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“How romantic,” Isobel scoffed.
“It is,” he said, and dragged the mop through the last of the malt goo that had gone runny on the floor while they’d been in the freezer.
“It just sounds gruesome to me.”
“Gruesome can be romantic.”
“Sorry.” She shook her head and made a face. “But that’s just a strange thing to say.”
He stopped mopping and turned to regard her. “Don’t you think it’s at all romantic—the idea that love could conquer death?”
“I guess.” Isobel shrugged, but really she didn’t want to think about it. The only thing that came to mind was the phrase “death breath.” She grimaced at the thought of kissing a dead guy and walked to the sink behind the counter to rinse out her rag. Over the rush of cold water, the churning music broke to silence, and the female vocals crooned a cappella, beautiful and sad.
Let this death shroud be a wedding veil,
Though this skin is clay, my lips so pale.
My eyes, for you, ever more shine bright
Blacker than the raven wings of night.
’Tis I . . .
’Tis I . . .
Your lost love, your Lady Ligeia. . . .
Isobel paused in thought as the haunting melody began again and then dissipated, the woman’s voice trailing off, reverberating in a mesmerizing throb. She shut off the sink and swiveled around. “I thought you said her name was Emily,” she said, her words seeming to pull him out of a trance.
He looked at her, lifted the mop from the floor, and dunked it into the dingy water. “It is. Lady Ligeia . . .” But he stopped and shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though considering whether or not to explain.
“What?” Isobel asked. Was she missing something? Did he think she was too stupid to get it?
“Lady Ligeia,” he began again, “is a woman in literature who returns from the dead, taking over another woman’s body to be with her true love.”
“Oh, yes. Lovely.” Isobel blanched. “I guess the other chick didn’t mind at all?”
He smirked and, grasping the mop handle, wheeled the janitor’s bucket behind the counter, guiding it toward the back room. “It’s actually one of Poe’s most famous stories.”
Oh, she thought. So that’s why he hadn’t wanted to elaborate. She stood for a moment, arms crossed, thinking, one hip leaning against the display glass. Then, rounding the counter, she dropped her rag into the sink before going to stand in the doorway of the staff room. Hands braced on either side of the door frame, she leaned in.
“Hey,” she called. “Speaking of, did you do the project yet?”
“No.”
She watched him hoist the bucket and pour the filthy water into the tub sink.
“It’s due week after next.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. He set the bucket down and kept his back to her while he washed his hands. “Shouldn’t you be the one worried about that?”
“I guess so,” she mumbled, and cast her eyes to the polished floor. They’d scrubbed the place till it sparkled and she was convinced that it was actually cleaner now than it had been before Brad and the crew trashed it. If she had learned one thing for certain about Varen now, it was that he was thorough.
She looked up again and watched in silence as he opened the locker cabinet in the corner and brought out his wallet, strung with three different lengths of chain. He scooped something else out with his other hand, and when he made for the door, she stepped out of his way.
He brushed past her into the main room and deposited his wallet, coils of chains, and a handful of rings onto one of the wicker tables. Next he grabbed the plastic trash bag they’d filled during the cleanup and, pulling the plastic drawstring closed, tied it off.
“Give me a sec,” he said. “I gotta take this out.” Isobel watched him disappear into the staff room again, lugging the trash bag behind him. She heard the back outer door open.
