Page 77 of On Edge

He shrugs. “That’s how business goes. Hopefully, now that there’s no one left, there won’t be any more tragedies.” He lets out a breath and drinks a mouthful of his whiskey.

Tragedies.Like what happened to Nell. My heart pounds as I wonder if this is his way of confessing. I glance at the bottle of White Hart that was unopened when it was brought over. It’s now half full.

“Do you mean the curse?” I ask softly, proud when my voice doesn’t waver.

For the first time since we sat down, Troy’s composure cracks slightly. He stares right at me, eyes slightly glazed from the alcohol.

“There is no curse.”

“But the locals?—”

He takes a mouthful of his drink and then sighs. “Fleet loves to make up old wives’ tales and superstitions. You know that, you grew up here.”

I do know that. Bad things always happen in the graveyard of England, especially when people don’t heed warnings.

“Since we were kids, we’ve always crossed ourselves three times before crossing water, or carried lavender or pearls for luck.”

He nods, eyes hooded, mouth in a thin line. “Well, now that you live on an island, crossing yourself three times isn’t going to cut it, apparently.”

“Is that why there’s lavender in every room?”

He shrugs. “Kathy likes to make sure. We’ve had one too manyaccidents. And Tragedy always comes with…”

“…with swans.” I know the saying off by heart. We used to sing the rhyme in school. “One for the manor dark and tall. Two for the portrait on the wall. Three for the earls who ruled this land. Four for the blade in the dead man’s hand.…” I start reciting, out of habit, but then I see his face, pale and full of what…pain?

I quickly tail off.

Whatever I saw is gone in a matter of seconds, and he shuts down, finishes his drink, and pours another. I take a sickly sweet sip of mine, my heart thudding louder in my chest with every second that passes.

Why on earth did I start singing that horrible song? Oh, God, what’s wrong with me? Why can I never read the room?

“Where did you and Nell learn to sing?”

His question startles me. “What?”

“Did you and your sister learn together?”

My brain scrambles to understand what he’s asking. “I…no, sometimes. I had singing lessons. Nell was a natural.”

Why is he asking me this?

He’s glaring now. Did what I say offend him? “You should sing more often.”

“Ishould?”

His lips curl, then he downs his glass. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I’m feeling very tipsy when we get outside. Troy, on the other hand, appears to be stone-cold sober. He has to prop me up to stop me from slithering to the ground. In the amount of time it took him to drink half a bottle of whiskey, I had two and a half Sour Temples. My head feels too light for my body, and every time I close my eyes, the earth starts to move.

Troy calls Mundel to take us home instead of driving himself, so maybe I’m not the only one.

I must have blacked out because I wake up a little startled as the car driving us back bounces over a pot hole along one of the country lanes. I’m tempted to close my eyes again and go back to sleep, but I realize pretty quickly who it is I’m curled against, my head nestled in his lap.

I look up.

Troy is asleep, head tilted back. His hand is tangled in my hair. His coat is over me like a blanket.

My body jerks to sitting, and I shove myself to the opposite end of the car seat. There’s drool on my chin, and was his groin pressed….?