“She wasn’t acting like herself. Last time she was awful to me, and this time she was too cheerful. And she stared a lot. It was unnerving.”
“I don’t blame her for staring.”
I smack his shoulder. “A grandmother doesn’t stare for the same reason that a man likeyouwould stare.”
“A man like me.” His voice drops nearly an octave, its richness and heat permeating my bones. “You know me so well, do you, squirrel?”
“Oh gods, tell me that’s not going to be a nickname of mine now,” I groan.
“You seem to hate it. So yes. Yes, it will.”
“Fuck you.” I shove his shoulder again.
“So ungrateful.” The corners of his eyes crease as he grins. “I should leave you here among your own kind.”
A chill traces through my bones as I imagine the other things that dwell in this forest—squirrels with scorpion tails, wolves on tall legs, unhinged men with bristly hair and bulging eyes.
“My kind,” I murmur.
“Yes. The squirrels. Although come to think of it, I haven’t seen any squirrels, nor any birds either. This is rather an odd forest, isn’t it?”
“It used to be pretty,” I reply. “But I think it’s haunted now… or possessed, which is worse.”
He doesn’t reply, but a muscle tightens near his jaw, where his beard fades into his cheek. His hair is pinned over one ear again, fastened with a gold barrette in the shape of a honeybee. Gold studs and tiny sapphires follow the curve of his ear, and a long earring drips from his lobe, featuring tiny gold moons and stars along a silver chain. The earring swings with each step he takes. I reach up and catch it between my thumb and finger.
“You’re lovely,” I tell him.
“Am I?” His jawline hardens beneath the beard.
I pull back a bit so I can look at him more directly. “Why does it upset you when I say that? You know you’re handsome.”
“You haven’t asked me the obvious question yet,” he says. “Everyone does eventually. We may as well get it over with.”
“Why couldn’t I have met you sooner?” I ask. “That question?”
He chuckles. “No. The beard. Do you dye it or is it natural, why is it blue, what’s your real hair color—any variation of those.”
I shrug, tipping my head against his shoulder. “I don’t care.”
“Surely you must be curious. Everyone is curious about everything. They want to know where I came from, where I lived before this, why I bought the estate, where I got my money, where the gardener went, when can they come to dinner again, why do I hold parties on the grounds of the estate but never in my house—”
He’s practically growling the questions, not really addressing me, just grumbling.
“Humans are inquisitive creatures,” I say.
“Is there a cure for it?”
“For curiosity?”
“Yes. It’s a plague,” he says earnestly. “It’s a sore, a cancer, a poison. It’s the acid that eats away at happiness and erodes trust. Don’t you wish we could put an end to questions and simply exist? Don’t you agree that it’s usually better not to know everything? Sometimes secrets are a necessity. Secrets can be the safeguards of happiness.”
I consider my own life, how hard I’ve worked to control my ability, for two reasons. Firstly, I want to spare those around me from shock, embarrassment, or danger, and secondly, I want to keep anyone else from finding out about what I can do. This whole time, I’ve been trying to conceal my secret from Beresford because its revelation could snip the bloom off this tender new thing that’s blossoming between us.
“I think I agree with you,” I admit. “Sometimes secrets are best left alone.”
“Trust is paramount.” His tone is fierce, almost urgent. “When you have trust, you can allow others to keep their secrets.”
“But how can you build trust without knowing another person completely?”
