Chapter Eighteen
Rosalie
With Marcella gone and Theodore’s shoulders lowered, I take a minute to scan my surroundings. Maybe Andrew was right about my survival instincts, seeing as I felt no need to before. The couch behind me has a floral print that looks like it belongs to someone— not older than Theodore, but with more wrinkles. There’s a red throw blanket tossed over the back that was probably folded at some point but has since been disheveled. Deep oak accents every door frame and window, and the walls are half-paneled in a way that betrays the house’s age. On the walls are paintings, some small and square and others long or wide. Emily would have a field-day in here. There aren’t any that I recognize, but that’s not saying much. The bookshelf, on the other hand…
I gravitate towards it without entirely meaning to. It’s tall enough that I have to tilt my head back to see the top shelf and, like the other furniture, a deep wood. Well-loved paperbacks are jammed beside elegant hardcovers. There’s little organization that I can see, though the books on the third of eight shelves are less dusty than the others.
“It’s not my collection,” Theodore says quietly from behind me, “but I do indulge when I have the time. Less these days, I’m afraid.”
“For pleasure,” I mock, tracing my finger over the titles. “Whose collection is it?”
He exhales a laugh. “I thought you were tired.”
“Not too tired,” I say, and I know that he hears, Give me something. Give me anything. I’m not sure when I became so greedy for him, insatiable, craving his secrets without offering my own. Not the big one, at least. I don’t think he’d flee if he knew, but I hold my tongue anyway. If I could find the words to explain what happened that night, I would’ve done better in grief counseling.
“Her name was Cora.” He’s closer now, his breath ghosting the top of my head. “This was her house. She left it to me when she died.”
“Someone gave you a house? Were you exceptionally talented at mowing her lawn?”
"Something like that." He reaches over my shoulder and nudges a book from its place, pulling a cloud of dust with it. Les Grandes Espérances. “She was lonely. I kept her company until she passed. Peacefully," he amends quickly, "and in her sleep."
"I'm sorry," I say, turning to him. He doesn't step back, leaving only a whisper of space between us, an echo of the night on the fire escape. There’s less levity now, an anxiety like missing a train and catching the next one knowing we’re going to be late. Knowing we’ve let something pass. Knowing that whatever happens next will be worse than what would’ve happened before.
He skims his finger along my jaw, still holding the book in his other hand like putting it back would be a concession. “I’ve wondered often if my mother is the sole reason for suffering. If she no longer existed, would people still die? And if that’s true, am I selfish for not moving against her?”
“She’s still your mother.”
“She’s been many things, but never a mother.” He flicks his eyes over my shoulder and lays the book flat in front of the others instead of putting it back in place. “You’re hurt. I should’ve dealt with that first.”
“I’m fine.”
"And hungry. I could make you—"
"Stop reading my mind," I snap and immediately regret it when his fingers stutter on my skin. I try again, softer, "I'll tell you if you ask. Just ask."
His eyes droop in understanding. He traces a line down my chin and settles in the hollow of my throat like he's mapping the swallow he draws from me. "Are you hungry?"
I can't help myself; I catch his hand and squeeze it. "Famished."
Theo's foray into the pantry is less than successful, but he manages to scrounge up ingredients for a vegetarian chili. While he cooks, he tells me about Cora. She was bound to her deathbed when they met, apparently, but refused to go.
"She knew exactly who I was," he hums. "Told me that the devil himself would have to drag her to hell or else she wasn't going, stubborn old bat. She stuck around for three months after that. I visited every day. It was a nice respite from Az's lecturing and Marcella's," he frowns, ladling the steaming meal into a bowl, "Marcella-ing."
The kitchen, despite his claim that it’s been unused for almost two decades, is spotless. The counter tops and shelves above are wood, lightly scratched from misplaced knife strokes. A runner rug with a knotted fridge and a dated pattern rests on the aged hardwood between blue cabinets and the gas oven. The window above the sink is lined with potted plants that Andrew would’ve known the names of, all green and leafy and well-watered. Beyond is an oak tree that casts leaf-shaped shadows on the table before me, square and only big enough for two. There are fresh tulips arranged in a mason jar in the center.
Theo sets the bowl in front of me and takes his seat. His eyes are still an inconsolable navy.
“Do you miss him?” His mentor is a subject I haven’t dared to broach before, but I’ve asked him to ask, and it only seems fair to take my advice.
He drums his fingers on the table. “He’s in my mother’s pocket, same as Gemma. I’ve been made a fool before. Twice is poor intuition, but thrice would just be negligence.”
