The Cursed Blood novel · Chapter 31 of 32

Chapter 31: Six Words

It wasn't a bought one.

He'd cut it from the lid of a crate, thin as a slate, and sanded it smooth.

On the front, in pencil, he'd drawn a door.

My door. The one he'd rehung with his own hinge.

Inside it, on the peg, two coats. One long oilskin. One small gray wool.

Smoke from the chimney, in little curls.

He wasn't a good drawer. The chimney leaned.

I loved it so much my throat hurt.

"You drew this," I said.

"Badly."

"The chimney's crooked."

"The chimney is crooked." He nodded at the wall above the stove. "I drew what's there."

I turned it over.

On the back, there was no address and no stamp.

Just six words, in pencil, in his square careful hand.

I chose you. I'll keep choosing.

I read it four times.

He watched the stove the whole time, like he'd watched the valley the day I cried over the notches on the doorframe.

"She wrote six," he said, to the stove. "I thought you should have six of your own. From somebody who's still here."

I couldn't say anything for a while.

So I didn't.

I found the pencil stub in the kitchen jar and sat back down with the card on my knee.

Under his six words, I wrote six of mine.

Then I handed it back.

He read it.

His face went still, and then it broke open.

He laughed out loud, the real one that only came out of him about once a week.

I chose you first. Keep up.

"You would," he said.

"I did. October twenty-ninth. Out loud. You were kneeling on that exact board."

"I remember the board."

"Then keep up."

He put the postcard on the windowsill, propped against the frosted glass, picture side out, so the two coats looked into the room.

Then he turned back to me.

"I'm keeping up," he said.

"You're sitting on the floor."

"I'm thinking."

"About what?"

"About whether you'd like me to carry you to that bed," he said, "or whether you'd bite me for trying."

"Try it and see."

He tried it.

I didn't bite him.

I laughed the whole way across the room, with my bare feet kicking.

He dropped me in the middle of my mother's blankets from a height.

"That was a terrible carry," I said.

"You kicked."

"You dropped me."

"You'll live." He leaned over me with one knee on the bed, and the stove light caught the scar through his eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You know it's yes."

"Say it anyway. I like hearing it."

"Yes," I said. "Yes. Keep up."

He dropped me in the middle of my mother's blankets from a height.

"That was a terrible carry," I said.

"You kicked."

"You dropped me."

"You'll live." He leaned over me with one knee on the bed, and the stove light caught the scar through his eyebrow. "Yes?"

"You know it's yes."

"Say it anyway. I like hearing it."

"Yes," I said. "Yes. Keep up."

His mouth came down on mine before I finished the word.

He kissed like he argued.

Short.

Certain.

Like he'd already won and was waiting for me to notice.

I laughed against his lips.

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