I’m wandering. Curiosity has always been dangerous. I should stay downstairs. I know I should. Instead, I find myself climbing the staircase one cautious step at a time. The second floor is darker, every door stands closed except for one. A thin stop of golden light spills across the timber floorboards. I don’t mean to look. I only mean to pass by. But the faint rush of running water draws my attention, and before I can stop myself, my eyes drift toward the opening. Death stands with his back to the doorway beneath the stream of water. Broad shoulders. Dark ink on damp skin before vanishing around muscle I have no business noticing. Water trails over the drawings covering his back, tracing each line before slipping lower into a curtain of steam.
I forget how to breathe.
Heat courses through my body, settling somewhere low in the pit of my stomach, unfamiliar, before spreading through everywhere else so suddenly it steals every coherent thought from my mind. As though sensing me, he stills. Then he turns his head. Our eyes meet through the drifting steam and my heart lurches violently against my ribcage.Oh my goodness.
I stumble backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. Mortification burns hotter than the bath I just had as I hurry down the staircase, one hand gripping the banister to stop myself from falling.
Fool.
Fool.
Fool!
