I looked at the lack of woman against the actual wall, and then back to the drawing. A chill ran down my spine. “Are you seeing … her … right now?”

“Only in my memory.”

“Does she appear often?”

“Every day. I call her the Librarian, because she loves to rearrange my books.” He grinned. “Spiteful, tidy woman.” He drew one last line and held the pad at arm’s length, his wrists jingling sharply at the movement, then turned the drawing to me. “What do you think?”

“Why is she bleeding?”

“I used to ask, and then she would leave threatening book passages open the next morning for me to read with breakfast,” he said, gesturing to the table beside us. “I no longer ask.”

“I notice you didn’t include the portrait in your drawing.”

“Yes, well. I don’t draw monsters.”

I hesitated. That had to be a painting of his father … didn’t it? “Why not take the portrait down, then?”

“Target practice.” He signed and dated his work and then tucked it beside the chair, exchanging his pencil for a tart. Finally, his eyes met mine, and a gentle, almost relieved expression slipped to his face. It was as if all the rudeness and anger I’d seen in him hinged on this one human interaction.

And then his eyes shifted lower and widened. “God. You have a massive scar on your face.”

My cheeks flared with shame. Perhaps I’d read his expression wrong, because the eye contact hadn’t changed him one bit. Still as rude as last night.

“You make a terrible first impression, you know,” he went on, and took a bite of his tart. “Weren’t you supposed to arrive yesterday?”

“I did arrive yesterday.” He paused and blinked at me, so I added, “We spoke before bed.”

“Hm. I don’t remember that.”

“You were…” Fussy. Like a baby. “Tired, sir.”

“Call me Magnus. I don’t like the formality of titles. It makes us such strangers, and I don’t like strangers in my house.”

I paused. “I am employed by you, sir. I don’t think—”

“I like the brown of your eyes,” he said, with wonder in his voice. “Tilt your head toward the light?”

“Tilt my head?”

“I just want to see the highlights.”

I hesitated, then turned my face halfway to the fire, hoping he’d look at my eyes and move on from the topic.

“Umber undertones,” he murmured. “Yes. Like steeped tea…”

“Is there a reason you wanted to see me?” I asked, settling back in the chair and looking him firmly in the eye.

“I can tell you’re annoyed just by looking in your eyes.” He sounded almost … pleased about it.

Is there something wrong with you? was at the tip of my tongue, but I needed this job, and insulting my employer wasn’t the way to keep it.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked suddenly. “Here.”