behavior. You didn’t know.”
Lyric stared at his hands, at his work roughened skin against her colorful skirt. “Maybe,” she answered, “but I still killed her.”
It was a heavy burden to bear.
The sudden droning sound of a four-wheeler broke their silence. Lyric’s gaze found Grayson’s. “You’ve been missed.”
He released her and stood, his eyes finding the kitchen door.
“Go,” Lyric told him. “You can go through the woods from the back of the house. No need to worry about me. No one dares enter this place.”
Grayson peered down at her bent head and shaking shoulders. She was suddenly more than just a pretty young woman. She was a wounded old soul, alluring and tempting, her gypsy skirts and wild hair hiding secrets that had driven men insane. It made sense that people went crazy. Her story, her history , was so surreal that it blurred the lines between reality and fiction. If people like Merlin really existed, how many legends in history was actually fact?
Lyric glanced up at him, and his lips parted.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
He smiled. “I’ll be back,” he promised.
“Damn you,” she muttered.
His smile grew. “Have a little faith, Lyric.”
She stared. “In you?”
His smile slipped. He’d had a brother once who’d trusted him, and he’d failed him. Now, here was a stranger, an unassuming temptress who was doing something no one else had done since he’d been released from prison. She was giving him a second chance. She’d placed a cup in his hands, one that as crazy as it seemed, could destroy her. She’d placed it in his hands and trusted him not to break it.
“I’m not as fragile as I seem,” Lyric said suddenly.
Grayson’s gaze fell to the cup. No, she wasn’t fragile. Even in the short time he’d known her, he’d seen enough resilience in her character to know she was stronger than most. She wasn’t fragile, but her life was.
“There comes a time,” Lyric whispered, her words breaking into his thoughts. “There comes a time when you’ve cried so much, it’s either sink in the flood left behind or swim.”
For the first time in a long time, Grayson felt the stir of something he’d thought he’d lost in his gut. Recovery.
“I’ve heard about what happened to you,” Lyric continued. She swallowed. “You didn’t ask your brother to follow you. He did that on his own. You made a mistake, and he got caught up in it. Mistakes don’t define us, ” she stared at him, “what we do about them does.”
The sound of the four-wheeler was loud now, the droning insistent.
“Have a little faith,” Grayson repeated, his feet carrying him to the gaping hole at the back of the kitchen, his gaze sliding from the woods beyond to the kitchen and back again. “In me,” he added.
If he’d glanced behind him, he would have seen her stand, her hands clutching the empty, brown mug, her gaze on the tea leaves within. He would have seen her lips twitch. He would have seen her whisper the words, “No, you have a little faith in me.”
She’d taken him to a tea party that would never end. A door in the house’s second level slammed closed. It was a tea party of spirits imprisoned by a tea cup, the tea girl their jailer. They were all on death row for eternity, their trust in one person. Women in her family, both still alive and others now embodied by the ravens, depended on her to keep them alive.
She held a lot of lives in her hand, and she’d handed them to him. Because in the end, she’d seen what no one else had: that sometimes having unparalleled responsibility is the first step to starting over.
People were willing to revel in his infamy, to taste danger.
Lyric knew Danger. She held his hand every day. By sharing tea with Grayson, she’d given Danger a purpose.
People need purpose.
~16~
In time, the tea cup changed, the generations following having altered it by adding layers of glass. It went from being a fragile porcelain cup
Lyric stared at his hands, at his work roughened skin against her colorful skirt. “Maybe,” she answered, “but I still killed her.”
It was a heavy burden to bear.
The sudden droning sound of a four-wheeler broke their silence. Lyric’s gaze found Grayson’s. “You’ve been missed.”
He released her and stood, his eyes finding the kitchen door.
“Go,” Lyric told him. “You can go through the woods from the back of the house. No need to worry about me. No one dares enter this place.”
Grayson peered down at her bent head and shaking shoulders. She was suddenly more than just a pretty young woman. She was a wounded old soul, alluring and tempting, her gypsy skirts and wild hair hiding secrets that had driven men insane. It made sense that people went crazy. Her story, her history , was so surreal that it blurred the lines between reality and fiction. If people like Merlin really existed, how many legends in history was actually fact?
Lyric glanced up at him, and his lips parted.
“Don’t say it,” she warned.
He smiled. “I’ll be back,” he promised.
“Damn you,” she muttered.
His smile grew. “Have a little faith, Lyric.”
She stared. “In you?”
His smile slipped. He’d had a brother once who’d trusted him, and he’d failed him. Now, here was a stranger, an unassuming temptress who was doing something no one else had done since he’d been released from prison. She was giving him a second chance. She’d placed a cup in his hands, one that as crazy as it seemed, could destroy her. She’d placed it in his hands and trusted him not to break it.
“I’m not as fragile as I seem,” Lyric said suddenly.
Grayson’s gaze fell to the cup. No, she wasn’t fragile. Even in the short time he’d known her, he’d seen enough resilience in her character to know she was stronger than most. She wasn’t fragile, but her life was.
“There comes a time,” Lyric whispered, her words breaking into his thoughts. “There comes a time when you’ve cried so much, it’s either sink in the flood left behind or swim.”
For the first time in a long time, Grayson felt the stir of something he’d thought he’d lost in his gut. Recovery.
“I’ve heard about what happened to you,” Lyric continued. She swallowed. “You didn’t ask your brother to follow you. He did that on his own. You made a mistake, and he got caught up in it. Mistakes don’t define us, ” she stared at him, “what we do about them does.”
The sound of the four-wheeler was loud now, the droning insistent.
“Have a little faith,” Grayson repeated, his feet carrying him to the gaping hole at the back of the kitchen, his gaze sliding from the woods beyond to the kitchen and back again. “In me,” he added.
If he’d glanced behind him, he would have seen her stand, her hands clutching the empty, brown mug, her gaze on the tea leaves within. He would have seen her lips twitch. He would have seen her whisper the words, “No, you have a little faith in me.”
She’d taken him to a tea party that would never end. A door in the house’s second level slammed closed. It was a tea party of spirits imprisoned by a tea cup, the tea girl their jailer. They were all on death row for eternity, their trust in one person. Women in her family, both still alive and others now embodied by the ravens, depended on her to keep them alive.
She held a lot of lives in her hand, and she’d handed them to him. Because in the end, she’d seen what no one else had: that sometimes having unparalleled responsibility is the first step to starting over.
People were willing to revel in his infamy, to taste danger.
Lyric knew Danger. She held his hand every day. By sharing tea with Grayson, she’d given Danger a purpose.
People need purpose.
~16~
In time, the tea cup changed, the generations following having altered it by adding layers of glass. It went from being a fragile porcelain cup
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