They whisper that he has no heart. Softer still; that he cut hers out. In the Spring air, she listens and hides her smile, sips her pomegranate martini and remembers how she forced open his ribcage to count the roses blooming there, when he’d dared her to cheat death. There had been a cold fire in his eternal eyes and his hand was a fist where her heart should be. Six red roses, she’d planted in the dark hollow of his chest, and he had conceded the bet with a chasm’d smile and a crown round her head to match his own.