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"Don’t go getting any ideas, Rebekah," he tells her. "I know better than to pull that thing out."
Two stories down, Klaus chuckles in response, though whether at Marcel or Friedrech Engels is anybody’s guess.
"Still, I know you hate to be alone, so." He holds up a book she won’t see and settles onto the caquetoire.
"Feet off the upholstery, Marcellus," Klaus calls.
He untucks his right foot and draws a rust-red line to the edge of the chair.
"Fine, suit yourself."
-
She dreams of Rapunzel, who lifted a man up to her level, hoisted the weight of his potential into the sky with just her hair.
Rebekah’s scalp burns.
-
"Stop me if you’ve heard this one before."
She doesn’t.
"I guess you’ve heard them all before, right. I mean, you look good for your age and all, but…."
She doesn’t answer his thrust, when that’s what they do, act and react and dance and spar and don’t even care when they don’t draw blood.
Her silence leaves him at a loss. He tries to fill it with another tale.
"Maybe you knew that tailor."
She did. She does. She will.
-
Rebekah kicks off both shoes to dance at the ball, but her dress tangles around her ankles and then her knees, its golden threads winding their way to the dungeon until she trips and falls into a pile of straw. Marcel calls her name, as clear as a bell; she wants to shout back but the spindle twists inside her ribcage and -
-
Even deep in the compound he can feel the night fall, slipping off his shoulders like a broken burden.
He bends over and kisses her on the forehead.
It doesn’t work.
-
Rebekah dreams of a heart as sweet as poison, and an apple red as blood.