Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91004 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I put down my glass. “You take life. You hurt people.”
“Yes, I do,” he agrees, unblinking. “But that only makes my appreciation for it stronger. When you understand the fragility of being, the sheer transience of it—when you see how easy it is to snuff something out of existence—you value life more, not less.”
“So why do it, then? Why destroy something you value? How can you reconcile being a killer with—”
“With finding human life beautiful? It’s easy.” He leans in, his gray eyes dark in the flickering light of the candles. “You see, death is part of life, Sara. An ugly part, sure, but there’s no beauty without ugliness, just as there’s no happiness without sorrow. We live in a world of contrasts, not absolutes. Our minds are designed to compare, to perceive changes. Everything we are, everything we do as human beings, relies on the basic fact that X is different from Y—better, worse, hotter, colder, darker, lighter, whatever it may be—but only in comparison. In a vacuum, X has no beauty, just as Y has no ugliness. It’s the contrast between them that enables us to value one over the other, to make a choice and derive happiness from it.”
My throat feels inexplicably tight. “So you what? Bring joy to the world with your work? Make everyone happy?”
“No, of course not.” Peter picks up his wine glass and swirls the liquid inside. “I have no delusions about what I am and what I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t comprehend the beauty in your work, Sara. One can live in the darkness and see the light of the sun; it’s even brighter that way.”
“I…” My palms are slippery with sweat as I pick up my wine glass and surreptitiously reach into my bag with my free hand. As fascinating as this is, I have to act before it’s too late. There’s no guarantee he’ll pour himself a second glass. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
“No reason why you should.” He puts his glass down and smiles at me. It’s his dark, magnetic smile, the one that always sends heat surging to my core. “You’ve led a very different life, ptichka. A gentler life.”
“Right.” My breaths are shallow as I pick up my glass and bring it to my lips. “I guess I have—until you came into it.”
His expression turns somber. “That’s true. For what it’s worth—”
My glass slips out of my fingers, the contents spilling out onto the table in front of me. “Oops.” I jump up, as if embarrassed. “So sorry about that. Let me—”
“No, no, sit.” He stands up, just as I hoped he would. Though he’s in my house, he likes to play at being a good host. “I’ll take care of this.”
It takes him only a few strides to reach the paper towel rack on the counter, but that’s all the time I need to open the vial. Six, seven, eight, nine… I do the mental count as I pour the contents into his glass. Ten, eleven, twelve. He turns back, paper towels in hand, and I give him a sheepish smile as I sink back into my chair, the empty glass vial dropped back into my bag. My back is soaked with icy sweat, and my hands are shaking from adrenaline, but my task is done.
Now I just need him to drink the wine.
“Here, let me help,” I say, reaching for a napkin as he mops up the spilled wine on the table, but he waves me away.
“It’s all good, don’t worry.” He carries my wine-soaked plate to the garbage and dumps the remnants of my pasta—that could’ve been another opportunity, I note with a corner of my brain—and then returns with a clean plate.
“Thank you,” I say, trying to sound grateful instead of gleeful as he swaps my wine glass for a new one and pours me more wine before adding some to his own glass. “Sorry I’m such a klutz.”
“No worries.” He looks coolly amused as he sits down again. “Normally, you’re very graceful. It’s one of the things I like most about you: how precise and controlled your movements are. Is it because of your medical training? Steady hand for surgery and all that?”
Don’t act nervous. Whatever you do, don’t act nervous.
“Yes, that’s part of it,” I reply, doing my best to keep my tone even. “I also took ballet when I was a child, and my instructor was a stickler for precision and good technique. Our hands had to be positioned just so, our feet turned just so. She’d make us practice each position, each step until we got it completely right, and if we ever slipped from good form, we’d have to go back and practice whatever we got wrong again, sometimes for the duration of an entire class.”