Page 82 of Ghost Ribbon

A little while later, we went back inside the mansion because Dimitri had decided the garden could survive ten minutes without his supervision and because, according to him, Rei would be waking up “soon enough” and needed to be greeted with food.

Dimitri went straight to the stove.

I leaned against the island and watched him pull ingredients from the refrigerator with an efficiency I hadn’t expected from him.

“Does he know what you’re doing?” I asked.

Dimitri didn’t look up. “Nope.”

He set eggs on the counter, then opened another cabinet and took out rice, miso paste, soy sauce, and several things I couldn’t immediately identify.

“And you’d better not tell him.”

I arched an eyebrow. “Why.”

“Because I want him to see it when it’s done.” He finally glanced at me, offended I even had to ask. “That is the entire point.”

I looked past him toward the stretch of windows facing the rear grounds.

“Won’t he see it if he goes behind the mansion?”

Dimitri snorted softly as he rinsed rice in a bowl.

“He never goes behind the mansion.” Then, with a light laugh he added, “He thinks I’m killing people back there or something.”

I said nothing. Because that was, unfortunately, not an unreasonable assumption.

Dimitri noticed my silence and pointed at me with wet fingers. “Don’t make that face.”

“I’m not making a face.”

“You’re absolutely making a face.”

“I’m merely considering that your reputation may have contributed to this problem.”

“My reputation is excellent.”

“Your reputation,” I said, deadpan, “includes arson, aggravated assault, and at least two hundred incidents involving murders.”

“That could describe half the men in this family.”

“Yes, I guess it could.”

He grinned at that and went back to his task. I watched him for a moment longer.

It remained a mystery to me how fundamentally different he was when Rei was involved.

With everyone else, Dimitri moved through the world like he expected it to either kneel or bleed. He liked impact. Immediate reactions. If something displeased him, his instinct was to break it first and think later. He was vain, vicious, easily bored, and proud.

And yet with Rei, all that ugliness bent itself into strange new shapes.

Not better shapes, exactly. Dimitri wasn’t becoming kinder. That would have implied moral growth, and I had known him too long to entertain fantasy. But he became… earnest.

It was fascinating.

“What are you cooking?”

“Tamagoyaki,” he said, lifting the bowl slightly.