“Wait, you have internet connection here? You mean to tell me I could have been keeping myself entertained in ways that don't involve staring out windows or walking in the woods?”
“In theory. But you don't have a device, and I try to keep my time online to a minimum.”
I roll my eyes, slumping back against the couch. “You would.”
“Suit yourself. Be bored, then.” He shrugs and picks up a book from the coffee table, the leather binding smooth and well-worn. He gestures to the wall of shelves again in offering before sinking into an armchair and cracking open the dark green, leather-bound book.
I stare at him until I realize he’s not going to speak any more, but instead of picking up a book of my own, I ask, “What are you reading?”
He lifts his gaze to where I’m still standing in the middle of the room. “Poetry.”
I snort, then realize he's being serious. The thought of this dark, intimidating man reading poetry is ridiculous. “You're reading poetry? Seriously?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You don't strike me as the poetry type.”
“And what type would that be?" His long fingers wrap around the book as if he’s holding something fragile, and I pretend not to notice the way he seems to almost caress the edges of the cover.
“Oh, I don't know. Empathetic, in tune with their emotions, not committing frequent acts of murder…”
“To be fair, some of the best poets have been ones known for their debauchery.” His lips quirk up at the corners, and for a moment, I can almost forget what he is. What webothare.
“Whatever.” I wave him off, trying to ignore the way the firelight catches in his eyes, turning them into burning coals. “So what poems are you reading then?”
“This one happens to be a personal collection of some of my favorites.”
“But why wouldn’t you read a real book? Like something with a story?”
“Some of thesedohave a story,” he retorts.
I can’t say I’m an expert on poetry—probably because I actively avoid it as much as possible in favor ofactualbooks—but I can’t imagine there’s any world where reading a poem would be more fun than picking up a fiction novel.
Ambrose must be able to tell that I’m not at all convinced, because he goes on. “Poetry is a lot more than what you might think,” he explains. “And I’d be willing to bet there’s some you’d enjoy.”
“I don’t know about all that. ‘Tolerate’ may be a better word than ‘enjoy.’”
“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” he says, his eyes gleaming with the challenge. “Let me read you this one.” His deft fingers immediately begin flipping through the pages, with him clearly having a certain poem in mind.
“Ugh, what did I do to deserve such torture?” I say with a dramatic flourish, even as I sit down on floor next to the fireplace and snag a blanket from the couch to wrap around my shoulders.
“If you hate it, I’ll never say a word about poetry to you again.”
“Deal.”
He clears his throat. “This one is calledThe Highwaymanby Alfred Noyes.”
His voice is low but clear over the sound of the crackling fire.
“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding?—
Riding—riding?—
