Page 34 of Roses & Ruin

“We’ll see about that,” I say, lifting my chin at him.

We reach a thick copse of trees and brush, just south of unkempt. Hayden pulls an overgrowth of bush back to reveal a rusty iron gate with little angels carved on the front.

“You first,” he says, watching me. Tentatively, I reach down and push it open. I pass the gate, pushing through another narrow passageway of overgrown flora, and suddenly find myself in a clearing, staring up at a gorgeous stone church.

It’s modest, the kind of church you’d imagine Jane Eyre coming across during her long, lonely walks, the exterior roughened by rain and time, moss nestled in between the rough-hewn stones. What it lacks in width it makes up for in height. Its pointed roof is quite tall, as is the lone tower capped with a spire that looks needle-sharp in the darkening sky. The spire’s tip grazes the low, thick ceiling of clouds.

I find myself walking forward, slow and dreamlike, taking in the long, narrow windows of stained glass, the sumptuous colors of emerald, ruby, and sapphire. With the heavy wooden front door’s accents of black iron hinges and knobs, it reminds me of a jewelry box. Or an old pirate treasure chest.

I run a finger across the twisted metal gate that fences in the crumbling tombstones that surround the church. It’s difficult to know where I want to stare most: the stained-glass windows, the epitaphs on the graves, the strangely compelling spire at the very top.

“Well?” Hayden’s arm brushes my shoulder. “Do you like it?”

“How did you know I would?” I say, too awed to be annoyed.

Hayden stoops slightly, close enough that his hair brushes the crown of my head. He taps the cover of Frankenstein. “I made a…reductive assumption.” The words rustle strands of hair at my temple, and I shiver. “This church is from the late Romantic Gothic period. Same as our girl here.” Hayden smooths a finger across Mary Shelley’s name and straightens like it’s no big deal, like he didn’t just send an entire bolt of electricity through me with his words, his proximity.

“You got one thing wrong,” I say, dazed. Hayden raises his brows. “I don’t like it.” I bite my lip. “I love it.”

Hayden’s face softens into a genuine smile.

I follow Hayden through the second gate, but head toward the churchyard while he continues to the church entrance. He stops at the door when he realizes I’m not following. I’m scanning the graves, seeing if I can make out any of the names or dates.

“What are you doing?”

I jump a little at Hayden’s voice, suddenly so close. How does he do that?

“Paying my respects to the locals,” I say. I squat in front of a grave whose inscription seems mostly intact. I brush the dirt away from the dates with my bare fingers.

“Did you know Mary Shelley lost her virginity on her mother’s grave?” Hayden flashes a teasing glance my way.

“It’s a likely rumor,” I say, dutifully scraping at the debris-covered epitaph, “but still a rumor.”

“Is it, now?” Hayden says, his mouth lifting on one side.

“I know,” I sigh. “I was disappointed too.” He makes an amused noise. “She fell in love with Lord Percy at her mother’s grave. That part’s true. She visited her mother’s grave so often that she said her tombstone was the only mother she’d ever known.” There’s a moment when the only sound is the crumble of dirt as I finish digging out the years from the carved letters with my hands.

“How romantic,” Hayden says.

“I know you’re joking, but it actually is.” I’ve finally uncovered the dates. When I read them, my throat thickens. “Look,” I say, pointing to the tombstone. “Florence Penry. She died when she was twenty-three. Her husband, Silas, died when he was fifty-six. He never remarried. He lived thirty-three years without her.”

“Is that all? That’s nothing,” he says with disdain, squatting beside me.

“Look, I get your whole I’m too cool act makes you immune to devastatingly romantic things,” I say, “but maybe I don’t need your sarcastic commentary.”

“I wasn’t being sarcastic,” he murmurs, his gaze finding mine. “Thirty-three years is hardly a lifetime, is it?”

“You…” I clear my throat. “You think you’d wait longer for your love?”

Something unfathomable and fierce ripples across Hayden’s face. The skin around his eyes tightens, the notch between his brows deepening for a moment.

“Yeah.” His voice is low, rough. “Yeah, I would. Would you?”

“Sure,” I whisper, breathless. “For love? I would.” I suck in a lungful of crisp autumn cold, trying to regain my balance.

Hayden wipes a hand across his jaw. He searches my gaze as he slowly stands.

“Well, what do you think, Rose Shelley?” The corner of Hayden’s mouth flickers. He holds out a hand to me, and I take it without a thought. He yanks me up like I’m light as a fallen leaf, and I stumble against his shockingly solid chest. His eyes trace my face. “Could you fall in love in a graveyard too?”