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A small group of men practiced dance on an open terrace. The man in the plaid shirt waved up at them; the men incorporated a return wave into their dance. Selina heard a drift of drum music and saw that the men used the beat to synchronize their movements.
“The Old King teaches others to be Prince,” the man in the plaid shirt said. “We are all happier this way.”
I really wanted to be chipping plaster at that point. “It’s probably some site that sells self-help books so I can learn to be less incompatible with everyone in the universe.” I headed down the hall, but didn’t get far enough away to pretend I couldn’t hear her call me back.
“Liv… it’s some kind of fake dating site. I think.” When I turned back, she was quickly clicking through profiles. And she was laughing.
Morgan didn’t need to look. He knew every cobweb on the six cold kerosene lamps hung in a wrought-iron chandelier over the table. He had every mote of dust memorized. It was so thick on the floor and stairs that you could see the mouse tracks — except where she came down the stairs every day. She always came down the stairs in exactly the same way — with gentle grace, stolid dignity, and an air of gratitude for another day of life.
He remembered the warmth of the stone, wanted the warmth of her skin, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body in his embrace. Why was he so stupid to sell such a treasure? “What is your name?”