Page 41 of A Taste for the Peculiar

“You don’t have to hide,” he murmurs. “Your true nature is not a blemish. No one here will look at you any differently. You do not have to bear it alone.”

She wants to believe it, but she remembers what happened after the kiss. The closed door to her father’s study. The disgust on her mother’s face. The trickle of visitors the next morning, a parade of false pretenses hoping to gawk at the creature Avirin had become. When she shakes her head, her horns knock against the wood. “I can’t,” she whispers and shuts the door behind her.

Even hiding in her room, Avirin comes to recognize the sounds of the house. It almost becomes a game to occupy the hours. In the morning, there is no bustle of activity, only a warm hum as if the cottage itself is stretching lazily awake. There are far fewer staff than Avirin would expect. Of course, there is Selbie, who passes through the corridor humming a gentle tune that Avirin remembers from when she was a girl. Another person walks much more quickly, always striding with purpose, as Avirin does.

And then there is Pye. Avirin strains to hear them, listening for the dips and shuffles in their gait. They pass by at least seven times a day, their walk as unhurried as the rest of their motions. She pictures them strolling past, that unmistakable swagger in their hips until they pause in front of her door — but they leave her alone, as she asked.

It’s not until the fifth night that Avirin finally leaves her room.

TWENTY-TWO

Avirin

It’s easier for Avirin to leave her room with no one else around. She carries her candle into the darkened hallway, stopping in front of a large window to watch the summer wind sweep across the hillside. There is something magical about the ivy dancing from the eaves while moonlight reflects off a pond in the distance. She cracks open the window to inhale the smell of honeysuckle, grass, and fading sun, and she resolves to at least step outside tomorrow.

Behind her is a wall of doors that stretches the length of the cottage. Some of the doors are open, but it is the closed ones that draw Avirin’s curiosity. When she tilts her head, her loose hair falls over her chemise. Pye did say she was welcome in any room of this house, and she really must get a lay of the land. After a long moment, she chooses a closed door near the far end of the hall and eases it open.

Familiarity swarms her. It’s a small library, its walls covered in rows of books that match the standing shelves in the middle. She eases the door shut behind her, running her fingers along the spines and reveling in the smell of leather —

Something moves beside her. She whirls to see Pye rounding one of the middle shelves, licking their finger to flip through the pages of a large tome. They stop short when she comes into view. “My lady.”

The sight of them makes her mind crackle. There are no words in her head. She has never seen them — seen anyone — like this. Here, in this house they share, Pye wears nothing but the inexpressibles that cling to his thighs. His chest is bare, covered in black tattoos she’s only caught glimpses of. In the center is the largest one of all, a death’s-head hawkmoth spreading its wings mid-flight.

She has touched him there. Even if she’s never seen these markings in such detail, her hands were pressed to his chest a week ago in the garden, when he tugged off her gloves and pulled her to him.

Her fingers flex at the memory. She grips the shelf behind her, distracted by the light glinting off Pye’s round spectacles. Only then does she realize that he is looking at her the same way, dragging his eyes over places he’s never seen before. No matter what else they’ve done, something about this is different. Private. Intimate.

Pye finds their voice before she does. “I’ve been hoping to see you outside of your room. I’m happy to have the pleasure.”

For a moment, she’d forgotten the changes to her face. She’d forgotten the weight of the horns, the sensitivity of her eyes, but they come flooding back now. The reminder makes her want to sprint back down the hallway, but has she not run from them enough already? She can’t stay in that room forever. Still, she holds the candle down by her side to keep her face in shadow.

The light glints off Pye’s left hand, reflecting off the silver band that rests there. Small pearls surround the central jewel nestled against his fourth finger.

Avirin can’t keep the surprise from her tone. “You’re wearing a ring.”

Pye twirls it around his finger. “We are married, are we not?” His impish look confirms what they both know. Rarely does a husband wear a wedding band, but everything about Pye is rare and uncommon.

We are wondrous. More than they could ever imagine.

Avirin has to look away for fear of how her heart trips. Her gaze clings to the book in his hand. “It’s rather late for a bedtime story.”

A smile twitches on Pye’s lips. “I’m researching some things I hoped to show you.” He moves to the table beside her, and she realizes it’s covered in open books. The pages hold few pictures, but the word succubus stands out among the text. Pye sets their latest book in a vacant place. “Unfortunately, these have provided little help. Either they have no information, or they include pages of misleading speculation. There’s not even a consensus on why the change occurs.”

Avirin’s eye catches on a drawing of a horrific creature. Scales coat its back, saliva dripping from its hungry mouth beneath the black depths of its eyes. Her stomach churns.

Pye shuts that book and adds it to a growing stack at the end of the table. “I am quickly learning that Lord Kyrven did not have an interest in modern science.” Pye turns back to the shelves, speaking over his shoulder. “Would you like to take some books for your own reading? Aside from the encyclopedias, the rest of the collection is rather impressive. There’s philosophy, adventure, poetry…”

She follows behind him, setting aside her candle and scanning the authors until she pulls out a familiar name.

Pye gasps coyly. “My lady Avirin, a student of John Donne? I could nary have imagined it.”

Her cheeks heat at their teasing, but it’s the same pleasant warmth as alcohol, leaving her slightly outside of herself. “Some people recite his works to scandalize their party guests, but I’ve always felt his poems include more than just ribaldry.”

Pye leans a hip into the shelf. “Is that so? Enlighten me.” They speak softly, like anything louder would wake the whole house. Like he wants to remain just the two of them.

Avirin swallows. It’s a familiar feeling to be put on the spot this way, yet with Pye, there’s something different. Maybe it’s the way the candlelight embraces their smile, or the way they don’t seem intent to misunderstand her. Being under the beam of Pye’s attention feels like a rousing test that has one outcome — she will pass. No matter how ineloquently she speaks, no matter how she stumbles, Pye will be thrilled with her.

She turns the pages of the book until she lands on a familiar poem and sets it open on the desk. The Flea has long been one of her favorites, but it seems silly now. All her previous interpretations drain from her mind. How could a blood-sucking insect represent the depths of romance? Why would she even consider that?