Six Scorched Roses

She smiled, even though her eyes were damp again. She took my hand and squeezed. “You’ve spent your whole damned life dying, Lilith. Now you’ve gotten that out of the way, and you get to go live.”

“It must be hard,” he murmured. “To bear the weight of so much affection in a life so short.”

That hand still rested there, right on my thigh. Was he waiting for me to say something? Had I missed a cue that I should know? I did that often. I looked down at that hand. “What—” “May I write to you?” he asked. My mouth closed. I blinked at him. “May I write?” He sounded vaguely irritated, and I wasn’t sure why. “Yes,” I said, at last. “Of cours

And when the days passed, and my exhaustion and my enthusiasm led me to loosen my typically-closely-held control over my socially unacceptable attitudes, my raw enthusiasm leaking through as I talked excitedly to Vale about some theory or another, I turned to see him staring at me, brows drawn. His expression made me freeze, my face flushing—becaus

“Does nothing bother you?” he said. “You seem totally unmoved that you almost died.” I didn’t tell him that I was always almost dying.

“If I didn’t do dangerous things,” I added, “I would do nothing.”

“Time, Vale,” I said. “Time is the most valuable resource of all, and some of us are perpetually short.”

“You know, I did wonder at first,” I said, “why you didn’t kill me when I came into your house. Now I understand it’s because you’re a bored, lonely man, desperate for any kind of company.”

I collected facts the way other people collected jewels, and Vale’s home was overflowing with them—both facts and jewels.