Page 9 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

There is nothing extravagant about her dreams. They are patient, uncomplicated things, rooted firmly in hope instead of ambition.

Across the street, Kilian Vane closes the gate to his little garden.

Time is moving again.

I hold out her mug.

"Thank you, Lavinia Graves."

She accepts it, studying me with open curiosity.

"You never told me your name."

I have worn countless names through the centuries, borrowing them whenever the age required one. Few have ever felt like mine.

"Grim."

She blinks once before laughing.

"You're teasing me."

"I rarely do."

She studies my face another moment, apparently deciding I am entirely serious.

"All right, Grim," she says with an amused shake of her head. "If you're not a detective or a funeral director, what exactly do you do?"

I consider the question carefully.

"I observe," I say. "I remember. I make sure no one is left forgotten."

She doesn't laugh.

She doesn't look confused.

Instead, she regards me with a tenderness so unexpected that I almost look away.

"That sounds heavy."

I incline my head.

There is little else to say.

She hesitates before asking, "Is it ever lonely?"

Of all the questions I have been asked throughout the centuries, that is not one I expected.

Most people want to know whether death hurts.

Or whether it can be delayed.

Or whether bargains are possible.

She wants to know if I get lonely.

"Sometimes," I admit.

The truth surprises us both.