Harper hurried to reseat herself, flipping open the book to the page they’d instructed.Blood of Thine Father. Her eyebrows drew together. The thick, leather-bound book was a collection of novella-length stories, all written in some early, archaic form of English, but one she was able to parse easily enough. It was a tale of vengeance and loss and ultimate victory, and as the tea cart arrived, bearing a steaming pot and a small three-tiered tray of sweets and savories, the rest of the afternoon passed in wonder.
Cucumber cream cheese rounds and salmon puffs, a lavender-iced cream scone, and a steaming hot pot. She wondered again if the cat would notice if she simply tucked into the shadows and declined to leave at closing.
She was happy to let someone else be in charge for a change. She enjoyed the book and, surprisingly, enjoyed the smoky tea. It didn’t have a flavor she particularly liked and it certainly wasn’t something she would have chosen for herself, but that hadn’t mattered as she’d read, tasting the flintiness of steel kissing steel, the coldness of the dungeon keep and the rain pelting her face as she finally made it to freedom at the story’s end, father avenged and family honor restored. The flavor of the aged tea had enhanced the setting, the savories were nibbled anxiously, and her scone enjoyed during the story’s tender moments. It was the sort of book her father would have enjoyed, and she was glad she was there in the strange little tearoom to enjoy it in his stead, instead of bobbing along in the glass-like sea of despair.
It was strange, she thought — talking about him with the menu had poked the narrowest pinprick into the thick callus of her grief, a sliver of light over the horizon of her ocean. As she packed her bag that day, she did so with a smile tugging her lips, the first time she could remember smiling without forcing her mouth into the action in she couldn’t remember how long.
“I hope you’ll be back soon,” the voice whispered as she gathered her things that day, bringing heat to her cheeks at its nearness.
“I will,” she quickly agreed. “And-and thank you for the recommendation. It was perfect.”
Harper turned out of the tea shop, and instead of heading back in the direction of the trolley stop, she turned the other way up the street, looping around the block. There was a lingerie boutique and a small ‘coming soon’ placard in a window bearing a leaping black rabbit. A jeweler, a small clothing boutique, and a bevy of restaurants, including a dim sum quick service counter that provided the dumplings she purchased for dinner.
You used to make your own, and they were so good. You should pull out the steamer baskets and find a recipe. Maybe this week.
It was the first time she could remember in weeks that she did not head home with lead feet. She was pleased with her tentative explorations as she boarded the trolley that would take her back to Oldetowne and vowed to turn up the other block the following afternoon.Who knows? Maybe you can get a job in one of these little shops.
As she came home from her nightly walk through the twilight-lit streets of the neighborhood that evening, the sight of her mother’s house didn’t fill her with dread as she walked up the gravel, kicking aside some rocks that had been disturbed at her front door. As she did so, Harper felt something dislodge from around her foot, as if a part of her boot had been kicked away. There was nothing there, but she nearly rolled her ankle on one of the stones, annoyingly scattered across the pathway as if something had been digging beside her front door.Probably chipmunks.
It had been, she thought with another small smile, dropping exhaustedly onto her loveseat, a surprisingly good day, the first she could remember having since her world had upended.Tomorrow, maybe you’ll stop for a coffee first; people watch a bit. These are your neighbors, after all. And then you let the little cat sit you wherever it wants. Clearly, they know better.
Normally, admitting she knew less than a small, bossy cat would be humiliating, another mark of imperfection and failure . . . but in this case, it only made her smile broadly, wondering what tea she’d be served tomorrow.
OOTD:Ribbedcottonmidi-lengthslip dress and flip flops. Evil eye talisman hairpin. Satin Raven lipstain. Owl head handbag. Fun, fresh, fabulous.
There was a man knocking at her door.
