Rooke’s head lowered, gaze forward, as he stalked closer to his prey. He moved with a deadly elegance—every step calculated, precise, and quiet. The deer was too close to the road to allow any mistakes. Eyes locked on the deer, he made no unnecessary motions. Breathing shallow, controlled.
Then, just before he was about to strike, the deer lifted its head, suddenly aware it was being watched. It made a leap forward just a fraction of a second before Rooke struck. Three more leaps and it was on the road, beyond the bounds of Rooke’s forest.
Rooke let out a frustrated growl as he watched it dart into the woods across the road, where it joined two more deer. They would have kept him fed for a whole month.
The sun was starting to rise, the night dissolving into day. Still, Rooke kept hunting despite knowing that nothing would venture into his woods in the daytime.
At last, desperation drove him back to his own manor, to the basement level where the dungeon with a single cell and several storage rooms sat. There, at least he knew he would find rats.
Shoulders sagged, head lowered, he stood in the middle of the floor. The rats basically ran to him, sensing no fear. They were almost eager to sacrifice themselves—filth drawn to filth.
One after the other, he tore open the rats, each of them containing barely a mouthful. The taste nearly had him hurling. But he would do this. For her, he would.
When he managed no more, the pile of rat corpses next to him was considerable. The blood sat heavy in his stomach, threatening to roil up any moment, but Rooke steeled himself against it. His cursed body was capable of great things. He would not let himself be defeated by rat blood. Not when it bought him at least another day.
Limbs heavy with exhaustion, Rooke dragged himself upstairs. The pale light of an overcast day slanted into the entrance hall, doing a poor job of fighting off the gloom of his manor. But he did not need light to know her.
Rooke had started to recognize Corabeth by her movements. Her quiet steps, as if she were trying to remain unnoticed. The wringing of her hands when she was nervous, the knuckles cracking so noiselessly a normal person would have missed it. Her loose hair whispering against the fabric of her dress. Even if there were a hundred other people there, he would have recognized her by her little sounds alone.
“Rooke!” Corabeth delighted, surprise washing over her features. He wondered if she herself had noticed how much she had changed. The brown of her eyes shone as if lit from within. The shadows underneath her eyes had retreated, and her cheeks were fuller. She was brimming with life.
“Corabeth,” Rooke said in greeting with a slight nod.
There was a pause. Corabeth shifted on her feet, tucking her hands behind her. A slight crack. She was wringing her hands again. Some words wanted to tumble out that she bit back, teeth sinking into her lower lip, which was a darker pink from the raspberry jam she had just eaten. Rooke could smell it on her breath.
“Are you well?” Rooke asked.
“Yes, very well,” Corabeth nodded. At last finding her courage, she continued, “I have been wondering… The house is so terribly big, and I’ve only seen a handful of rooms. That is… If it’s not too much, would you show me some more of it?”
Rooke almost smiled, feeling his exhaustion dissipate. She had grown curious. “Of course. What would you like to see?”
“Whatever you’re willing to show me,” she said with a shrug, peering up at him with her big, round eyes. “It’s just that… I don’t know much about you. And I can’t help but feel like the rooms would be like little glimpses into your life.”
Rooke’s breath almost caught in his throat. She had grown curious abouthim.
“This was your family home, correct?” she continued.
“Yes,” Rooke said with a nod and motioned for them to go up the stairs. He was not prepared for this. He had not visited most of these rooms himself in many decades. They were an unpleasant reminder of a life he would never get back. But perhaps this was exactly what he needed. Perhaps there he might find the remnants of his humanity that he could cling to.
Corabeth trailed behind him as he led them down the hall to the manor’s right wing. Until they came to a closed door that was no different from the others. Rooke prepared himself for just a moment before he pushed it open.
“This was my playroom,” Rooke said as he walked across the dust-covered floor. One side of the room still had toys strewn across it—wooden blocks, a faded rocking horse, a roly-poly, a spinning top—as if a child just got up from playing with them. He had played with them; he knew this, but they seemed strange to him now. As if someone else’s.
“And later, I was schooled here,” Rooke said, pointing to the other side of the room where a single desk and chair sat. On the wall before it was a chalkboard that still bore some faded markings from its last lesson.
Corabeth walked in, a small smile playing on her lips as she viewed the items, her skirt stirring up the dust. Her gaze jumped from toy to toy before it landed on Rooke.
“How come it’s all still here?” she asked.
Rooke strained to remember. It was strange, wasn’t it, to keep the toys when the only son was already a grownup?
“My mother,” he said, remembering, “She was hoping for another child. But my father considered her marital duties fulfilled when she gave him a son. She still hoped, though.”
Corabeth’s features turned somber. “What happened to her?”
This, Rooke did not need to strain to remember. “Her husband had just died, and her son had turned into a monster. She took her own life, and I’m glad of it. That way, I didn’t have to bear the guilt of tearing her apart as well. The servants weren’t so lucky,” he said, watching Corabeth’s face for a reaction.
Her lips parted to draw in a silent breath before she clamped her mouth shut again and swallowed. But she did not look away.
