Within These Wicked Walls(20)

I tried my best to copy his motion, but twirling it with one hand was trickier than it looked.

Magnus took a bottle of wine out from under the table and uncorked it, pouring it far higher than one serving.

“How was your day?” I asked, to interrupt the silence. I knew from living with Jember so long what that much alcohol meant—physically, mentally, emotionally, it didn’t matter what. Something was hurting.

“It’s sweet of you to ask,” Magnus said. He took a swallow of the red liquid. “Unless you’re just making small talk, which to that I say: ‘Oh God, must we?’”

The corner of my mouth twitched into a grin. His strangeness was growing on me, I had to admit. “What would you like to talk about?”

“I don’t know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely. “What’s your favorite thing?”

“Pertaining to?”

“Pick something.”

“This sounds like small talk to me.”

Magnus choked on his wine and coughed for a moment.

I reached over and patted his back. “Are you all right, sir?”

He cleared his throat, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “The honesty that comes from your mouth is just astounding.”

“You can’t be so used to being lied to.”

Magnus chewed on his lip. “Peggy means well. My social circle back in England was violently against my inability to pass as White, so she’s very protective. Not to mention I had no parents.”

The pasta I tried to pick up with my hand slipped back onto the plate. “I’m sorry.”

He tried to speak, then abruptly held up his finger as he finished chewing his mouthful of pasta. “Oh, don’t be. I had plenty of wealth to keep me warm. And besides, seeing as I was to inherit my father’s company anyway, Peggy allowed me to abandon school and tour the Continent. Six months in Spain, eight months in Germany. Then I came here to see my father, but he was extremely unaccommodating, so I stayed with Esjay for a month and moved on.”

His tone made me pause. “I don’t think your father meant it personally. He was protecting you, I’m sure.”

“Don’t assign my father character traits he never possessed.” He looked uncomfortable for a second, then abruptly said, “Anyway, after that I traveled anywhere the food was good.”

“I can relate,” I said, pasta slipping off my tool as I attempted to lift it to my mouth. “Most of my decisions are based on food.”

He grinned. “I’m not surprised. Food here is an experience.”

“If you enjoy the experience, why don’t you host coffee ceremonies?”

He took a thoughtful sip of wine. “They take too long. I don’t have the patience.”

Well, at least he was aware of it.

“Life isn’t about instant gratification,” I said, trying and failing to lift more pasta.

“You poor thing, have you never used a fork? Let me show you.”

Magnus leaned over to my plate, and my heart tripped as I moved my hand away before his hand could touch mine.

He picked up my—what had he called it? Fork?—his thick brows lowering over his eyes like a shadow, and began twirling pasta. “Are you afraid of me, Andromeda?”

I smirked before I could stop myself. “Who could possibly be afraid of you?”

His twirling slowed. “You’re afraid of something.”

He held the fork out to me, but for a long moment I couldn’t think to take it. I wanted to run. Hide behind the wall. Put on an extra shirt. Anything to hide what he was seeing … anything to hide my soul.

I never could summon the will to take the fork from him, and so he laid it on my plate with a glassy tink. He leaned back into his own chair, his mouth twitching—whether from a smile or a grimace, I couldn’t tell. “I thought I would like having company for dinner, but you’re just a little storm cloud, aren’t you. Don’t you know how to have fun?”

“Fun?” I repeated, still a bit disoriented.

“Yes, fun. What do you enjoy?”

I blinked a few times to be sure I wasn’t imagining this entire evening. I had emotional whiplash, not to mention I hadn’t even tasted a bite of this impossible-to-eat food. “Is there a point you’re trying to make, sir?”

“Point? I’m making conversation.”

I gripped the arms of my chair, digging my nails into the cold wood, and took a deep breath. Part of me knew he was right, the other was sick of his constant, invasive questions. But he had gifted me those chocolates. He was trying. I could at least meet him halfway. “I enjoy constructing amulets.”

“How old are you—fifty?—that all you enjoy is work?”

“You asked. I answered.”

Magnus held up his hands. “No need to get defensive. I’ve just never met someone who doesn’t have, you know, hobbies.”

I locked my jaw, shutting myself up before the words could flow out of me.

I was good with a knife because I had no choice. Quiet on my feet to stay out of sight, to avoid adversaries I knew I couldn’t overpower. Every skill I’d learned was to increase my chances of survival. But how could a boy who spent hours drawing pictures and playing music simply because he enjoyed it ever understand my point of view?