Page 47 of How I Met Your Murderer

Fiachra, the perpetually tipsy wine steward spirit, was hardly a problem these days, so there were no spills that Raff could slip on and further injure his leg. I checked before he was even halfway down the stairs. Then I focused on Jordy and Basil, who stood noticeably close for two people just arguing about shelf labels.

“They should be alphabetical,” Basil insisted, tapping the wooden shelf like he was scolding it. His dark brown hair had a tangle of cobweb in it.

“If you don’t like my system, come out with it and tell me plain,” Jordy huffed. “I was trying to come up with something more flexible that the staff can use.”

“In your case, ‘flexible’ is just another word for wrong,” Basil shot back.

Returning to Raff on the stairs, I whispered, “They’re flirting again. Practically holding hands.”

Raff shook his head. Then he called down, “You two doing all right, then?”

“Fine,” Basil said gruffly. “Perfectly splendid, in fact.”

“That’s right,” Jordy echoed. “Just a whole lot of boring label reading. Tell Caoimhe we might be a little while, though. This is pretty intense work.”

“Tell them they make a good team,” I whispered into the curve of Raff’s ear.

He hesitated, a muscle in his jaw twitching. And then he said it.

Basil fussed with the collar of his shirt, and Jordy smiled. Raff’s satisfaction at that was like a warm pulse beside me—faint, but real.

Together, we made our way back to the kitchen, and I watched as Raff put together a quick snack. I didn’t ask him to eat for me this time, but as soon as he sat down at a small table out of the way and took a bite of his chicken sandwich, he nudged me with his boot and murmured, “All right. First thing: the bread. It’s soft, but the crust has that little bit of chew. Like it’s hugging everything together.”

I tried to remember the sensation of bread hugging itself around something warm. I couldn’t quite remember the taste, but I knew the feeling. The idea of being held together.

He took another bite, slower this time, eyes fixed on nothing as he chewed with obvious concentration. Putting on a show for me.

“The chicken’s gorgeous,” he said, voice dropping in a way that would have had my body reacting if it could. “The coating’s nice and crisp. Not too much, but just enough to crackle. And the inside’s juicy. Like . . . all the comfort of Sunday dinner at gran’s.”

I couldn’t taste what he described, but I could feel it in the way he did—by the warmth in his voice, the way his broad shoulders loosened, the way the lights in the kitchen softened around him as if they felt it, too.

“There’s pepper in the seasoning,” he went on, licking away a crumb at the corner of his mouth. “And the lettuce is cold against the hot chicken. So you get this contrast of warm and cool. Like a hot day with a sea breeze. The lettuce is crunchy, too. And fresh. It’s certainly trying its best.”

I laughed, the sound distorting the air between us. Only Raff would give lettuce a personality.

“This roll tastes like . . . being a kid again and getting something lovely from the shop after school. Like home. Like something you didn’t know you were missing, something you didn’t realize was meant just for you until it was staring you in the face.”

His eyes caught on mine as I focused on manifesting solidly in front of him. His cheeks flushed, throat still working overtime to swallow a bite.

“I know exactly what you mean, All Star,” I told him, slow and intentional.

He pressed his lips together, chewing on something he looked to be on the verge of saying, when Jordy and Basil emerged from the cellar looking suspiciously pleased with themselves.

I vanished before they could see that Raff wasn’t alone. Even if I could look real enough to pass as alive, I didn’t want anyone giving him a hard time about something—someone—he wasn’t prepared to explain. Much as I wished he was.

Glancing at Jordy, Raff said, in a would‑be casual voice, “You two should take a break after all that, uh, very intense label work. Go grab a coffee. They make a great lavender oat milk latte in the village.”

“Together?” Basil asked, smoothing the tailored suit jacket he wore every day, no matter the occasion. It was decidedly more wrinkled than it had been when they descended into the cellar. He tried to flatten one lapel, failed, and went pink.

“If you want, we could take my car,” Jordy said, voice wobbling between hopeful and terrified. “It’s, uh, clean. Maybe just a few gremlins in there.”

Basil’s eyes flicked up to his, softening. “I don’t mind a little chaos. As long as we can pick up some allergy medication for the hives.”

Jordy’s grin could have powered every light in the castle, the village, and possibly half the county.

Once they were far enough away, I muttered, “We’re unstoppable.”

Raff shook his head, but he was smiling, really smiling, for the first time all day. “That is how you’d see it, Mr. Brightside. But you’re right.” Softer, he added, “I’d be a fool not to admit what’s staring me right in the face . . .”