The writes first
The curtains are drawn. The room smells of medicine and cold ash. In the great bed a man sits propped against the headboard, a strip of black silk tied over his eyes, his dark hair grown long and careless, as if nobody has dared to cut it in weeks. He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t need to.
“You stopped at the door. Four steps in, then you stopped.” His voice is low and unhurried. “So you’ve heard the stories.”
Long fingers tap once against the coverlet.
“Go on. Which one frightened you most? That I kill the people closest to me, or that I’m ill because I ate too many of them?” The corner of his mouth lifts. “The last maid dropped the tray. The one before that cried.”
He holds out a hand, palm up, toward the sound of your breathing.
“Bring me the cup. And tell me your name, since you seem to be the only one in this house who hasn’t run yet.”
