I smile graciously at her to let her know there are no hard feelings. Everyone’s eyes remain fixed on me. Without intending to, mine dart to Norrell’s, and sure enough, they seem to search mine, pulling me in with their intensity. He knows what happened. It’s why he’s here in Monstera Bluff. The only explanation as to why he’s sittinghereat my dining table is to see it for himself. The witch whose magick was stolen by a fae. The cautionary tale parents will tell their children for generations to come. With that realization, I wrench my gaze from his and onto my plate, where I move food around with my fork, trying to escape his scrutiny.
“This investigation will last far longer than our meeting here. There will be much to uncover,” Niven remarks. After absently taking a bite of food, I look up in time to watch his expression darken. “It was far too easy for the fae to waltz in here and wreak havoc. As Ada said, it could have been far worse. But what has transpired is already a calamity.”
“Well, the good news tonight is that we still have pie. I think we could all use a slice right about now,” I drawl to break the tension. My chair scrapes noisily as I scoot back from the table, drawing their attention to me again. I suppose it’s practice for tomorrow when I’ll be Exhibit A, dissected and analyzed. Just the thought frays my nerves, so I hustle to the kitchen.
I lean against the counter, just breathing, enjoying these precious seconds alone. It’s all I can do to pull myself together to get through the rest of the evening. This may be one of the lowest points in my life, but they don’t need to see it. As I open a drawer to dig out a pie server and knife, I sense eyes on my back. Whirling around, my heart drops. Norrell stands in the doorway, taking up most of its space. Fire and ashes, this male is doggingmy footsteps something fierce. He walks toward the other end of the counter and places a stack of dirty plates next to the sink.
“Much appreciated,” I respond automatically, sounding more stressed than intended. Hoping he’ll go away if I ignore him, I get to work slicing the pie, working carefully on the first piece since it’s always difficult to cut and lift cleanly.
“May we speak for a moment?” he asks in a soft rumble.
“We’ve been speaking all night. Why don’t you take this back to the table with you?” I insist, as I lay the pie slice on a small plate.
“No, Ada, we have not,” he keeps on.
“Well, then I guess there isn’t much to say,” I deflect, though my voice sounds thin as I slide the plate toward him.
“I disagree. There is much that should be said. That should have been said a long time ago,” he persists.
I consciously, carefully, set down the knife as I turn toward him. I’m trying not to choose violence today. “Well, you can’t have yourpieand eat it too. So please, take your plate and leave the kitchen. You may have access to my house, but that doesn’t give you access tome,” I hiss with bared teeth. My glare should be angrier, but it’s shaped by too much grief. His body betrays a faint wince, as I’m finally pushed far enough to lash out. Sadness reflects back at me in his widened eyes. As if he has the right to be.
I sniffle, my emotions coming to the fore. Swiftly turning back to the pie, I continue slicing it in silence as he stands there. Tears well in my eyes, but I don’t dare acknowledge them. Slice by slice, I work my way through the pie until finally he sighs, sounding resigned.
“Mayhap tonight is too soon for the discussion that we need to have. But it is necessary. I know I have made mistakes. I treated you unfairly. But I am not your enemy, Ada,” he attempts to pressure me, still without an apology in those empty words.
“No, I’m not interested. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to deliver these to the rest of my guests,” I answer, voice only wavering a little. I take two plates and walk away.
As I set the plates in front of Cyrinda and Tallie, they both have questions in their eyes, but don’t say anything about Norrell. When I return to the kitchen for the rest of the plates, he’s gone, presumably to his bedroom. Finally. Good riddance.
After everyone has their slice, we dig into our dessert.
“Delicious! Did you make this?” Tallie asks enthusiastically around a bite.
“I’m no expert pie baker. It came from Pearlhouse Pastries. You’ll love it. I’ll take you there this week,” I offer.
She hums her enthusiasm while chewing a bite.
As the five of us eat and talk, Norrell’s absence is the elephant in the room. But everyone’s tactful enough not to bring it up to me right now. It’s a welcome reprieve. Tallie, Niven, and I clean up the dining room table and the kitchen after we’re finished. I run the full dishwasher and leave the remaining dishes soaking in the sink.
My guests aren’t ready to turn in yet, so I suggest that the living room or the back garden would be good places for a nightcap if they’re interested. While they discuss the merits of each, I drag myself up the stairs. I’m bone tired, physically and mentally. It makes me consider whether hosting anyone in my house, Norrell or not, was a terrible idea. I should have listened to Clancy and Walt. But as a Mayweather and a town councilwoman, it’s my duty. Still, I could have left it to someone else who isn’t already an organizer as well as an exhibition wrapped up in one messy, overworked package. The witch I used to be would have taken it all in stride. The not-quite-witch I am now can’t keep up with burning the candle at both ends.
Barely mustering the energy to change into pajamas and wipe the makeup off my face, I finally fall into bed, nearlydelirious with exhaustion. My last swirling thoughts are of those ice blue eyes, seeing too much. Wanting more than I have to give.
Eighteen Years Ago
In the weeks Norrell and I met in secret at the library, we’ve gradually drawn closer from the opposite ends of the long study table where we started without ever acknowledging it. Tonight, like usual, he arrives after me. He likes to challenge me to focus on my own awareness of sound, so much duller than his, so I listen for anything out of the ordinary. His footsteps aim toward the stacks, far back it seems, to select a very old book, mayhap from the archives, which he was granted special access to support his study of old magick. They draw closer, louder, swifter, like he’s impatient as he approaches our table.
Tonight, he takes the chair right next to me. Our shoulders nearly touch. A first. His body heat radiates into mine. Hot enough to keep him comfortable in Arctic weather. Every so often he feeds me a tidbit of information like this about himself. He usually focuses on me, instead. Despite my attempts to draw more out of him, he keeps me at arm’s length, in every sense. This sudden closeness is an intimacy with him I haven’t yet enjoyed. Without saying a word, he delicately opens an impressively old tome with a fine touch and flips to a page within.
It’s too dark for me to see the text, and we’re not near enough to a lamp for it to be useful, so I whisper, “Hang a light that’s cozy but bright so all that’s written is in sight.” A small golden orb appears and floats above us. Its soft glow gently illuminatesus. I didn’t intend for the lighting to add to the romance, but I’m not upset about it.
Norrell turns to me and smiles coyly, a short tusk catching his upper lip. It makes him look incredibly sexy. Butterflies seem to have taken up residence in my stomach, my chest, my head. Everywhere. “Does it have to rhyme?”
Blushing, I pretend there’s something I need to erase in my notebook to give myself an excuse to look away. “No, but I like it. It feels right for my magick.”
“All of your spells are little poems?” he asks quietly, undemanding but curious.
“Speaking them helps set the intention of the magick. The words focus me. Some can just imagine the spell in their head, but I’m not good at that. Each witch finds their own way to a spell. That’s just how I find mine,” I answer with a bashful smile, my gaze meeting his bright, watchful eyes again. He’s shifted in his seat to better face me.
