“You have a special interest in providing quality confessional services, and spent months attending wards for recovering scarlet fever patients. That’s nice of you.”
“I’m a very nice person,” he said when her knees reached the end of the bed. “I really do hope you believe that I am.” He rolled her onto her back, and now she was expected to do the impossible: keep reading. The words shimmered on the page.
“You’re the nicest person I’ve ever met,” she said with honesty. To feel him smile between her legs? She would never recover from this moment. “There’s a big paragraph here about your views on the future of the Church of England, which I’m going to skip—”
She got distracted for a long moment, luxuriating and stretching, flinging her arm out straight with a paper-crumple sound. “I don’t want to read this letter anymore. I have a new resolve to live in the moment more fully.”
“Fine. But the last paragraph is really the only one you should read. Keep your temper,” he warned, and she glared up at the ceiling. How on earth could he have known that frustration dipped her in ice water? “Be good and I will reward you.”
“You’ll have to do this every time you want me to do something,” she said, relaxing her body, and he spread her thighs wide with his palms. “The final paragraph—let’s see what’s so important.”
As her exhausted body received pleasure, she read:
“‘In summary, I am delighted to make your acquaintance, and to learn how I may serve the parish of Salisbury in what I understand are socially and economically trying times. And on a personal note, I was also pleased to be informed that the rectory boasts a garden famous across the counties. My passion is—’”
（He showed her.）
“‘My passion is—’”
“Read,” he growled, and she felt the vibration.
She whimpered out the last sentences. “‘My passion is all forms of botany, and gardening was the labor I gladly undertook at the seminary. I cannot think of an earthly pleasure more exquisite than putting my face to the petals of a rose.’”
“Indeed.”
“How sweet and innocent you were,” she said to the ceiling. “What have I done to you?”
“Concentrate on what I’m doing to you.”
She obeyed, and this time when she unfurled in rapture, she said his name with more conviction: “Arlo.”
*
Memories of his old life were returning to Arlo Northcott, in snips and pictures and smells, but it seemed a shame to worry Angelika about it. She was happy tonight, and for the first time since he’d known her, she had no apprehension in her expression.
She looked at him like she was rapturously in love, but then again, she always had.
Arlo’s cobbled-together body never felt hungry, but he made sure to eat enough dinner to not arouse concern. Angelika noticed his every mouthful—again, she always had. And while Victor told a lively story about a goose hiding in a hedgerow that had caused Athena to shy and himself to fall, Arlo allowed himself the luxury of staring back at Angelika, noticing how the firelight cupped her cheekbone like a warm kid glove.
（Arlo’s father—whose name eluded him still—had owned a pair of kid gloves, and the fingertips were oily-looking and worn smoother than baby’s skin. When they were left on the table by the door, they remained curled in disgusting phantom fists.）
There were surely only a few days left before Arlo’s fingertips dipped into unfeeling, oily shadow.
“Jelly,” Lizzie said around a mouthful of bread, “after you were accosted in the orchard, where did you disappear to, for an entire night and day?” The naughty girl knew exactly where, and her dark eyes were sparkling.
“I was busy,” Angelika drawled, then bit her lip to hold in whatever she was thinking now. It was for the best.
“I don’t want to know,” Victor advised from his seat at the head of the table. “Anyhow, it’s a pity Chris insisted on the night watch removing the corpses. I would have reanimated them all, just to kill them again myself.”
“Your huge representative handled it,” Angelika replied. The memory made her reach for her glass and take a gulp. They were both their usual sardonic selves, but Arlo had seen the siblings embrace in the hall.
Victor was monitoring Lizzie’s plate. He was similar to his sister; they both loved so ravenously. “Eat up, Lizzie. The chicken is succulent. Sorry, Will,” Victor amended to Arlo. “I hope your vegetables are just as good.”