Page 178 of A Vicious Love

“It was an important fight.”

Harrison placed the embroidery hoop back down. “We agreed never to speak of it.”

“You spoke first.”

“I regret it.”

The memory remained one of the darkest in our family history. Because I had spent two nights finishing a soft ivory blanket with my sleeves rolled up, my phone on silent, and a tutorial playing at half speed on a private screen while Harrison sat on the sofa with his broken hand and being fucking useless.

He claimed he could not help.

I claimed he had planned the entire injury.

I finished it.

But, I did not knit.

I executed a textile recovery operation.

Since the knitting incident, I had made sure Emmie’s Veil account was never shown knitting or crocheting again. I had missed embroidery.

That was a tactical failure.

Harrison walked the perimeter of the table and counted under his breath, because apparently we were inventorying shame now.

“Embroidery. Candle molds. Dollhouse conservatory. Pressed flower coasters. Watercolour landscape. Clay ring dishes. Beaded napkin holders. Tiny painted herb markers.”

“Herb markers?”

He pointed to a tray near the shelves.

Six small ceramic plant markers sat half-painted, each with little crooked flowers along the edges and blank spaces for names. One had BAS written on it and then stopped.

I hated this room.

We sat at the worktable. Harlan’s most dangerous men, painting herb names onto tiny ceramic stakes under low lamplight while the city slept.

Humiliation had layers.

Harrison pulled the tray closer and studied Emmie’s unfinished letters. “Her handwriting is too round.”

“I know.”

“You can copy it?”

“Unfortunately.”

He dipped a narrow brush into green paint and began finishing the tiny leaves around the top of one marker. The key with Emmie projects was not to be perfect. Too perfect and she knew Marcel paid someone. So the project had to look as if Emmie had finished project with enough imperfection to feel believable.

Controlled whimsy.

I hated knowing that phrase.

Harrison painted one violet.

I wrote BASIL.

“This is Marcel’s fault,” I said.