Harper flattened herself to the wall at the first rap of his knuckles to the wood, her heart thumping, relieved she’d been in the small kitchen at the time instead of her normal place curled on the sofa. In general, the presence of a stranger knocking at her door would not have been enough to induce her panic — it wasn’t as if she didn’t do most of her shopping online, after all. But this man was knocking at her back door, the back door to her little cottage, when the main house was looming just ahead.
That meant he had to walk past the house and around the side of the cottage. He’s probably trying to break in. She’d listened to enough true crime podcasts to know that being home during a daytime home invasion was a one-way ticket to her remains being found in an abandoned field, identifiable only through dental records.And that orthodontist was a quack, so who even knows what your dental records say.
She might laugh at herself later, but at that moment, gripping a steak knife and sliding down the wall seemed the most prudent course of action.Get on the ground. People only pay attention to things at eye level. Put yourself beneath that, and he won’t even notice you until you’re slicing his ankle open with the steak knife.
Peeking around the short partition from where she knelt on the kitchen floor, she hoped the man had given up, but he was still there — a black-clad figure, only slightly visible through the sidelight windows . . . windows he, she realized in horror, was bending to peer through. Black hair and a close-cropped beard, his nose practically pressed to the wavy, century-old glass as he looked into her home, his gaze immediately casting down. He exclaimed triumphantly, and she squeaked, their eyes meeting through the window from where she peered up from the floor, caught out, despite her best effort.See, this is the problem. Even your best effort is trash.
For several long moments, Harper remained as still as a statue, wondering if she could pass herself off a creepy doll left abandoned on the floor. Her hopes were dashed as the man knocked insistently, staring at her through the window. She groaned, admitting defeat as she pushed herself back to an upright position, tightening her grip on the knife.
“The state of the world is in sorry shape,” the man began the instant the door cracked open, “if lurking on the floor is preferable to greeting a neighbor.”
Harper stiffened at his brazen audacity.You open the door for an uninvited stranger, and there’s a lecture waiting on the other side. Fucking typical.
“You know,” he went on peevishly, “a generation ago, people used to actually come to the door when there was someone knocking.”
“Yeah, and serial killers were prevalent at the exact same time. I wonder why. Were you banging on my back door for a reason? Or just to be a bit of a dick?” He scowled, and she glowered, his lip peeling back slightly to reveal over-long canines, as her hand tightened around the handle of her knife.
“This is the front door, girl. See? Sidelights, decorative mullions. Look at the scroll work on those hinges.” He sniffed imperiously, and Harper wondered if she had just cause at that point to slash him with the steak knife. Twisting out the door, she examined the decorative hinges he called out, frowning when she realized he was right.
“Hey!” She yelped as the man pulled the door open and elbowed past her, letting himself into her home as confidently as if he were the one who lived there.A strange man just forced his way into your house, stab him! There’s no jury that would convict you!The man glanced back as if he could hear her thoughts, eyes flashing, thoroughly unconcerned.Unconcerned because he’s probably about to pull out a recipe to cook your liver.
To add insult to injury, he had the nerve to be handsome. He was average height, with pale skin and sharp cheekbones, thick raven-colored hair, his eyes lined in jet, head-to-toe immaculate goth aesthetic, right down to the silver serpent latchets on his black boots.Great, so he’s an attractive serial killer. I’m pretty sure they all work the same way.
The only thing about him that gave her significant pause — aside from the fact that he’d just forced his way into her home, completely uninvited — were his eyes. Citrine green, striking, and completely inhuman. Cat-like. Harper gulped. She’d seen eyes like his before, saw them every time she was forced into her mother’s home.Fucking Ilea.
“Anyway,” he breezed, as casually as if they’d been making small talk about the weather. “I’m looking for Mau. They’re a contemporary of mine.”
“Yeah, I don’t know who that is.” Harper shrugged, attempting to block him from making it any further into the cottage. “Guess you ought to be going.” He ducked around her easily.
“I always loved this house,” the man hummed, turning slowly, completely ignoring her. “It’s been years since I’ve been inside.”
