Page 12 of Tangled at the Root
But it’s not really the same, is it?
I want to devour her.
She onlylookslike she wants to be devoured.
I tear my gaze away, biting the inside of my cheek until I taste blood, once again frantically beating the beast back into the darkness.
The first bite of the yam porridge almost brings tears to my eyes. Shit, her cooking still tastes like home. I can’t look at her, blinking rapidly and staring anywhere but opposite me. Fuck, I should’ve chosen the head of the table; it would’ve been easier. Or, better yet, I shouldn’t have come downstairs at all.
We eat in silence, the slightly fuzzy sound of the radio like a buffer. I resist the urge to lick my plate clean.
She knows—she’s always known. I don’t have to ask, and she’s dishing out the rest of the porridge, scooping two-thirds of it onto my plate and the rest onto hers until the serving dish is empty.
I love her so much it’s unbearable.
When we clear our second helpings, I expect her to stand, to start to take our dishes to the sink, and I’m prepared to stop her and offer to do them myself.
She doesn’t move.
I’d expected the tension between us to feel awkward, at worst; a tad familiar, at best. Instead, it’s charged, alight with something new and positively electric.
The current song comes to an end, and in the brief, crackling silence, she speaks.
“I’m an oerhwu.” The words land between us like a bomb.
The next song starts. The playlist tonight seems to be comprised entirely of love songs, I absently realise. The DJ has a terrible sense of humour.
Do you believe in magic?Rosemary had asked me that, once, on the day we’d had our first proper conversation. She’s peeking up at me now like she’d done back then, with the same sweetlyreserved, searching look in her eyes that had instantly had me—and the beast—metaphorically by the throat.
I should probably be freaking out—it doesn’t even cross my mind she’s lying or messing with me; I know her too well for that—but when the words inevitably sink in, I find my lips curving instead.
“Magical girl.” I say it in Ibiiom, in the exact way I used to.
Rosemary blushes. Her scent grows sticky hot, and her lashes flutter. She sways forward like she can’t help it, back to being my clueless little moth, and those two words are the flame.
I kill the smile on my face. Rosemary’s expression shutters.
Good.
She delicately clears her throat, staring down at the table. It’s covered in a lacy white tablecloth, which I’d only vaguely noticed earlier. I frown down at it. Maybe Rosemary had found it in the cabinet, the one in the corner between the front windows and the kitchen’s archway. She’s never been one to do anything by halves.
“I told you earlier, I was here for my … holistic services. Well, that’s what that is.” Her shoulders stiffen when she looks up at me, like she’s bracing herself to meet my gaze. I hate that I’ve made her so guarded. But it’s for the best. “I definitely got a call from here. If not from you, then from something, or someone, that’s already here.”
“Like I said before, there’s no one else here but me. Unless you count the house.” I tack on that last part on a whim.
Rosemary catches it, her eyebrows flying. “The house?”
“The house is sentient.” My lips twitch against my will. She looks so flabbergasted.
“So you …?” She doesn’t seem to know how to complete the question.
“… know about sentient houses?” She nods stiffly. “I only found out about it a few days ago. I’m still coming to terms with it myself, to be honest.”
She stares at me like she’s waiting for the punchline. When one doesn’t come, her eyes widen. I’m not sure what I’m seeing in her gaze—relief? Hope? Either one would be dangerous.
She glances around with new eyes. I can practically feel the house preening. The lights brighten the tiniest bit. The marble floors gleam unnaturally. The sofas and armchairs have never looked more comfortable and appealing. I inwardly roll my eyes.
“Wait. Had you been talking to the house? Earlier? Outside?”
