Scythe (Arc of a Scythe #1)(46)

The Scythe opened the door and let Citra step in first. “Welcome to Falling Water,” Scythe Curie said.

The main floor was a huge open room with a polished stone floor, wooden furniture, a large fireplace, and windows. Lots and lots of windows. The waterfall was right beneath an expansive terrace. The sound of the river running beneath the home and over the falls was a constant but calming white noise.

“I’ve never been in a house with a name,” Citra said as she looked around, doing her best to be unimpressed. “But it’s a bit much, isn’t it? Especially for a scythe. Aren’t you all supposed to live simple lives?”

Citra knew such a comment could bring forth the scythe’s temper, but she didn’t care. Her presence here meant that Scythe Faraday died for nothing. A beautiful home was no consolation.

Scythe Curie did not respond in anger. She just said, “I live here not because of its extravagance, but because my presence here is the only way to preserve it.”

The decor seemed to be frozen in the twentieth century, when the place was built. The only hints of modernization were a few simple computer interfaces in unobtrusive corners. Even the kitchen was a throwback to an earlier time.

“Come, I’ll show you to your room.”

They climbed a staircase that was lined on the left by layered sheets of granite and echoed on the right by rows and rows of shelved books. The second floor was the scythe’s bedroom suite. The third floor held a smaller bedroom and a study. The bedroom was simply furnished, and, like the rest of the home, had huge windows framed in polished cedar, wrapping around two entire walls. The view of the forest made Citra feel as if she were perched in a treehouse. She liked it. And she hated that she did.

“You know that I don’t want to be here,” Citra said.

“At last some honesty from you,” Scythe Curie said with the slightest of grins.

“And,” added Citra, “I know you don’t like me—so why did you take me on?”

The scythe looked at her with those cold, inscrutable gray eyes. “Whether or not I like you is irrelevant,” she said. “I have my reasons.”

Then she left Citra alone in her room without as much as a good-bye.

? ? ?

Citra didn’t remember falling asleep. She hadn’t even considered how exhausted she was. She recalled lying down on the comforter, looking out at the trees, listening to the river roaring endlessly below, wondering if the noise would eventually go from soothing to unbearable. And then she opened her eyes to stark incandescence, squinting at Scythe Curie who was standing in the doorway, by the light switch. It was dark outside now. Not just dark but lightless, like space. She could still hear the river, but couldn’t see even a hint of the trees.

“Did you forget about dinner?” Scythe Curie asked.

Citra rose, ignoring the sudden vertigo when she stood. “You could have woken me.”

Scythe Curie smirked. “I thought I just did.”

Citra made her way down toward the kitchen—but the scythe let her go first, and she couldn’t quite remember the way. The house was a maze. She took a few wrong turns, and Scythe Curie didn’t correct her. She just waited for Citra to find her way.

What, Citra wondered, would this woman want to eat? Would she silently accept anything that Citra prepared, as Scythe Faraday had? The thought of the man brought a wave of sorrow chased by anger, but she didn’t know who exactly to be angry at, so it just festered.

Citra arrived on the main floor ready to assess the contents of the pantry and refrigerator, but to her surprise she found the dinner table set for two, and steaming plates of food already there.

“I had a hankering for hasenpfeffer,” the scythe said. “I think you’ll like it.”

“I don’t even know what hasenpfeffer is.”

“Best if you don’t.” Scythe Curie sat down, and bade Citra to do the same. But Citra wasn’t quite ready, still wondering if this might be a trick.

Scythe Curie dug a spoon into the rich stew, but paused when she saw Citra still standing. “Are you waiting for a formal invitation?” she asked.

Citra couldn’t tell if she was irritated or amused. “I’m an apprentice. Why would you cook for me?”

“I didn’t. I cooked for me. Your grumbling stomach just happened to be in the vicinity.”

Finally Citra sat and tasted the stew. Flavorful. A little gamey, but not bad. The sweetness of honey-glazed carrots cut the gaminess.

“The life of a scythe would be dreadful if we didn’t allow ourselves the guilty pleasure of a hobby. Mine is cooking.”

“This is good,” Citra admitted. Then added, “Thank you.”

They ate mostly in silence. Citra felt odd not being of service at the table, so she got up to refill the scythe’s glass of water. Scythe Faraday did not have any hobbies—or at least none that he shared with Citra and Rowan.

The thought of Rowan made her hand tremble as she poured, and she sloshed some water on the table.

“I’m sorry, Scythe Curie.” She grabbed her own napkin and blotted the spill before it could spread.

“You’ll need a steadier hand than that if you’re going to be a scythe.” Again, Citra couldn’t tell if she was being serious or sardonic. The woman was even harder for Citra to read than Faraday—and reading people was not her forte by any means. Of course, she never realized that until she spent time with Rowan, who, in his own unobtrusive way, was a master of observation. Citra had to remind herself that she had other skills. Speed and decisiveness of action. Coordination. Those things would have to come into play if she was going to . . .