I don’t press her. I just let her come around to it, and it takes a moment of waiting that feels eternal.

“Can you maybe read something to me …? I know that probably sounds stupid, but it can be anything you want. A gun manual, maybe, or so-you-wanna-be-a-leatherworker, or like, the history of dryer lint, or just … anything. I feel like maybe it would help to hear a familiar voice. Unless it’s a pain in the ass, I know it’s late, or I guess so late it’s early, and you’re busy and—”

“Lark.” I sit back in my chair and let my hands rest on the counter, my project momentarily forgotten. “It’s not a pain in the arse. Okay?”

“Okay,” Lark says on a long exhale.

“Just hold on, yeah?” I bring up the reading app on my phone and search for something I’m not sure the online store will have, but it does, and I grin like a feckin’ fool when I find it. “You might like this. I hear the history of dryer lint is a riveting tale.”

“I can’t wait to fall asleep in record time.”

At first it feels a little strange to read aloud to someone, but I quickly fall into the rhythm of a story that opens with an ancient city and a prisoner who finds a strange relic during a daring escape from his cell. I describe how the artifact seems to affect him. My tone is hushed and sinister when I tell her the prisoner hears voices when he holds it, and though he looks everywhere for the source, there’s no one nearby. He breaks out in a feverish sweat. He seems compelled by a hidden force, driven to run. When the prison guards discover he’s missing and chase him through the city, he’s hit by a car, the metal crumpling around him, and yet he stands uninjured, the relic still clutched in his hand. The man looks down at his forearm where a symbol burns through his flesh.

“Is this Constantine?” Lark asks, her voice colored with awe. If I close my eyes, I can imagine the rare blush that must be sweeping through her skin. “You’re reading me the script from Constantine?”

“Hmm. Is that what this is?”

Silence permeates the line.

“Seems like you might be right,” I continue, and I wait for a beat for Lark to reply, but she doesn’t. “I know it’s not exactly the same as what ended up on screen, but I’ve gotta say, I kind of prefer the opening they went with for the movie. Makes it more unexpected when the bloke gets smoked by that car.”

“You watched it …?”

I lift one shoulder, though of course Lark can’t see it. “Yeah.”

“When?”

With another invisible shrug, I place the spiral wire into the box and start shaping the two ends so it will stand upright on a smaller spiral frame. “The first time would have been about two weeks ago.”

“How many times have you watched it?”

“I dunno, duchess. Maybe one or two.”

“Liar,” Lark says with a laugh that dissolves into a soft melody of words when she adds, “Tell me the truth.”

“Twelve, I reckon.”

“Twelve,” she whispers.

I grin as I lift my prize from the damp and bloody tea towel and place it in the wire cage within the box. With a few minor tweaks, the golden spiral will be a perfect fit. “I thought you were supposed to be falling asleep. You gonna let me keep reading or what? I haven’t even gotten to the Keanu bit yet.”

“Umm … yeah.”

“You know, I’ve been told I’m like a tougher, buffer, generally better-looking version of Constantine-era Keanu—”

“Stop right there, Lachlan Kane. You will not Keanumatize me into forgiveness. That is fucking blasphemous.”

“Worth a shot.”

Lark laughs and I make a few digs at Keanu, which of course get her fired up. But then we get back to the story. I tell her about Father Hennessy and the holy water and the possession that he can’t exorcise. I introduce Constantine, John Constantine, in my best Keanu impression, which she says reminds her too much of my “whisper growl” from the night we met. “Less whispering, more growling, but make it sound morose like you’re so over this bullshit—so basically be you on a normal day but with demons,” she declares, and soon enough I get her stamp of approval. And eventually, Lark goes quiet, staying that way even after I taper off into silence. When I take the time to wait and listen, I hear it. The muffled, steady cadence of her breath as she sleeps.

With a faint smile, I set my phone on mute and place it off to the side as I continue my work.

Just in case she wakes up.

OceanofPDF.com

HYMNS

Lachlan

The end of the day is my favorite time in the shop. It’s serene. The studio feels comforting in the dim light as the sun slips behind the city buildings. Music drifts through my wall-mounted speakers. I resist the urge to change playlists so I can hear Lark’s voice as I start my last project for the day. She’ll be here soon and I don’t want her to catch me with her music playing when she arrives. She’ll think I’m lovesick and pining, though I’ve come to accept that’s probably true. It’s been a week since Lark was at the sleep clinic, and every day since she came home has been better and better, yet, in some ways, each day is more painful than the one before. I think about her every waking moment. I worry about her constantly. I’m particularly anxious about what we’ll find when we check out Club Pacifico tonight, but I’m also counting down the hours until I see Lark. So I try to distract myself, but I still struggle to focus on the rhythm of my tools as I cut and shape and carve through hide.

I’m glancing at my watch when the brass bell rings over the door.

When I look up, an unfamiliar man steps over the threshold. There’s a faint smile on his face as he looks around the shop. I lower the music and slide my glasses off, setting them aside on the worktop.

“Welcome to Kane Atelier,” I say, walking toward him. “What can I help you with?”

The man shifts the weight of a heavy Western saddle onto his hip as he extends a hand for me to shake. He’s a few inches shorter than me and a decade older at least, but his forearm is thick with the type of muscle that comes from hard, consistent labor. The bottom of a tattoo peeks from his sleeve, a simple cross with three waves beneath it like pages of an open Bible. “The name’s Abe,” he says in a faint Texan drawl as he tips the brim of his worn Carhartt ball cap in greeting. “Abe Midus. We have an appointment for tomorrow, but I was in the area, so thought I might drop in to see if you’re free.”

“Right. Abe, of course. Come on in, let’s take a look and have a chat about what you’d like done.” I lift the saddle from him and lead the way toward the work area. “Good timing, actually. I don’t have any more appointments today, aside from drinks with my wife.”

“Any recommendations for good places to eat? I’m kind of new to the area.”

“Well, my brother is a chef at 3 in Coach and Butcher & Blackbird, so those would get my vote,” I say with a chuckle. “You just move here?”

“I guess you could say so.”

I expect Abe to elaborate, but he doesn’t. His eyes pan across the shelves of materials, tools, and works in progress. I wait until he meets my lingering gaze then nod toward a chair but he declines to sit.

When I’m seated on my favorite rolling stool, I set the saddle on a stand and pull the fabric cover off to reveal the old leather. It’s cracked and scuffed in some places, worn down from use in others. The elaborate scrollwork and flower tooling is faded, an echo of what was once a vibrant design. “Quite a piece, Abe. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

“It was my granddaddy’s,” he says, and I look up to find him standing close, his expression wistful as he passes his hand over the pommel. “He was a rancher, bought it from a man who made custom rigs in Galveston. Paid a small fortune for it at the time, but he used it nearly every day on the ranch before he took sick. Eventually he stopped riding. Passed it down to my father.”