Apprentice in Death (In Death 43)

“That’s the thing. I do, a lot. I don’t know why. It’s not simple, and I figured I’d talk you into simple. But—I don’t usually care about stuff like this, but, man, that’s a hell of a bed. Where did she find it?”

“I found it, months ago. It’s in storage as I bought it on impulse, then realized you’d more likely want the simple.” As she continued to study it, he picked up his coffee. “There’s a story with it, if you want to hear it.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“Well then. There was an Irishman of some wealth and station who had this built as his marriage bed, though he had yet to find his bride.”

“An optimist.”

“You could say. When it was complete and moved into his manor, he was still a bachelor, so he had the room with the bed closed off. Years went by, and he was no longer young, no longer believed he would find the woman to share that bed with him, or his life, his home, to make a family with him.”

“Sounds like an unlucky bed to me.”

“Well, wait for the rest. One day, it seems, he walked through his forest as he often did, and came upon a woman sitting on the banks of his stream. Not the young beauty he’d once envisioned as his bride, but a handsome woman who engaged his mind. One who lived in a pretty cottage not far from the manor.”

Considering, Eve scooped up some heavily doctored oatmeal. “He should’ve run into her before. I mean, how many people lived around there, and—”

“Well, he didn’t run into her before, did he?”

“Maybe if he’d gotten out and about more, on his own land, he’d have found that bride.”

With a shake of his head, Roarke sampled the eggs. “Maybe it was meant for that time and place. In any case,” he continued, before she could interrupt with logic again, “they met, and conversed. And began to walk together now and then over that spring and into the summer. He learned she’d been widowed barely a month after she’d wed her young man, and had never wed again. They talked of her garden and his business, and the gossip and politics of the day.”

“And fell

in love and lived happily ever after.”

Roarke shot her the look he often shot the cat. “It was a friendship they forged, a good strong one, and the man never thought of love over that year, for he believed that time for him had passed. But he valued her, her person, her mind, her manner, her humor. So he told her, and asked if she wanted to marry and they’d be companions for the rest of their days. When she agreed, he was content, but never thought to open the room or use the bed he’d once had made.

“But it was to that room she led him on their wedding night. And the bed gleamed in the moonlight, and spring, this new one, came through the windows. The linens, fresh and white, and flowers from her own cottage garden in vases, the candles lit. And in her he saw the bride he’d once imagined. Not the young beauty, but the woman, the substance, the constancy, the wit, and the kindness. And in this marriage bed, friendship, strong and true, became a strong and true love. Now it’s said that those who share this bed will know the same.”

A pretty story, obviously bullshit, but pretty. So Eve nodded. “We’re definitely keeping the bed.” And she realized she’d eaten the stupid oatmeal without thinking about it. “What color is that? The cover on it.”

“It’s bronze, a hint of copper.”

She nodded again, polishing off her bacon. “It looks like the same color and fabric thing as my wedding dress.”

“Because it is.”

“Sap.”

“That’s twisted sap, I’ll remind you.”

“I like the color, and the bed, so that’s a start.”

“As do I, so I’ll have Charmaine work from there.”

“Good enough.” She rose, went to her closet.

“It’s to be colder today,” he warned her. “Likely sleeting before afternoon.”

“Peachy.” She stuck her head back out. “Why isn’t it appley or melony, or just fruity?”

He studied her, his cynical and often literal wife. Simply shrugged. “I’ve never given it a thought, and couldn’t say.”

“Exactly.” She vanished inside again. “I’m hitting the morgue first, then the lab—I have to use Dickhead. Apparently he’s the laser king.” She grabbed a dark green sweater, warm brown trousers. As she reached for a jacket, it occurred to her if she picked wrong, Roarke would get up and get another one for her. So she took another minute, then two minutes studying her choices.

Why did she have so many? Why did it seem there were more choices every time she walked in here?