Page 40 of Grim Tidings

My stomach dips, awareness skittering over my skin like an itchy sweater.

“I don’t think so,” I answer carefully. “I’m new to town.”

“Hm.” He studies me for another extended moment, his mouth pursed. I keep my expression carefully blank, my hands at my sides. His eyes clear, and his smile reappears. “You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he finally calls.

I laugh. “I can handle myself.”

“Then maybe I’m the one who shouldn’t be out here alone.” He holds out his elbow. “Walk an old man home?”

I laugh again and close the distance between us, slipping my arm through his. He shivers and I almost pull away, but then he pats my forearm and I settle.

“I’d like that,” I tell him. “Very much.”

Frank is delightful.

I don’t know if it’s my bone-deep desire for human connection bleeding through, or if he’s just the first mortal I’ve had a conversation with in close to several decades, but everything he says is fascinating.

He tells me how he moved here sixty years ago, and back then there were a lot more fishing boats in the water. They used to bring in fresh oysters and shuck them right there at the docks. People would walk around with lemons in their bags, slurping at cobbled open shells instead of coffee cups.

“You’d find oyster shells tossed in bushes,” he tells me. “Tossed in the rain gutters like cigarette butts.”

He maintains a steady stream of chatter through our entire slow progression down the first cobblestone street, and then the next, pointing out various shops along the way.

“And that,” he says, nodding his head at a cute little shop right at the water’s edge, “is the Crow’s Nest. I don’t know how long you’re in town for or where you’re staying, but Harriet will get you set up with whatever you might need in the way of furnishings. She runs a tight ship.”

I crane my neck, trying to see through one of the dark windows. “Does she carry trinkets, too? Like those little ring dishes? Made of bronze?”

I saw one in the home of a woman I came to collect once. It was filled with loose coins and a sewing needle and a little carving of a bear, barely the size of a thimble. Tiny, random things she probably emptied her pockets of when she returned home.

I always thought it would be nice to have one. To put my things in.

Frank looks confused. “I’m sure she does. Seems a pretty simple thing, and her shop is full of all sorts of odds and ends, top to bottom.”

I make a note to check it out when I’m not strong-arming Gabriel into being my reluctant partner. Frank pats my arm and gestures at a small blue house with a wrought-iron fence. “This is me,” he says, shuffling over to the gate.

I glance down the street with a frown. “Didn’t we pass this house ten minutes ago?”

Frank’s smile is wry. “Did we? I must have gotten turned around.” He raps his knuckles against the side of his head. “I am a very old man, after all.”

I narrow my eyes. “You’re a con artist.”

“Bah.” He waves his hand, climbing up the paint-flecked stairs. There are massive pots on each one overflowing with autumnal blooms. Reds, oranges. A deep, muted purple. He turns on the top step as he fishes around in his jacket for his keys. “Don’t shame an old man for squeaking out a few more precious seconds of your time.”

“My time isn’t as precious as you think.”

He jingles the keys in his hands and clicks his tongue. “Mm, now you’re sounding like Gabriel. I can see why he likes you.”

My smile evaporates. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Is that why he dragged you away from that young man you were talking to? Because he doesn’t like you?”

I arch an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we were under surveillance.”

“Ah, Darcy. Someone is always watching.” He fits his key into the lock, fussing with the brass handle until it gives. “Come visit me sometime? I own the flower shop two blocks over from the bar. You’re welcome any time.”

Flowers. Of course. I can picture him so easily in a studio surrounded by blooms. Dirt on his hands and a smile on his face.

“I’d like that.”