“Of course. I understand this is a lot for any human to absorb. I will be at home all evening. Would you care to come by and talk then?”
“No.” We needed a neutral meeting place. I still wasn’t completely sure what my next move would be, and I didn’t want the awesomeness of the apartment or my undeniable attraction to Frederick to sway my decision-making. Besides—if I was totally wrong about him and Frederick was playing a long game with respect to eating me, I wanted to do this in a public place. “How about Gossamer’s?”
“Gossamer’s?”
“It’s the coffee shop where I work. I’ll text you the address.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “When?”
I swallowed. No turning back now. “Tonight at eight?”
“Perfect.” A pause. “I am very much looking forward to seeing you again, Cassie.”
His voice was soft and sincere. I tried to ignore the way that made my stomach flip, but didn’t really succeed.
“Me, too,” I said, meaning it.
EIGHT
Letter from Mrs. Edwina Fitzwilliam to Mr. Frederick J. Fitzwilliam, dated October 29
My dearest Frederick,
I am in receipt of your most recent letter. Reading it has done nothing to assuage my concerns. Your decision to remain in Chicago and to put your safety in the hands of a wastrel like Reginald and a young human woman is unwise at best—and DANGEROUS at worst. This poor decision-making is MOST UNLIKE the Frederick I once knew!
I fear it is but further evidence that your mental state is compromised from your century of slumber.
I would be remiss in my duties as the eldest remaining member of our family—and as someone who cares for you, DESPITE our history—if I allowed you to cancel our family’s arrangement with the Jamesons. If Miss Jameson is sending you gifts I daresay that is a GOOD thing! It is a sign of her continued affection for you despite your continual rebuffs. You MUST open her gifts, and should send her some gifts IN RETURN as a sign of the long-standing goodwill between our two families.
Do not continue to vex me like this, Frederick.
Yours,
Mother
Hey Freddy
Whats with the packages
They are from Esmeralda Jameson.
I do not want them.
Shes still sending you stuff?
Yes.
I have asked her to stop, to no avail.
Mother refuses to intervene.
She thinks it’s a GOOD thing.
So you’re giving them to me?
The ones I think you’ll enjoy, yes.
One of us might as well get use out of them.
What am I going to do with a cross-stitch that says “Home Sweet Home” made from what looks smells and tastes like human entrails, Freddy
Why did you think I’d want this
I thought it matched your decor, Reginald.
Okay, that’s fair
Frederick was already at a table in the back when I arrived at Gossamer’s, taking in his surroundings with the dazed, wide-eyed wonder one might expect from a tourist visiting an exotic location halfway around the world.
He always looked good, but even by his own standards he looked like an absolute snack. A single dark lock of his hair fell beautifully over his forehead like he’d sprung fully formed from the pages of one of his Regency novels. Seeing him sitting ramrod-straight in his chair, wearing a three-piece suit that fit like he’d had it tailor-made, I began to doubt the wisdom of us meeting in public after all. Because other people were also noticing how good he looked. Two women wearing Northwestern University sweatshirts and drinking coffee at the table beside his kept stealing surreptitious glances in his direction.
A strange, unfamiliar possessiveness I neither recognized in myself nor liked swept through me.
What if one of those women started hitting on him?
I bumped their table a little as I breezed by them, telling myself it was purely accidental.
Frederick held my gaze as I approached him. His thick, long eyelashes were just as wasted on a man now as they’d ever been.
In truth, it was strange seeing him here. This was the first time we’d interacted outside of the apartment, and until now I hadn’t realized how much I’d come to think of him as a fixture of the lavish place where he lived. Seeing him outside of it was as jarring as seeing a flamingo on the El.
His gaze slid over me, nose twitching a little when his eyes fell on my awkwardly bandaged left hand. Could he smell the cut on my hand? I didn’t want to think about it.
His brow furrowed. “What happened to you?”
I hid my injured hand behind my back.
“It’s nothing.” It was the truth. That afternoon’s trip to the recycling center had been productive, in the sense that I found several usefully large pieces of scrap I wanted to take back with me the next time I had access to Sam’s car. But on my way out I snagged my hand a little on the jagged underside of an old bicycle seat. It barely even rose to the level of a bad paper cut, and it stopped bleeding almost immediately—but the guy working there had freaked, babbling about tetanus risk and liability. He insisted on bandaging me up before letting me go.