“You are dead.”
“Apparently not,” he answered calmly.
She swayed slightly, and taking it as a queue, sat down on one of the many wicker chairs that decorated the porch. Reaching for a nearby pitcher, she pored herself a glass of tea.
“Would you like some?” she inquired.
He sat in the adjacent chair.
“I didn’t fake my death to take tea with you on a Sunday afternoon.”
Rearranging her skirts, she took an opportunity to examine him. It was the same face she had seen in the church earlier that day, lying in a casket.
“You’re still pale,” she observed. “Like earlier.”
“You, as well.”
“It’s the black.”
“Ah. Of course.” His eyes hadn’t left her face the entire time.
She set the glass down.
“Why?”
He shrugged.
“Your father rejected my proposal to you, so…”
“Keep going.”
“I will leave. When I return with a new name and fortune, he will have no reason to reject me again. Only you and I will know the truth.”
“What truth?”
He smiled.
“That the only two suitors you will ever love are, in fact, the same person.”