The Widow of Rose House

by Diana Biller

“It’s better than ghost hunting,” Benedict said as they walked out of the room. “I don’t hunt ghosts,” Sam protested. “I bear them no ill will at all. I just want to make their acquaintance.” “Ghost social climber, then.” “Much closer.”

“Is it such a long enemies list?” “It’s shorter now,” she said. “And do you never have help with these foes? Even Queen Elizabeth had knights, you know.” She turned to look at him, one elegant eyebrow winging up. “Who mostly wanted to marry her and steal her throne,” she said. “I would never steal your throne,”

You must admit the evidence points towards superstition and old wives’ tales.” “I don’t know why people think so little of old wives,” Sam protested. “Most of the old wives I’ve met are quite sensible.”

That’s what he’d been waiting for, he realized. The other side of his story.

“And all the rolls I could wheedle out of the landlady.” “You’re a jewel without price, my friend. A prince amongst men.” “A cactus without prickles,” Henry added, gesturing widely and vaguely. “A cat amongst pigeons.” “A moon made of cheese.”

She let her eyes linger, memorizing every inch of his body, so later, on the cold days and nights that lay ahead, she could pull out this memory and say, I lived.

“But when will I have you pliant and under—” “Do not say … under … your thumb.”

He was in love. It wasn’t a shocking statement; he didn’t recoil in surprise. It was the answer to a question he hadn’t been quite aware he was asking, and now that it was here, it was like it had always been true: a quiet, permanent underlying fact that made everything else in his life make sense. He saw it and acknowledged it, even with the whisper that told him being in love with a woman like Alva was going to complicate things. There was nothing to be done—he was in love with her, he always would be, and that was that. She was his person. If she was complicated, then he loved her complications, too. She was the other side of his story.

It was because he thought they mattered, Alva realized. That was his magic. He thought every single person he met mattered, and because he thought so, the people he spoke to began to think so, too. “No,