Free Grim by Anna Waggener Page A

Erika asked.
    Jeremiah chuckled. “Victorian would be too peaceful,” he said. “But we’ve been settled in the long eighteenth century since before I was born. Disease, famine, revolution everywhere. A very productive era for death.” He closed the ironwork gate as they passed through. “I understand,” he went on, leading Erika up the crumbling walk, “that we were quite taken with Damascus for a while. Many regret ever leaving the Crusades behind.” The door creaked open before he even knocked.
    â€œAbout time, then.” The plump, pear-shaped housekeeper was an English maid, all powder-pale skin and tightly wrapped silver hair. A white lace cap, a straight dress cut at the ankles, and a heavily starched apron made up a uniform so hackneyed that it bordered on parody.
    â€œMartha,” Jeremiah said. “This is Erika.”
    â€œOh?” A long silence followed, and Erika felt herself being appraised by a mother’s eye. “Your mum had her hair.”
    Jeremiah cleared his throat. “Would you mind dressing her?”
    In answer, Martha stepped back from the entryway with a half curtsey. Erika and Jeremiah stepped over the threshold together, his hand on the back of her upper arm.
    The hall was papered with a curling print of gold vines and flowers. At the center of the room stood a large, round cage, as tall as Jeremiah and at least four feet across. The bird inside didn’t live up to the dimensions of its home, its body white and no larger than a pigeon’s, its head tucked against its breast. Erika poked a finger through the fine silver wire, but the bird just inched to one side without raising its head, plumed tail shivering as it moved.
    â€œThat’s Kala,” Jeremiah said.
    â€œShe doesn’t like me much.”
    â€œShe doesn’t like anyone around here much.” He nodded to the housekeeper.
    â€œCome, miss.” Martha took Erika by the hand and led her to the staircase.
    â€œWhere are we going?”
    â€œI’ll have dinner made,” Jeremiah called after her. “I’m afraid that I have to work on your behalf until then. You can entertain yourself, I expect.”
    As she rounded the left branch of the staircase, Erika looked over her shoulder, but Jeremiah had already disappeared.
    It began with a white rose, but it had never been innocent. The king would say it had been later; he would swear on it to his wife, to his children, to himself, but innocence was nothing more than a lie he began to believe. A lie he needed to believe.
    Long ago, he had seen the game played by his father. He had seen the cards laid out; had seen the moves and had learned what they meant. He hated to admit now that he was thankful for knowing how to raise the stakes. He hated to admit that the quiet sorrow of his mother might prove to be the same in his own wife, and that he no longer cared.
    He should have stopped.
    He didn’t want to.
    When the king saw the roses budding out, he should have ignored them. He should have kept himself away. He should never have pointed one out to his attendant with such direct orders. He should never have waited for a reply, and should never have read it when it came.
    The scrap of paper arrived small but carefully folded, the corners curling out into the petals of a lily. So flawless, so painstaking, as if she’d stayed awake all night to match the perfection of the flower that the king had never even touched. Alone in his rooms, it took him a quarter of an hour to open, because he would not let it rip.
    â€œI’ve always wanted a garden,” she’d written.
    He should have burned it.
    He should have had her banished.
    He should have known better.
    But it was just a flower, after all.
    Â 
    Martha led Erika down a dark hallway and through a door that sighed with age. The room Jeremiah had chosen for her had obviously been neglected for some time. The bottom third of the walls were