Page 20 of Roses & Ruin

“I…” I drop my eyes to my knees, my face heating. Gripping the edge of my seat, I suck in a breath. “I’m not staring. I’m thinking. Wondering…whether to take your deal or not.” I lift my chin and shrug. “I mean, you know what they say about…making bargains with mysterious shadows at night. Right?”

“By all means,” he drawls, crossing his arms. “Enlighten me. What do they say?”

“They say…” I squirm in my seat, blinking hard. “They say, um, ‘Don’t you do it.’ ” I catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

“And here I was thinking I knew every one of Abraham Lincoln’s quotes.” His voice is dry, but I swear he’s smirking. “How’s your elbow?”

“Oh, it’s fine—” I stiffen. Squeeze my eyes shut. “Please…please tell me you didn’t see—”

“You nearly shatter your spine falling down the stairs?” he snaps, lip curling.

“The only thing that shattered was my general state of well-being,” I say primly. “My bones are just fine.”

The boy rolls his shoulders, agitated. He opens his mouth, looks like he wants to say something, but slams it shut. I watch the muscle of his jaw pulse.

“Well,” he growls, “you gonna ask me a question, or are you just gonna throw yourself down the next set of—”

“What’s your favorite animal?” I hope it’s an innocuous enough question. He’s so still that I wonder if he heard me.

“Pigeons,” he finally says.

“Pigeons,” I repeat, delighted. “Why?”

“Their necks look like an oil spill.” He gazes off into the fog. “When radios and telephones failed during World War I, they used pigeons. They flew through smoke and storms and bombs to deliver messages.”

“Oh,” I breathe, completely and utterly won over. “That’s…deep.”

“Hmm.” He wipes a hand across his mouth, eyeing me thoughtfully. “And here I thought you’d really grill me.”

“What’s your favorite memory?”

“Nope,” he deadpans, which I totally expected.

“When’s the last time you cried?”

“Please,” he sneers.

“What’s your name?” I whisper.

His scowl drops. For a moment there’s an openness to his expression I’ve never seen. It’s so beautiful, so heartbreakingly exquisite, that I wish I’d never seen it. Because it only takes one heartbeat for his face to smooth over, impenetrable once more.

“Hayden,” he says softly. “My name is Hayden Caldwell.”

“Hay. Den,” I say, tasting it.

Amusement flashes across his face. He shakes his head. “Any reason you’re treating my name like a baby’s first word?”

“This is hard-earned knowledge.” I grin up at him. “I’m savoring it.”

Hayden huffs a laugh and rubs the side of his neck. A strange look passes over his face, the divot between his brows flickering, gone before I can place it. Above us, somewhere in the enormous canopy of browning maple leaves, an owl hoots, low and mournful. Hayden lifts his head to the sound.

“My turn now,” he says to the moon. “What’s your name?”

The branches over us shiver, and the owl takes off. Hayden watches the silent silhouette of its flapping wings grow fainter and fainter.

“I’m Rose,” I tell him. “Rose Shields.”

He swallows hard. I can see the jump of his throat, the muscle ticking at his jaw. His brow furrows, smooths, then furrows again.