Page 32 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

". . . Mostly."

She laughs again.

Outside, the morning sky is the pale gray of unpolished pewter, promising rain without quite committing to it. Her boots crunch softly beside mine as we leave Main Street behind.

For several blocks neither of us speaks.

Ordinarily, silence belongs only to me.

With Lavinia, it somehow belongs to both of us.

She never seems compelled to fill it.

The town slowly falls away behind us. Houses become fields. Pavement becomes gravel. The wind carries the scent of damp earth instead of chimney smoke.

I glance toward her.

She has matched her stride to mine without either of us acknowledging it. Loose strands of copper hair escape the band at the back of her neck, lifting in the breeze.

She catches me looking.

"Are you sure this isn't a murder plot?" she asks, lowering her voice dramatically.

"It would be considerably less complicated if it were."

She laughs so hard she has to steady herself against a fence post.

"I don't know whether that's comforting or deeply concerning."

"I'm still deciding."

"So am I."

We leave the last fence behind and step into open country.

The fields are only beginning to wake from winter. Brown grasses bow beneath the breeze, but here and there stubborn patches of green push through thawing earth. Meltwater gathers in shallow pools, reflecting the wide sky overhead.

Lavinia slips over a strand of barbed wire with effortless grace.

I am less graceful.

She notices.

"I expected Death to be better at fences."

"I usually avoid them."

"I'll add that to the list."

"What list?"

"The surprisingly ordinary things Grim struggles with."

"I'm afraid to ask."

"So far we've got chocolate, borrowing vases, returning vases, cats, and fences."

"I've done reasonably well with the cat."