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His hand left her and fell to twist nervously at a shiny stud on his leather jacket. “I’m sorry. I’m always startling you.” He didn’t want to break the connection, not yet. It unnerved him when her eyes caught him like that, but it brought something else he couldn’t explain, something that didn’t seem normal for him. He wanted it again. He wanted to discover what it was.
“How did you know? About death, I mean.” She had accepted his apology.
“I’ve seen its effect on people before now.”
Her eyes grew troubled on his behalf, as she guessed wildly at his tragedy. It was so easy, Simon thought. He could tell the truth and let her lie for him. She would be too polite to ask outright. She would make it what she wanted it to be. The time was right. She needed to jump to another person, away from her fear. But why did he care so much? She had warm, rich blood, but it wasn’t only that. Was it?
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I haven’t been too pleasant either.” She smiled faintly. At herself, he guessed.
“You look shaken. Can I walk you home?” He started to offer his arm, then remembered it was an outdated custom and stopped.
She debated with herself. He saw the brief inward look. “Please,” she said. He had passed the test.
They left the stores and walked slowly, quiet at first. He enjoyed her next to him. “You are late for dinner,” he said finally.
“No. No one’s home.”
He saw that she immediately regretted having said that. Her lips tightened for a moment. She’s calling herself a fool, he thought. It’s not a thing to admit to a stranger. Reassure. “What a shame. This is the kind of night one likes to go home to a hot meal.” He saw her lips quiver with unbidden amusement. “I said something funny?”
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She smiled fully now. “I’m sorry, but you don’t look … I mean … well, the way you talk. It’s not how I would expect someone in a leather jacket to talk.”
Had he made a mistake? He didn’t talk much to people. They were a temptation. They were food. One did not talk to food, or learn its speech patterns. It all changed so fast while he remained the same, watching it go by in flashing colors between the night. No. She was smiling. Somehow it pleased her, this discrepancy. It made her feel more at ease.
“It was a whim,” he said, stroking the leather.
“It looks good on you.”
She wishes not to offend me, he thought. He was happy with that. How silly that it made him happy.
“Do you live near here?” she asked.
“Close.”
“Yes?”
“It’s temporary.”
“Are your parents looking for a permanent home in Oakwood?”
“My parents are dead.”
She looked aghast at her faux pas. Her hand rose partially to her mouth.
“It’s all right. I’ve been alone a long time.” He took her hand and lowered it gently. She was alone, too, he guessed, that was why she cared so much. Her hand was soft and thin; it prickled him sweetly. She tugged her hand back, and he knew she had felt it too. He disengaged. He would not press.
She was quiet again. They walked. Once she looked as if she were almost ready to speak, ready to tell him something, but she changed her mind. He wished she had told him, because he wanted to hear her talk. He wanted to know about her. This is not my nature, he thought. This is not the beast. But, for that moment, he felt as if the beast were unraveling from him in a fresh wind. He was thinking of questions to entice her to speak when they reached her gate. He held it open for her, feeling disappointed that the walk was over.
She stopped at the front door and turned to face him firmly. Simon got the message. This is as far as I get. “I hope you feel better soon,” he said, acknowledging the barrier.
Her stance relaxed as she felt his compliance. “Thank you for walking me home. It shook me up, seeing that. I expect we’ll read about it tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
“My name’s Zoë,” she said, almost as an afterthought.
“Zoë,” he repeated softly, like distant bees.
