Page 35

twenty-six

I curled up with a book, pulled off Grim’s living room shelf with no care as to what I was picking. An unnamed author taunted me from the pages as I read a morbid romance where tragedy befell the couple.

Closing the book, I added it to a pile on the coffee table, wondering what I was supposed to do and how long I’d have to do it until Grim returned. With every ounce of self-restraint, I somehow refrained from snooping through the room that sat locked.

I checked.

Twice.

The storm had returned with a vengeance, the rain beating its angry fists against the metal roof, causing a tinny song to fill the gaps between the hollow sound of wind churning.

I considered a walk to the beach, knowing I could always draw a warm bath, but thought better of it when I’d opened the door and Grim’s hat had been ripped from my head, floating out into the pasture.

“Ugh! What is it that you expect me to do!”

I’d already spent a good portion of the morning yelling obscurities and profanities, aiming my ire toward the house and Death, hoping that he was listening or that the house would suddenly learn how to speak and pick up the conversation.

Again, my tirade was met with silence. A shudder ran through the walls.

Grabbing the closest item to me, a poetry book, I hurled it across the space, straight toward the roaring fire.

It stopped midair. The space around it wavered, forming a ghostly hand that gripped the book in its translucent fingers.

“Are you quite done?” Death snapped, impatience laced through his deep tone.

“You’re back?” It was a statement and a question, one with hope blossoming in my chest, born out of sheer boredom.

“No.” He stepped out of the shadows, his body incorporeal and face shrouded in a haze. “I’m in between, and in a bit of a hurry, but I cannot focus when you’re throwing a fit in my home, tossing priceless editions of ancient poetry into the hearth.”

Blushing, I pulling my knees higher to my chest. Grim set the book down safely on the coffee table. Even in a haze of shadows, I could make out the glare on his face and the t-shirt tight against his crossed arms. He looked handsome.

I shook the thought away, “When will you return? This was never part of the deal. I’d like to get this—” I motioned to the space around me, suddenly hit by the absurdity of it. “Finished.”

His voice caught on the last word, “This…”

“Yes, this. Why am I here, Grim? We need to get back to Gentry.”

“The curse shall be there when I return, Astoria.” His shadowy head cocked to the side. “I have to get back.”

His form flickered again, fraying at the edges.

“Learn to rest,” he called back, voice thinning as he dissolved into vapor. "Paint, read, cook... weave a basket, I don't know. But please—” His presence pulled taut, like a rubber band about to snap. “—refrain from burning my personal effects.”

And then he was gone, only his scent lingering where he once stood.

Oleander and salt.

Yeah, as if I was going to learn how to weave a basket. Pride flared in my chest, my stubbornness rearing its ugly head.

Perhaps, that is exactly what I will do.

“House? I am going to need a few things.” I paused, looking around. “Unless you want me to use the drapes.”

I knew absolutely nothing about weaving baskets—that much was apparent by the wet tile before me and long branches haphazardly tossed on the floor.

I flicked the page over, scouring the long paragraphs. The house was able to provide me with everything I’d need to weave a basket, including the long spindly branches, rope, and shears. The bathroom was a mess, the tub filled with water and large rocks weighing down the bundle of branches.

According to the book, Weaving for Beginners, I was supposed to soak the branches until they could be easily maneuvered without snapping, but Grim’s tub was certainly not long enough for the branches the House provided.

The woman in the photos was using a large container outside in her yard, which seemed much more practical, but given the circumstances, there was no way I’d be going outside, and I had an ancient entity to prove wrong.

It wasn't that he didn't believe in me, but more so that he'd never expect me to do it. So, while my hands were bright red, irritated by the cold water and small cuts from where I’d nicked myself on the branches and my body repeatedly healed itself, I was determined to master this craft.

I jammed the last branch under the surface, shoving a rock down on top like I was drowning a very specific, very smug person.

My fingers were so raw they throbbed. Good times.

Stacking the remaining supplies on the counter, I took a moment to admire my handwork. They’d have to soak for a while before I'd be able to do any actual weaving, and it suddenly occurred to me that this was the easy part.

Scowling, I dried my hands on the towel, closed the bathroom door behind me, and found myself staring at that door once more. How long would I last before shoving it open to snoop through his things?

