Page 75 of Roses & Ruin

I’m here.

Or, at least, my things are. Personal belongings from every one of my past lives are nestled reverently against black velvet in glass cases of various sizes all along the circular wall that stretches up three or four stories high.

The floors are a polished gold-and-green marble, and a continuous iron staircase winds along the perimeter of the cylinder so anyone can access my things at the very top. There are too many things to see, too many memories.

Behind one glass panel is a stack of folded, yellowing paper. To my Hayden, the top letter is labeled in elegant script. There are two browning ticket stubs to a 6:35 p.m. showing of The Exorcist from 1973. I stop in front of a glass case—on a white silk pillow no bigger than my hand are a pair of plain gold wedding bands.

They’re both covered in blood.

“Sounds insane, I know…” Hayden clears his throat. “But washing them felt like washing you away somehow.” I feel like I’ve swallowed a diamond. Every swallow hurts. I turn to face him.

“Was that from the first time?”

“Yeah,” Hayden says roughly. The throat cutting. I can feel the memory of how slippery my fingers got when they went to my neck in my nightmares. My body was cold when he found me, but Hayden must have tried putting pressure there anyway. Hayden whirls away, dragging both hands through his hair. “Fuck. Let’s look at something that’ll make you happy.” He moves to the other side of the room, pausing in front of a glass panel, looking expectant. I stop breathing when I see what’s in there.

A battered, age-worn book with a tattered fabric cover sits on a mount. Frankenstein, by Mary Shelley, it says on the spine.

“It’s a second edition,” Hayden says. “But it was your copy. You carried it around with you everywhere.”

“So, I guess…” I lick my lips, overwhelmed. “I guess some things really don’t change, huh?”

“I hope—” He lets out a harsh breath. “God. I really fucking hope that some things do.” For a moment we just hold each other’s terrified gaze. Then we step into each other, and his arms wrap me in a tight hug.

“Can’t believe you have all this,” I say into his chest. “Can’t believe you decided to keep all this stuff.”

“Wasn’t a decision. I had no choice.” He lets out a long, shaky sigh. “This was all I had left of you in the world.” I pull back and lift my chin to him, a wordless request. Hayden’s face gets stormy. “I’m…We haven’t gone over our strategy yet. You’re gonna need to memorize the escape routes.” Distractedly, gaze dark and torn, he starts to head toward the door. I wrap my arms around myself, afraid if I don’t, my ribs will burst out of my chest from the pain.

“Can I stay here?” I ask in a tiny voice. “Just for a little bit?”

Hayden blinks at me, caught off guard. “Oh. Um. Sure.”

When he slips out, I scrub my eyes, willing them to dry up. I want to throttle Hayden. Tell him how much he’s breaking my heart. How he’s not keeping me any safer by pushing me away. How it’s so needless, such a waste of time—how I can help him protect me too.

I look over at our bloody wedding rings, the dark oxblood smear on pale gold. Old blood. How would I have felt if I had come upon Hayden’s body, bloody and throat opened? How would I have felt if I’d done that at least ten times?

With a sigh, I keep perusing this heartbreaking museum of our love. There’s an antique sewing kit with a threaded needle, a vintage set of broken Crayola crayons, the shards of a shattered teacup.

In a large niche, glowing behind a glass panel, is a beautiful cream-colored dress that could easily have been worn by a heroine from Bridgerton. As soon as my eyes land on it, I know it belonged to the very first Rose.

And I know I want to try it on.

Maybe it’ll make me feel more connected with my past lives, I think as I search the glass case for the opening seam. When I press on the glass, it pops open. I hesitate for a moment, wondering if Hayden will be angry.

But it’s my freaking dress, isn’t it? These are my lives, my deaths. My current life. My possibly imminent death. I get that Delia and Hayden are literally some of the most powerful creatures on the planet, but, like, show me another human that dies every night and wakes up and eats her Cheerios and goes to school with minimal complaining.

So I take it out of the glass case and slip back into Hayden’s bedroom to try it on.

It takes me a second to fasten and get it to sit right. There’s a short, front-laced corset to put on first, one that barely covers my boobs. I pull it snug, admire how it makes my modest chest swell a little and accentuates the tuck of my waist. The dress itself falls to my ankles, clinging to my silhouette, my breasts, my torso, my hips. The sleeves fall to my elbows, and the neckline is square and low, showing a vast expanse of my collarbones and shoulders, the rise of my chest.

I stare at myself in the full-length mirror by Hayden’s bed, my heart pounding.

It fits perfectly. It’s a silky, thin fabric that feels cool and soft against my skin. I don’t look like I’m wearing a costume. I look like an eighteen-year-old girl from the year 1820. I look like I clutched carrier pigeons and wrapped fresh bread and hunks of cheese in cloth and carried it to my father for his supper.

I look like me.

Blinking hard, I pull the rubber band from the tail of my braid and shake out my hair, letting the long brown waves fall over one shoulder. I step close, examining my pale, overcast eyes, my too-wide mouth, my cheeks that so easily blush, that are blushing right now just from standing in Hayden’s bedroom, wearing this dress that Hayden loved on me so much that he kept it. A dress that Hayden might have taken off of me before.

There’s a crashing sound behind me.