Page 7 of Drop Dead Gorgeous

Some ignore me.

Some pray.

Some bargain.

Kilian simply finishes his tea before acknowledging my presence.

His thoughts are as orderly as the garden around him. Every memory rests comfortably beside the next, each regret examined long ago and put gently to bed. Few people reach the end of their lives with so little left unsaid. It is one of the quiet gifts of growing old.

Yet, despite myself, my attention wanders.

My gaze finds Belladonna Blooms.

The lights still burn warmly behind the rain-speckled windows, and Lavinia Graves moves easily among the flowers, replacing one arrangement while straightening another. There is purpose in everything she does. She pauses to remove a bruised petal before anyone else could notice it, gently turns a bouquettoward the light, and smiles at a customer carrying nothing more exciting than a bundle of daisies.

Kindness, I have learned, often reveals itself in very small moments.

It is not my custom to linger.

There are always others who need me, and efficiency has long since become its own form of mercy.

Even so, I remain where I am.

Not because of the flowers.

Because of her.

She treats every bouquet as though it matters, whether it is destined for a wedding, a kitchen table, or a graveside. The forgotten receive the same care as the celebrated. I watched her today, standing beside Mrs. Fenwick's casket after everyone else had gone home, laying a single blossom atop the polished wood as though one last flower might make the journey a little less lonely.

Few people understand that it does.

I have spent centuries watching the living grieve. Most mourn the people they loved.

Lavinia mourns the people no one else remembers.

Perhaps that is why I cannot quite bring myself to leave.

She says something to herself that I cannot hear before laughing softly. It is an easy, unguarded sound, untouched by obligation or fear, and I realize with some surprise that I have not heard laughter like that in . . . a very long time.

Kilian Vane will die before nightfall.

He has always known the date.

There is still time.

Lavinia stacks several buckets near the front window before finally looking up. Her gaze finds mine immediately, unwavering in a way I have seldom experienced. Most people look through me without realizing it, or glance away after only a heartbeat.

She doesn't.

Instead, she wipes her hands on her apron and steps outside.

The little bell above the door announces her arrival.

"You're back," she says. "I thought you only attended funerals."

"I do."

I find myself looking toward the shop before meeting her eyes again.