The King (The Original Sinners: White Years, #2) by Tiffany Reisz
Dedicated to all the girls with short hair and all the boys with long hair. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. All men dream, but not equally. Those who dream by night, in the dusty recesses of their minds, wake in
the day to find that it was vanity: but the dreamers of
the day are dangerous men, for they may act on their dreams with open eyes, to make them possible.
—Lawrence of Arabia
1
Somewhere in London 2013
KINGSLEY EDGE WAS PLAYING GOD TONIGHT. HE hoped the real God, if He did exist, wouldn’t mind. He’d told his driver to let him out a few blocks before his destination. Warm air, a late-April rain and a little English magic had sent a soft white fog twisting and f licking its tail down winding streets, and Kingsley wanted to enjoy it. He wore a long coat and carried a leather weekender bag over his shoulder. It was late, and although the city was still awake, it kept its voice down. The only sounds around him came from the soles of his shoes echoing against the wet and shining pavement and the distant murmur of city traffic.
When he arrived at the door he knocked without hesitation. After a pause, it opened.
They stared at each other a full five seconds before one of them spoke. Kingsley took it upon himself to break the silence. “I’m the last person you were expecting to see again, oui?”
Kingsley asked.
He expected the shock and he expected the silence, but he
didn’t expect what happened next.
He didn’t expect Grace Easton to step onto the porch in
her soft gray robe and bare feet and wrap him in her arms. “If I’d known this is how the Welsh say ‘hello,’ I would have
visited sooner,” Kingsley said. Grace pulled back from the embrace and smiled at him, her bright turquoise eyes gleaming. “You’re always welcome here.” Grace’s words were tender,
her accent light and musical. She took his arm and ushered
him into the house. “Always.”
Always…a lovely word. He never used to believe in words
like always, like forever, like everything. Now at forty-eight he’d
lived long enough he could see both ends of his life. Always.
There might be something to it after all.
“Zachary’s asleep,” Grace said in a whisper as she took his
coat, hung it up, and guided him into a cozy living room. “He
gets up at five every morning, so he goes to bed at a reasonable hour. I prefer the unreasonable hours myself.” “You’re the night owl?”
“It works for us,” she said with a smile. “I can get work
done after Zachary and Fionn fall asleep. Would you like tea?
I can put the kettle on. Or something stronger?”
“I brought my own something stronger,” he said. He unzipped his weekender bag and offered her a bottle of
wine. She examined the label.
“Rosanella Syrah,” she said. “Never had it before.” “It’s from my son’s winery. Best Syrah I’ve ever tasted.” “Not that you’re biased or anything,” she said with a
wink. She went to fetch wineglasses and a corkscrew from
the kitchen, and Kingsley looked around. Zachary and Grace
Easton lived in a small two-story brick house that made up
one of many in a row of neat but narrow accommodations.
It was an older neighborhood, a bit shabby but safe and clean
from what he could see. Inside the house was the picture of quiet domesticity. Intelligent educated people lived here. And
one very special baby.
“Am I interrupting anything?” Kingsley asked when Grace
returned with the wineglasses. He took the corkscrew from
her and opened the bottle. Grace had a low fire glowing in
the fireplace and a table lamp on. Gentle light. Kingsley felt
instantly at ease here.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” she said, and Kingsley saw stacks
of papers on the pale green sofa. He took a seat in the armchair
opposite her and crossed one leg over his knee. She curled up
into a ball, her knees to her chest, her bare feet sticking out
from the bottom of the robe. Her long red hair was knotted at the nape of her neck in a loose and elegant bun. In the
soft light of the room she radiated a delicate beauty. A vision,
freckles and all. How had he not noticed before how lovely
she was? Of course, the one and only occasion they’d been in
each other’s company, he’d been preoccupied, to say the least. “You’re grading papers?” Kingsley asked.
“No, I’m still on maternity leave,” she said. Next to her on
the table sat a baby monitor. “These are proofs of my book.
Nothing exciting. Only poetry.” She held up a printed title
page that read Rooftop Novenas.
“You’re writing again?” Kingsley asked. He remembered
from her file she’d had a few poems published in her early
twenties.
“I am,” she said, smiling shyly. “I don’t know what it is…
As soon as I was pregnant with Fionn I had so much creative
energy. Couldn’t stop writing. Zachary’d thought I’d lost my