At least a while longer, I reprimanded myself. Even if that meant pacing the hall a few more times. I could refrain…

I think.

To take my mind off the prospect of discovering more about my host, I decided to sort through my spelled bag, pulling together a basket of laundry I’d need to start. My mementos fell out alongside Nemo’s manila folder, the few tokens of my past tumbling to the floor.

Shoving my father’s letter back inside, I ran a thumb over the necklace once more.

It was barely past dinner time, but I blamed my restlessness as I unclasped the necklace.

The cool chain slithered against my skin, making the back of my neck prickle.

Pressing the disk flat against my chest, I tried to ignore how right it felt—like a countdown I hadn’t agreed to.

Even after I’d thrown it back in his face, the engraving stuck in my brain. Grabbing my copy of Dante’s Inferno, I thumbed through the pages until I found my own messy sketch at the back, nestled between cramped handwriting.

I had drawn mine with the top of the hourglass still full, the sand spilling slow and reluctant into the bottom.

The one etched into my necklace was different: the top empty, the bottom nearly full.

For someone who went out of his way to make me comfortable, Grim certainly had a funny way of reminding me I was on borrowed time.

My eyes skimmed the messy notes I’d scrawled alongside the sketch, and a restless sort of idea took hold—something to keep my hands busy while the branches soaked.

"House..." I muttered, shaking my head. It was ridiculous, talking to walls. The place needed a name.

"Can you get me a blank notebook and a pen?"

I’d never had an interest in sharing my story with anyone before, and I didn’t much now. But once, I’d also been resolved to live forever.

Ishani had loved my stories. She had wanted to hear every detail, as if she could sense the parts of myself I always held back. Her encouragement gave me the strength to crack myself open, to let the words spill free as I penned my memories.

The truth was, I wouldn’t be around much longer. I’d bargained away my soul to break the curse, and while my motivation had faltered at first, it didn’t anymore.

I knew what I wanted now, and that was to leave something behind. Something real. Something of me—Astoria Devlin Tempest—that would last, even when I didn’t.

The notebook was half-full, and my hand throbbed.

As I flipped through what I’d written, I could trace my emotion in each letter—my penmanship growing heavier handed when I recalled Beatrice’s death, and lighter when I remembered holding each of my children for the first time.

The pages bled my heart. The ink gift-wrapped my memories.

But there was sorrow here too, woven between the lines of joy and triumph. My story might not have a happy ending, but even I could agree that the most tragic stories held importance… and mine was no different.

“Astoria?” The door creaked open and Grim’s voice broke through the stillness. He stepped halfway into the room, dark hair tousled, his eyes catching on mine like a tether. There was something new in him tonight—a looseness in his shoulders, a kind of tentative warmth he almost never let show.

Grim pushed the door wider and crossed the threshold, leaning his tall frame casually against the side of the bedpost, not even pretending to look away. He wore his usual sweater, sleeves pushed carelessly over strong forearms, and pressed slacks that still somehow looked sinfully casual on him.

He looked well.

Better than well.

The sharp, cold edges of him seemed softer, his ashen skin touched with a little more life. No bruises. No marks. His gaze dropped to the notebook resting open in my lap, then lifted slowly back to my face.

"I didn’t know you enjoyed writing," he said, his voice quieter this time.

“I suppose I’ve had nothing to say.” I closed the notebook before he could pry further, pushing myself up from the bed. A rush of questions rose in me, ready to spill out all at once, but Grim beat me to it.

“I don’t suppose you have anything to say about the branches littering the bathroom?”

I grinned, mentally reminding myself to hold my cards close. “It’s nothing to be concerned about.” I wasn’t sure when he’d be back, but honestly, I hoped it wouldn’t be until I had a halfway decent basket to show off.

“Mhm…” Grim ran a hand through his hair, a smirk following the movement.

My heart fluttered in a way it hadn’t in a long time.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, pushing off the doorframe and retreating down the hall. His long strides made it hard to keep up as I scrambled from the bed to follow, the scent of curry wafting through the air. “I brought back some of my favorites. Hope you like coconut chicken and red curry.”

My stomach grumbled in response, utterly betraying me. I eyed the spread on the kitchen island and raised an eyebrow.