Mortal Ghost | Page 9

call your father by his first name?’
‘Yeah, why not?’ She looked at him in surprise, the n asked, ‘What’s the Elder
Edda? ’
‘A collection of early ballad-like poems. An import ant source of the Norse myths,
written in Old Icelandic.’
‘Norse?’
‘Yeah. You know, stories of the Viking gods. Odin. Thor. The Valkyries. Loki the
Trickster’s one of my favourites.’ She stared at him for a moment with a frown, as if she’d never heard of the Vikings,
before going to the refrigerator for another packet of cheese.
‘Your dog won’t mind some cheddar, I reckon.’
Sarah persisted in calling the dog his. Jesse hadn’ t bothered to correct her again. A
meal was worth more than a pronoun. If he played hi s declensions right, he might get
to shower as well. While Sarah cut some cheese Jesse concentrated on t he tastes exploding on his
tongue. Hunger sharpened the senses—everyone knew t hat. Only the truly hungry saw
the ghosts it raised: a grandmother cooking on an o ld range, a little girl setting a basket
of warm feathery eggs on the table, the sad tired e yes of the constable. Sarah noticed
how Jesse’s eyes caught the light as he raised them from his plate. They winked like
mirrors, or deep blue pools, full of hidden and sub tle layers of colour.
‘Would you like some coffee?’ Sarah asked.
‘Please.’
Sarah liked that he was polite, that he ate slowly and thoughtfully even though he
was clearly ravenous. Sarah sat across from him while the dog lay at thei r feet, licking up crumbs. The
coffee was hot and strong and utterly delicious. Sa rah took hers black, but Jesse added
sugar, lots of sugar, and a dollop of cream from th e jug she’d set before him. Though
they’d stopped talking, the silence was not straine d or uncomfortable.
When he’d finished the eggs, Sarah rose and prepare d a second batch without ask-
ing, and two more slices of toast. He ate everythin g. Sarah offered him more coffee, but
he refused. He could feel some pressure against the sides of his skull, a mild fogginess.
Though coffee could sometimes relieve his headaches , more often it triggered a debilitat-
ing migraine. He’d been lucky in recent months. Per haps he was only overtired. But
what would he do if he had a full-fledged attack? Sarah poured herself another mug. Her fingers were not particularly long or fine—
nails short and blunt—but her hands carved a line o f melody through the air. Reminded
of a CD Liam used to play, Jesse hummed a few bars of Stravinsky’s Firebird. Sarah
finished the phrase for him. ‘I’ve danced to that,’ she said.
‘So you do dance,’ he said. ‘I wondered.’
She swirled the coffee in her mug, a private smile on her face.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’re not at all what I expected.’
Jesse noticed the faint sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the flecks
of green in her eyes. He looked away when she becam e aware of his scrutiny. The
kitchen was warm, and despite the coffee Jesse was beginning to feel drowsy.
‘Do you want to lie down?’ Sarah asked. ‘I don’t mi nd.’
Jesse played with his fork, considering. ‘You shoul dn’t be so trusting.