Chapter 7: Charming as Asps

I found myself in the austere drawing room with Laird Black, who was drinking rosehip tea Annis has nervously fixed for us. Annis was whispering with Cook Panetta in the kitchen, making egg noodles and churning butter for a dinner of Italian pasta. Samael was pale olive, his jet-black hair shining in the damp light from the moors.

"I hope you have made yourself comfortable, Laird Samael," I demurred. "I must admit, when I received your letter, never did I imagine you would request my hand in marriage."

"Death makes strange bedfellows of us all," he said obliquely, his voice a cat's paw purr, like kitten fur. It made me shudder, the gentle silk and daft air, like rafter beams, of his genteel voice. "Just look at me and Peter Stonecroft."

"Yes, Peter somehow was your horse jockey. And you are already well established in London society. It makes me wonder, the trestle ticket you recommended I buy, for St. Andrews – why did you not whisk me away to London then and there?"

"Girls must conquer the world in their own way – and take on as many enemies as they can, coming out victorious like Saint Martha over her dragon, may she rest in glory, before they are of weddable age."

I ate a scone, a Cornish pasty tray stuffed with goat's cheese and potatoes on one half, and marsala chicken on the next, in between us. "Still, twenty-five is far from marriageable. Laird Samael, I fear you have saddled yourself with a spinster."

"And I have been, until today, a confirmed bachelor. Dalliances with women of course... and some men. But no wife of mine."

"Lilith?"

"She prefers the fairer sex. It was good for a time. I helped her."

"Ah, I see." I thought of Lleuwinda's ivy skin, her cinnamon breath. Blush painted my cheeks rose gold.

Samael and I made small talk. He had a fondness for Catullus and Ovid alike – the dirty and transcendent. We discussed Alighieri, Milton, Tolstoy. Austen, Clarentine, the Brontës.

It seemed he had endless time for reading. After Annis served us dinner, tight-lipped and pale, sharing knowing glances with me that I could not discern the meaning of, as if she was tracing words onto a fogged mirror in a storm, I decided I needed to escape the tense situation.

"Sam, would you accompany to Frogtongue Tavern? Rosy says you are a patron."

Samael softened, his wide blue eyes growing deep, like twin watery moons. "Yes, but I believe my true form is most appropriate for the occasion. It would do well for Sedgewood to remember me as its true guardian. And I have some knitting to do."

"Ah yes, death shrouds."

"And scarves for my dearly departed souls." He winked, then shifted into his black cloak and bones. "I am gentle too, you know. Say, will you ride on Sally with me?"

"Your mare?"

"Yes, my blue roan from Hades. He breeds them in Malta."

"I don't see why not."

He helped me up into the stirrups, out at the stable, and we rode through the gardens, apple orchard, and lavender fields to Frogtongue Inn.

The Inn fell silent as I entered – the Lady of Invermoore, and the Reaper. Rosy crossed herself, a gold tooth shining in her mouth.

"Welcome, Laird Black, Lady MacKay. Ah, by the Cross, is that a ring on your pretty little finger?" Rosy broke the ice, eying the blue diamond on electrum Samael had given me. It was cushion cut, and shined like a silvery raindrop, set with gray pearls.

"We are engaged, my lovely Rosy."

Samael proffered his arm, and I lifted my skirts over the entrance, onto the peanut shell floor.

"She is a woman of might and spirit, my dear Rosalie. Tell me, will you buy a new gold tooth, with my tip for your lovely service tonight?" Samael said fondly. Clearly, he and Rosy were friends. The Inn settled into its usual chat – it had a dhamphir lady, after all, and Black Annis and Long Lankin alike were patrons, nothing unusual to see here! – and Brannath the Blacksmith raised his glass of ale.

"Hear hear, our brilliant diamond of a Lady is to marry the austere guardian of the Sedgewoods!" he led the group. Soon, Rosy's daughter Niamh started playing her fiddle, and Ken the Cobbler pulled out a penny whistle.

Samael eyed me knowingly, a smile almost evident on his skull face, and he clapped along on his phalanges as the citizens of Sedgewood danced a reel. "Loch Lomond." "Danny Boy." "Come O'er the Hills."

I nursed cask ale from Cornwall, the toasted nutty taste easing my nerves, and I flirted with Samael with reserve. It was difficult, around his handsome human form, or his protective alm of a Malakh Ha'maveat guise. But his words and friendship were true, and I thought, perhaps I could grow to love him.

He set his knitting aside – a paisley pattern rhubarb scarf. "Tam Lin" was on, and Niamh played it with aplomb, Ken's cheeks puffing out on the bagpipes as Brannath drummed. Samael offered me his hand. "Care for a little danse macabre, dear?"

I smiled. "I have two left feet."

"I do not doubt it. Dhamphirs are not known for festive, carefree revelry, but a muted, severe grace."

He led me in the steps – I stepped on his boots. His robes blew in the wind through the windows, faint summer air carrying the smell of petrichor and heather. A kilt of red, blue, and black shone down to his knees – the Black clan, one would assume. The bagpipes blew "Matty Grove." The feisty tune carried us until morning, and I danced with the Reaper until the sun rose.

We were the last ones keeping Rosy company. Samael pulled out a piece of gold carved like Asmodeus and Solomon's shamir worm, that could bore through any surface, and she looked at in awe.

"Such beauty, my Laird. I shall treasure this."

Samael turned to his human form, smiling. "I carved it myself. Melt it down for another set of teeth, Rosy. You have done me and my bride many a good turn."

I smiled, fond of his gentle manner. Without a word – just fond smiles – my fiancé of the grave (fitting for a dhamphir, no?) escorted me out to the stable, where Sally the skeletal blue roan chewed hay.

"Want to give my best girl a treat?" Samael said, pulling a sugar cube from his breast pocket.

"I am not your best girl, but a horse? Do not you walk the sedge and moors and gorse with my very soul, telling me all your secrets?" I teased, feeling bold.

For the first time I had ever seen – perhaps anyone had seen – Death blushed. "You are quick with words. For you, you are my lucky charm. Not a day goes by where I do not feel the blessing of your friendship, Abigail Virginia MacKay."

"And you are a charmer," I said, tipsy. I fed the sugar cube to Sally, then Samael helped me up. We rode back as wine-kissed red and purple dawn rolled over the sparse land, the woods in the distance, as wildflowers bloomed.

I was beginning to feel I could never part from Samael. It was a feeling I had never felt with Lleuwa, she of fickle fey flights of fancy.

"Samael, are you one for theater? In Pottsmouth, they are playing Romeo and Juliet. We – we could go there, before catching the kelpie. God knows I must set Peter up with Annis to ease her tartly qualms."

"I could be persuaded. The tragedy of lovers in Verona, struck by me..." Samael laughed. His cheeks were bright and merry, his thin rosy lips like pink tea.

We kissed at the stables, then both went to our separate rooms. We had agreed to spend weekdays at my estate, and weekends at his small manor.

I fell asleep, feeling a breeze of warmth and wine. It was as if Samael was intoxicating. The kiss had been like Parma violet candies – just the smallest trace of sweetness, tart, sublime.

I dreamed – I dreamed of him in shameful ways. And when I woke at late morn, there was a rose on my pillow – blue petals, purple stem.

I breathed it, smiling.

Strange bedfellows, indeed...