Page 7

Relentless optimist.

Serial rescuer of absolutely everything with a pulse.

Or, apparently, six tiny legs.

It had been one year.

One. Entire. Year.

Millennia in Hell hadn't broken me. One year with Poppy Hale had brought me dangerously close. She talked. Constantly.

To people. To animals. To flowers. To herself.

If that wasn't bad enough, there was also the singing. She couldn't carry a tune if someone handed it to her in a reinforced steel box. She still sang. Every. Single. Morning. Usually while baking. Sometimes while cleaning. Occasionally while talking to squirrels. The squirrels answered. I still wasn't certain which part disturbed me more.

And now... the beetle.

Why? Why had she stopped? It was a beetle. A perfectly ordinary beetle. Nature had reached its inevitable conclusion. A bird would have eaten it. The circle of life would have continued.

Instead...

"Oh, sweetheart."

She'd actually called it sweetheart.

Then she'd picked it up like some tiny armored prince in distress and set it gently back onto its feet.

"There you go, Mr. Beetle."

Mr. Beetle!

Some Robin somewhere had just lost breakfast. I lasted exactly three seconds before opening my mouth.

"Oh, for hellfire's sake, woman."

A mistake. A catastrophic, civilization-ending mistake. Because now... now she knew I existed.

"...Paprika has a sweeter finish than cayenne."

I rubbed both hands over my face. "Why are we still discussing this?"

"Because you said spices were all the same."

"They are."

"They absolutely are not."

"They're dried plants."

"They're seasoning."

"They're dried plants."

"They're culinary experiences."

"...I miss Hell."

She gasped. "You have basil in Hell?"