The Game of Love and Death(76)

“That seems a waste,” she said.

“What are you doing in here?” Ethan picked up the fruit, which stained his shaking fingertips.

“Goodness, that looks like blood.” She didn’t look as though she minded.

“I was hungry.” He was in no mood for teasing.

She walked closer, the heels of her shoes tapping like bones.

“Where’ve you been?” She lifted a cherry out of the bowl, popped it into her mouth, and pulled the curving stem between her lips. She closed her eyes as she stripped the pit of fruit before spitting it into her palm.

“Out,” Ethan said. He crossed his arms and felt the edges of the book under his right hand.

“So mysterious.” She stepped closer to Ethan, looking up at him through her eyelashes. Her voice cracked. “Come on, you can tell me. I’ll take your secrets to the grave. I’m lonely here, Ethan. I could use a friend. Someone a bit more sophisticated than Annabel.”

“We’ll never be friends. I don’t trust you.” He uncrossed his arms.

“Whatever have I done that makes me seem untrustworthy?” She put a hand on his chest, right where the book was. “If only you knew the things I’ve done, you’d never worry about anyone’s opinion of you again.”

Ethan moved her hand away and ate a cherry. It was a good one: just the right amount of give between his teeth, its flavor balanced between sweet and tart. Simple and perfect, just as it was. He could not point to any specific untrustworthy thing Helen had done, and he felt himself softening toward her. If truth be told, his behavior — his predilections — were far more scandalous than anything in Helen’s past. If people knew … The thought made him want to choke.

Ethan looked at Helen and recognized the lonely aspect of himself. “Put a few more cherries into the bowl,” he said, offering her his arm. “We’ll eat them in the library.”

She smiled, and Ethan thought it a pity he could never love her, not in that way. It didn’t mean that they couldn’t be allies of a sort. The wiser part of him knew he should wait until Henry had time to read him the book. But Henry would be disappointed in Ethan if he knew what had happened with James. Worse than disappointed. It might end their friendship.

Helen caught his gaze. “We’re going to be the best of friends, Ethan,” she said. “For the rest of your life.”

He pushed away the rising feeling of dread. “I found a book.”

“Books are dull,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather play a game?”

“It’s an interesting one. I’d love to hear you read aloud from it.” Such a thin request. Surely she’d see through it and realize his illiteracy. But he had to know what it said, and he could stop her if James had written anything too scandalous.

“Oh, all right,” Helen said. “It has been a tedious evening. I’ll read it — with feeling. But perhaps we should invite your parents to join us. Make a show of it.”

“No! — That is to say, it would be much more fun if it were just the two of us, don’t you think? If it’s worth sharing, we can always do that later.”

“Whatever you’d like, cousin,” Helen said. “I’m all yours.”





FOR thousands of years, Love had filled the book. Death knew this, and yet she’d never been tempted to look inside for fear of what had been written about her. It was one thing to do what she had to do. It was another thing to see it on the page, especially through the eyes of her enemy.

“Where shall we sit?” She looked at Ethan’s bare wrist. She could make him feel better, temporarily and then permanently, with a touch. She ached to show him his life so that he could see the beauty in it.

“How about there?” Ethan interrupted her thoughts, gesturing toward a hand-carved love seat covered in crimson velvet, the one style of furniture she found amusing above all others. On more than one occasion, she’d turned one into a death seat.

“The perfect choice.” She fought her urge to kill Ethan on the spot. “And so cozy.”

Ethan helped her sit. He reached into his pocket and produced the book. It was a lovely object.

“Where did you get this?” She traced the intricate cover. Love had an eye for beauty and a way of transforming the simple into the spectacular.

Ethan faced her, the barest bit of moonlight on his face. In the long, silent war with time, his beauty would give way. His skin, now smooth, would pucker and sag. Dark spots would mottle its edges. His clear eyes would grow rheumy, as yellow tinged the whites and cataracts muddied his irises. Wouldn’t it be a gift to deliver his beauty whole, before time had done its damage?

He cleared his throat and looked away, the liar. “I — I found it.”

“On the street?”

“Something like that.” He blushed.

“And you haven’t looked inside? Perhaps the owner wrote his name. Or hers. This is a fairly feminine cover, don’t you think?” She took it from him.

“It is fancy. I wouldn’t say feminine.” Ethan swallowed. “I looked inside, but I didn’t see a name.”

“The curiosity is killing me.” Death opened the book. “Hmm.”

“What? What does it say?”

She’d only fed something to a mind a few times. And that was just a few memories, most recently the scene of Flora’s parents’ death. What would the entire book do? Possibly kill Ethan, or drive him mad. She closed her fingers around his wrist.