“Why would you need to go to the village?” Reginald frowns at the empty plate in my hands. “Have I not been feeding you properly? Is there some comfort you require that I have neglected?”
He looks so distressed that I feel guilty.
“Everything you’ve done for me is wonderful.” I take a bite of one of the berry tarts he left for me in this morning’s breakfast spread in support of my point. Honestly, Reginald’s food has been amazing. Alaric and I sat beside the fire again last night and Reginald brought me an incredible venison stew. Once again, Lord Valerian didn’t eat a single thing. “It’s only that I’ve been invited to a book club at Nevermore Bookshop this evening, and I thought that sounded like fun.”
Reginald makes a face like he stepped in something foul. “Is that Isis Meriwether’s coven?”
“It’s a book club. I think she’s a member, yes.” The redhead was named Isis, I remember.
“How have you been in Argleton only four days and you’re already mixed up with Isis Meriwether and her ilk?”
“Are they the village bad girls? Do they ride in cars with boys and wear skintight leather cigarette pants?”
Reginald doesn’t seem to realise I’m joking. “They’re notbad, merely troublesome.”
“Okay, then.”
“Troublesome is far worse.”
“How so?”
“They have a reputation in the village – Isis runs the local magic emporium and is convinced that every strange happening is linked to the supernatural, and Mina Wilde, who owns the bookshop, fancies herself an amateur sleuth. She’s put more murderers behind bars than the entire Loamshire police force, and they’re none too happy about it. Some people say that Beth Duncan’s tincturesand treatments are magical, although I think it’s a load of codswallop. Komal Ahuja has her finger in every committee in the village, and she flies helicopters for a living. I don’t trust people who don’t have two feet firmly on the ground.” He stomps his boots for emphasis. “And the less said about Arabella Lestrange, the better, because that woman is terrifying. The only sensible one amongst them is Isis’s sister, Dora.”
“Wow.” That’s the most Reginald has ever said in a single conversation. “You really don’t like them.”
“You may think that you’re attending an innocent book club, Ms Preston, but you’ll soon find yourself sneaking about the village at all hours, spying on suspects and conducting naked rituals in the forest.” Reginald sighs. “Of course, I’ll be happy to drive you to the village. I’ll pick you up again when your book club finishes.”
“I don’t want you to have to go all the way just for me. Is there a car I could borrow? One that was builtafterthe last world war?”
“I won’t hear of you driving this dangerous road by yourself. It’s my job to make sure you’re comfortable during your stay, and if that means taking you into the village so you can become Isis Meriwether’s latest project, then so be it.”
I beam. “Thank you, Reginald.”
Now I’m even more curious about the Nevermore Murder Club and Smutty Book Coven.
My ride arranged, I head into the ballroom to continue sorting Alaric’s junk into various piles. I dump yet another slightly crooked sword onto a towering pile.
Why does a man require somanyswords?
And what’s with all the crucifixes? Alaric doesn’t strike me as a religious type, but every time I move something in this house, I come up with another crucifix. I’ve been tossing them into a bucket for him to sort through when he wakes up.
As I work and sing along with Iggy Pop at the top of my lungs, I find myself glancing at the doorway, hoping that Alaric will wake early. I set aside several items that I want to discuss with him. But he doesn’t appear until the sun fallsbeneath the horizon.
“Good evening, Ms Preston.”
“Good even—” I turn to the door and my words catch in my throat.
Alaric stands beneath the gothic arched doorway, clad only in a pair of his tight, impeccably-tailored trousers and his high leather boots. His upper torso is naked, gleaming with beads of water that roll down the kind of perfectly-chiselled alabaster chest that would have Michelangelo’s David reaching for the kettlebells. The only dent in his perfection is a white scar that extends from beneath his left armpit.
He flicks a wet curl from his forehead and regards me with those dark eyes, pressing his lips together as the corner of his mouth quirks up in what might’ve been a lordly smirk if Alaric Valerian were capable of such things.
Maybe he is. There’s a warmth at the edge of his coal-dark eyes I haven’t noticed before.
He tilts his head to the side, regarding me as I struggle to put out the fire in my ovaries. “Winifred, are you quite okay?”
“I … um … forgot … what I was going to say.” I run my hands through my hair, searching for a coherent thought. “Why are you damp?”
“I begin my evenings with a swim.” He rubs his hair, and I try not to drool. “There is a path down to a beautiful spot I like to go. I could show you?—”
