Read Online Roses and Rot by Kat Howard - Free Book Online

sharpness of his cheekbone, then stepped in and kissed him. His mouth was sweet and dark, the chocolate from the s’mores. I fisted my hand in his hair and pressed my body against his as if I might lose myself again without him to hold on to.
    Then I stepped back, savoring the taste of him on my lips. “I’d like that, too. Send me a letter.”

    The next day, my head was too full of thoughts from the night before to let me clear out my mind and work. Unfortunately, the almost-dream of losing myself in a crowd of dancers overwhelmed the remembered heat of Evan’s mouth. Every time I relaxed, I could feel myself being pulled into a dance that became a trap.
    I had showered twice when I got home the night before, once not being enough to wash the echoes of grabbing hands from my skin. I’d slept with earbuds in, Bach cello suites on repeat, in an attempt to purge the strange song from my brain. I refused to let it stay in my thoughts, but the notes were still clinging to me, and the sound of them curdled my blood.
    I wandered down to the kitchen and poured myself an enormous mug of coffee. Helena scuffed in, bare feet pale under black silk men’s pajamas. “Morning,” I said.
    “Yes, unfortunately, it is.” She grabbed my mug from the counter and stumbled back out.
    I shook my head and poured myself a second mug, then took it to the library before someone made off with that one, too.
    Our house’s library was on the first floor, in the back. Three walls were lined with bookshelves. There were two well-worn reading chairs and a long table where people could work. The fourth wall had an old brick fireplace and a mantel inexplicably carved with Tudor roses.
    The library’s collection was eclectic. There were worn paperback romances mixed in with Dickens, a shelf of serious-looking physics books next to one full of J.K. Rowling and Stephen King. Poetry was mixed in with graphic novels, and Gormenghast snuggled up to Good Omens.
    I was looking for one of the big fairy tale collections—Grimm or Andersen—for reference. To see the way the stories were structured, how the technical elements fit together. And to help keep my mind on work, and not wandering off to think about music that sounded like it was chasing me.
    “Enough,” I said out loud, just to hear something that was normal. I pulled Maria Tatar’s The Annotated Brothers Grimm from the shelf. I would read them out loud to myself if that’s what it would take to clear my head.
    A packet of letters fell out after it.
    They were tied together by a green ribbon, and the ribbon sealed with wax. The mark sealed into the wax was some sort of branch hung with berries. It was hard to tell exactly what they were—at some point, the seal had been broken, and the letters read.
    Rather than putting them back where I’d found them, I sat down and untied the ribbon, folding it and setting it to the side. The packet of letters smelled faintly like rosemary.
    They weren’t dated. The handwriting was neat and elegant, much lovelier than my own haphazard scrawl, but not what I thought of as old-fashioned—which was somewhat surprising, consideringthe way they were written. They were all addressed to My Thomas, True, and signed Your own, J —language that felt purposely stylized, almost archaic.
    My Thomas, True,
    One year today since you were gone from me, and I walked the river and the bridge, thinking of you. Wishing that the distance between us might grow thin, that I might be where you are.
    If I close my eyes, my skin remembers the feel of your hands.
    I write poetry, as I have done constantly since you left. I sit before the glass you made for me as I do, and I wait for your return. I know the time of it, to the second, and I will be there, waiting. You are in my thoughts and in my words and in my heart. I trust that I am in yours as well.
    Your own, J
    Glancing through the rest of them, I wondered if they had ever been sent. They weren’t stamped or postmarked. J