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48. A Severed Head, Started A Love Story – Lazarus

Dying to Love

I am excellent at many things. Murder. Disguise. Dramatic entrances. Philosophical speeches no one appreciates properly. Finding the most expensive wine in a cellar without being told where it is hidden. Romance, however, requires planning. This is unfortunate, as planning is Alcott’s domain, and Alcott considers romance most successful when it involves either candles, explosives, or making Edward deeply uncomfortable.

“We need something elegant,” I say.

Alcott stands in the center of Olive’s dining room with three tablecloths draped over one arm, a bouquet of crimson flowers in his other hand, and a smudge of soot on his cheek, “Define elegant.”

“Beautiful. Intimate. Meaningful.”

“Ah.” He nods solemnly. “So no fireworks?”

I pause furrowing my brow. “Alcott.”

“I am only asking for clarity.”

“No fireworks,” I order.

“A small spark?”

“No.”

“A symbolic flame?”

“We have candles,” I state, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Candles are domesticated fire.”

“Yes,” Alcott says. “That is why people trust them near curtains.”

I glance at the long table. It looks wrong, extremely too formal. Too stiff, too many chairs, as if we are expecting parliament instead of celebrating the peculiar anniversary of the night Olive walked into the Afton workshop, Jack the Ripper lost his head, Edward discovered his secret luncheon companion had been the Widow, and the rest of us became spectacularly doomed.

I tilt my head. “Perhaps the table should go.”

Alcott looks at me. “The table?”

“Yes.”

“For dinner?” Alcott looks at me as if I have lost my mind.

“Yes.”

“You want to remove the dining table from the dining room for a romantic dinner?”

“It is too oppressive.”

“It is mahogany.”

“Precisely.”

Alcott stares at the table as if weighing whether mahogany can, in fact, be emotionally oppressive.

Then his eyes brighten. “I agree.”

This is how the trouble begins. Within twenty minutes, we have shoved the table halfway across the room, knocked over one vase, frightened a maid, misplaced the silverware, and discovered that the rug beneath the table is significantly uglier than Olive deserves.

“This rug is a crime,” Alcott says.

“I have murdered for less.”