Page 26 of Bloody Kingdom

She laughs quietly, the sound almost musical. It’s in this moment I realize I’ve never heard her laugh. She’s cried and begged, but never laughed at me. I’m disappointed in myself that I enjoy the noise and the smile on her lips. I like even more that even though it wasn’t intentional, I made her do it. What is this girl doing to me?

“Gold star for Mr. Laurent.” She gives me a small mocking applause. “So, did you?” When I give her another confused, blank stare, she shakes her head. “Did you have a good day at work? Or should I say night?”

Della, who’s known me for decades, doesn’t even ask me about my day but Quincey does. Feeling suspicious of her sudden interest in small talk, I raise a brow. “Are you asking because you’re being meddlesome or because you truly want to know?” Even before we were both blatantly avoiding each other, she didn’t seem overly interested in having such mundane conversations with me. For the most part, I myself don’t enjoy having conversations in general.

“Well, I originally asked because I was genuinely curious about your day, but based on thatlovelytone of yours.” The smile slips from her face, and the guarded look she wears slips back into place. So does her frown. “It’s clear you don’t want to talk about it, so just forget I asked.”

Quincey picks up the bowl and takes a bite of the colorful cereal. Della always buys that shit for Duke because he still, at the age of twenty-eight, has the palate of a toddler. He’ll eat anything put in front of him, but if left to his own devices, he’d live off fast-food burgers and sugary cereal. Della knows this and that’s why she insists on always making him meals.

Sighing, I walk farther into the room and closer to her. Instantly I’m drowning in her scent and against my better judgment, I take a greedy lungful of it and savor it on my tongue.

Leaning against the counter next to her, I hesitate before I answer, this kind of small talk relatively foreign to me. “My day was the same as usual. Nothing exciting or of import to tell you about. I missed a meeting because I had a last-minute appointment I had to attend.”

Quincey can’t hide the shock from her face at my answer, her jaw drops before she promptly clamps her mouth shut.

“What?”

“I just didn’t expect you to answer,” she explains. “I thought you’d tell me it was none of my damn business and then threaten me with something new and exciting. Are you feeling okay? Was the appointment with a doctor? Did they finally give you something to fix your chronic grumpy mood?” Her hand reaches for my forehead like she’s going to pretend to take my temperature, but she catches herself just as her fingers brush against my forehead. Yanking her hand away from me, she sheepishly looks down at her food. “Sorry,” she mumbles.

When Rowena touches me, it fills me with an uncontrollable rage. However, Quincey’s touch, albeit brief, has the opposite effect on me. It’s like it settles all the nerves in my body, a calming balm of sorts.

Bypassing her question about whether or not I’m feeling well, I find myself asking, “How was your day? Ira? Was he better today?” I know he’s been having a rough couple of days. Sadly, those last few good days are running out. Soon it will be nothing but bad days moving forward.

“He slept for most of it, I upped his pain meds. The last dosage just wasn’t cutting it anymore,” she tells me as she scoops up a bite of soggy cereal. Her nose wrinkles in distaste when she looks at it, before letting it slowly drip back into the bowl. Giving up entirely on it, she places the bowl back on the counter. “His breathing is becoming more labored by the day. If it were an option, I would say he’s quickly deteriorating to the point that a ventilator will be necessary to breathe but—”

I cut her off before she can finish. “He doesn’t wish to be put on a vent,” I snap, feeling protective of Ira’s wishes.

Quincey motions with her hands for me to calm down. “I’m aware of Ira’s DNR order, Mr. Laurent. I was simply saying that’s where he’s headed—he won’t be able to breathe on his own for much longer. Without the vent, he’ll die, but those are his wishes and I’ll respect them.” Her voice remains calm, and I imagine she’s using the same tone with me as she does when dealing with her patient’s family members. “Terminal patients should be able to die with whatever dignity they have left, not connected to machines keeping them alive if that’s not what they want.”

“I didn’t agree with Ira when he signed that DNR, but I see now that I was just being selfish,” I find myself admitting to her. “Would you have chosen the same thing for yourself?”

Quincey nods her head softly. “If the only thing keeping me alive are machines and tubes, I don’t want to be kept alive like that. And if my heart stops for longer than four minutes, I don’t want to be brought back. The risk of brain damage is too severe.”

“And Ira wishes the same thing,” I confirm.

“Yes.” Her mouth pulls into a sullen, but comforting smile. After everything she’s been put through—what I’ve put her through—she wants to comfort me, once again proving to me that she’s too pure for my world. “But I assure you, I’ll make sure he’s in the least amount of pain as possible and I’m not just saying that because I know you’ll make my head into a trophy if I don’t. Ira’s a good man—a flat-out saint for putting up with you for so many years.”

She has no idea just how many years Ira’s been with me. “That he is.”

Quincey opens her mouth like she wants to say something else, but she quickly changes her mind and returns to looking at her hands in her lap. If Della saw her sitting on the counter like she is now, I’m sure she’d be scolding her for being so impolite. I find I don’t mind as much as I should.

“Say what you wanted to say, Miss Page.”

It doesn’t go unnoticed the way her face wrinkles at the sound of her formal name. She bites her bottom lip nervously before finally saying what’s on her mind. “I learned today about Ira’s roses and how they all died when he got sick. I was thinking that maybe…” She trails off.

“Maybe what? Please do spit it out, I’m growing old waiting for you.” My comment is funny only to me because I know the truth. I’ll never actually grow old physically, but mentally, I feel every single one of those years.

“I was wondering if you could replant some rose bushes for him. Obviously not from seeds—we don’t have time for that—but maybe you could find some mature ones that could be planted back into the courtyard?”

I’d forgotten about Ira’s roses, hadn’t really paid attention to them when they were planted there for decades, but when they all shriveled up and died, I finally took notice. Centuries of being alive has made me numb to the truly beautiful things in life. Like the roses. “Yes, I believe I can arrange that.”

The smile that splits her face catches me by surprise. The small smile she’d worn earlier doesn’t remotely compare to the one she has now. I haven’t felt the sun in a long time, but warmth like the sun radiates off Quincey when she’s truly happy. I want to bask in it—suck up all the warmth I’ve been deprived of all this time.

“Thank you, Silas.” Her eyes widen when she realizes her mistake, quickly her face drops. “Shit, sorry,Mr. Laurent,” she corrects herself. Emphasizing my last name for effect.

A simple nod is my only response. The relief that comes off of her is almost palpable. In her defense, I haven’t given her any reason to believe I won’t fly off the handle each time she steps out of line.

Sliding off the counter, she grabs her bowl and rinses it in the sink. “I guess I should probably go to bed now. It’s pretty late.”

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