Page 11 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

CHAPTER 3

GRIM

Iwait for a storm that never comes.

The sky threatens, and the wind carries the raw, cold scent of salt and rain, but the clouds only pace overhead, heavy and withholding. I remain outside Belladonna Blooms for several moments longer than necessary, my hands tucked deep into the pockets of my coat as I watch the lights in the shop fade one by one. In the front window, a bouquet of late-autumn dahlias nods gently toward the glass, offering a slow and solemn bow to the evening.

I should leave, but instead I stay until the last light downstairs disappears.

No one has ever asked me back simply for my company. The invitation lodges beneath my ribs with a strange and uncomfortable brightness, following me through the evening with more persistence than it deserves. I have devoted millennia to discipline, to routine, and to the quiet rituals that accompany every ending, yet I cannot seem to free myself from a single sentence spoken across a teacup.

Come back whenever you have time.

I wonder whether Lavinia understood the weight of those words. Perhaps her gift allowed her to see more than sheadmitted, or perhaps she had simply offered kindness without considering what it might mean to a man who had so rarely received it.

Eventually, I turn away from the shop, though I do not head home. Instead, I walk the long block toward the corner, passing the milliner's with its headless displays, the bookmaker's shop with its midnight-blue shutters, and the thrift store that smells of mothballs and the forgotten contents of other people's lives.

There is a particular hush at dusk in Blackthorn Bay, a softness that settles over the old stone buildings and narrow streets once the shopkeepers begin drawing their curtains. I wander without purpose, replaying every word spoken over too-sweet tea and quiet laughter, allowing the memory to pull me farther from the familiar shore of my own restraint.

I make three aimless loops around the bay before duty finally interrupts.

It begins as a pressure behind my eyes, a low and unmistakable pull that tightens with every passing second. The thread draws me through the city's slanted darkness, across abandoned trolley tracks, and into a maze of narrow streets that seem to tremble beneath the wind.

Kilian Vane's time has come.

The address has changed over the years, but the man within has not. I remember him first as a screaming infant wrapped in a blue blanket, then as a blood-faced child bandaging his sister's scraped knee with more determination than skill. I remember the sullen boy clutching a fistful of homework, the gangly young man pretending not to notice the girl who would eventually become his wife, and the proud father holding his firstborn as though someone had entrusted him with the moon.

I see every version of him as I approach his door, each memory folding quietly into the next.

Tonight, Kilian sits in a sturdy chair angled toward the window, watching the moonlight settle across a patch of birdseed and late roses. The room is spare but deeply lived in, softened by small evidence of a long life. A crocheted blanket rests over his knees, its edges worn smooth from years of use. A battered chessboard sits on a nearby table with one queen permanently missing, and framed photographs line the mantel, documenting a family that grew, fractured, and found its way back more than once.

His breathing is shallow, but his gaze remains fixed on the garden.

I enter without sound and pause beside the yellow-papered wall.

He knows I am there before I speak.

"You're right on time," Kilian says. His voice is ragged from long use, but the humor beneath it remains intact. "I always thought I'd be the one late to my own funeral."

"I always try to be punctual."

He laughs, and the sound shudders through him, half memory and half release. "I suppose you want me to put my shoes on."

"Only if you'd like to."

He glances toward the front door before slowly shaking his head. "No. I don't imagine I'll be needing them."

A comfortable silence settles between us. The dying often feel compelled to fill the last moments of their lives with important words, though importance is rarely something that can be forced. Sometimes the quiet says everything that remains.

"She would have liked you," he says at last.

I follow his gaze to the photograph on the end table and know he means his wife.

"You take your coat off out of respect, and you keep your shoes by the door. That's more manners than most people manage these days."

"She sounded formidable."

He tilts his head, considering the description. "She liked to think so."