“But do you miss him?”
“I’m better off keeping my distance, and the people under his care are safer with me gone. How I feel about the situation doesn’t matter. That’s been made clear.”
“It matters to me.” I lap up the chili and blow on the spoon to cool it before allowing myself a bite. He can cook, and not just appetizers. I don’t know why that surprises me.
“Yes,” he sighs, “I do. But not enough.”
The house, it turns out, is more like a cottage. Once I finish eating, he leads me down a narrow hallway with a linen closet at the end and two doors opposite of each other: a bedroom and a bathroom. He props open the bedroom door, motioning for me to enter, and disappears across the hall to rummage through the medicine cabinet. The bed takes up most of the space even though it’s pushed against the window, and more flowerless plants hang on the ceiling and walls above it. Another bookshelf is pressed against the foot of the bed. I’d have to scramble over a mountain of folded blankets to reach it, which I do.
A picture frame with broken glass on the middle shelf catches my eye. Theo and a woman that could be his grandmother are sitting on a bench in front of a grove of trees. The sunset paints their faces pink. Theo is grinning, but the woman is scowling, frizzy grey hair smoothed back into a tight bun at the top of her head. His arm is around the woman, the other outstretched to take the picture. I cradle the photograph in my palms, sitting back with my legs tucked underneath me.
“Is this her?” I call over my shoulder. He shuffles into the doorway holding a jar of ointment and a swath of gauze.
“It is. One of the few times I got her to leave this house.”
“It’s broken.” I trace the cracks as if validating my own statement.
“It’s old.”
“You look the same.”
“I moisturize,” he deadpans, which I take as a request to return the picture to its place. “You’ll have to…” He gestures with the hand holding the bandages.
If he expects me to stammer, he doesn't know me well at all. I pull my shirt off and try not to wince when the fabric brushes the angry red skin on my shoulder, bubbling now with blisters. His mouth thins as he dips two fingers in the jar of ointment. I don't need to read his mind to know where his thoughts have gone.
"It's not your fault."
He sits next to me, slow like I'm a fox with my leg caught in a trap and he's working to undo it without startling me. His touch is feather-light, spreading a thin layer of the ointment on my skin. It smells like honey and grass. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's entirely my fault."
Arguing the point is useless. I won't be able to convince him, not today, so instead I say, "The rocking chair. How did you do that?"
The only sound is the slurping of his fingers in the jar, the brush of his fingers against my skin. Other than his tight lips and the smallest knit between his brows, his face is impassive. It stings a little, the pads of his fingers on the new blisters, but I don't flinch.
"Energy," he says finally, so quiet that I strain to hear him. "The universe is saturated with it. It's how I can read your thoughts, how I can travel in the space between this world and the next. When someone dies, their soul is… recycled." He shrugs, a tiny jerk of one shoulder. "Turned into sparks that Mortae can use for various purposes."
"Guiding souls gives you energy?"
"Mmm."
I try not to shift as he grazes a particularly tender spot. "That's a comforting thought."
His fingers pause at the edge of the burn, right where my shoulder meets my neck, whispering over uninjured skin. "Is it?"
"Nobody's ever really gone, then. Just returned, like water evaporating from the ocean and coming back as raindrops."
“The ocean is the ocean, though.” He wraps the bandage loosely around my shoulder, binding it underneath my armpit. I watch his gaze flick up towards the finger-shaped bruises on my neck, then to my eyes. “Nobody remembers one drop.”
I shrug, glad for his careful wrapping. The bandage doesn’t chafe. “Maybe the ocean remembers.”
He hands me my shirt. “Is it too tight?”
“It’s perfect.” Pulling the shirt over my head muffles my voice. “The power Marcella was talking about— that’s the energy you get from guiding souls?”
“Sort of.”
“And you don’t want it?”
"I want to be alive.” He looks away. “Since that’s impossible, I’ve decided to make my death as innocuous as I can.”
“What’s so bad about helping people to the afterlife?”
He rests his palm on my neck. Taps my chin with his thumb. “I will answer your questions, I promise. Just not today.”
I put my hand over his. “Just one question, then?” He nods, shifting away from me. “Are you alright?”
His exhale is so close to a laugh, so nearly himself that I mirror it. “No. Are you?”
“No.” I squeeze his hand. “But I’m glad that we’re— I’m glad I met you.”
The silence stretches between us like a sentient thing, like I could corral it if I leaned closer to him, if I tasted the words he won’t say, if I swallowed the words he does. “Get some rest.”
He’s gone before I can ask him to stay.