Turning back to the bowl she’d dropped, Ladybug was relieved to find it hovering a few inches off the pavement, the ground chicken thighs floating in the air like a pink smear, plopping wetly when she snapped her fingers, breaking his spell.
“Thank you for that,” she muttered through clenched teeth. “But it doesn’t change anything. You let her eat in peace, understand? Andgo away.”
But he didn’t go away, as she feared he wouldn’t.
One of the pitfalls of living in a historic home was the lack of modern amenities, such as an ensuite bathroom. She’d grown up using a bathroom several doors away from her bedroom her entire life, so continuing to do so in adulthood was not a hardship, but on cold February mornings, as she scurried down the hall wrapped in a towel, damp hair bouncing down her back, she wondered if it might be the next major home improvement upgrade they tackled.
Since that first Mabon they celebrated together, Anzan had undertaken project after project in her house, doing the majority of the work himself. The old Victorian, the Brackenbridge witches’ pride and joy, no longer boasted a sagging roof and uneven front steps. The tuckpointed chimney flue was no longer an alarming crumble, the mournful roof had been methodically replaced in sections, and the staggering front porch was completely refurbished.
“Araneaens are taught many necessary skills, my little bug,” he’d told her solemnly, “for one never knows when they must construct their own dwelling under the cover of darkness.”
It was an ominous pronouncement at the time, but she couldn’t pretend she wasn’t glad of his unexpected handiness. An ensuite bathroom might well be in his purview, she thought, stepping out of the shower that chilly February morning.
The cat was sitting in the well of the stained-glass window just outside the shower, his black-furred face pressed to the glass. He mewled pitifully and Ladybug jumped at the unexpected black shape, dropping her towel in fright. He fled as she shouted, stamping her foot yet again, feeling as if she were the unwilling and unwitting star of some social media prankster account.
She was still trembling with the sudden rush of adrenaline when she left the bathroom, only to find Anzan in the hallway, shaking his head infinitesimally. She could practically hear histskof disapproval as she huffed back to the open bedroom door.
That same night, Ladybug found herself suspended in a hammock-like web in his attic office, swinging gently from side to side as Anzan kissed his way up her legs, pausing at her knees.
It had been a long, defeating day. A book had fallen over on a shelf in her work kitchen — in and of itself, not a calamitous thing, but the book had knocked over a canister, which had tipped into a top-heavy jar, a terrible domino effect of spoiled potion ingredients and broken glass that she couldn’t even blame on the cat outside. By the time Anzan had sped down from the attic at the noise, she’d been close to frustrated tears. When she learned he’d pulled himself away from a meeting to do so, the tears had fallen in shuddering, noisy sobs.
She didn’t know what she wasstilldoing wrong, and she had desperately missed the camaraderie of having a coven just then. There was no one to talk to, no sister with whom she could commiserate, no crone to provide advice. The life of a witch was already a lonely one, but this — this was intolerable. She didn’t mind feeling like an outsider, of never fitting in . . . but theabsenceof belonging was like a hole within her. She may have not fit in, but she had belonged to something, once.
Not that it makes a difference. You were an outsider even when you were still a member. How would they help now?They wouldn’t, she answered for herself miserably.
Business had improved, her order queue a steady, consistent thing, but it wasn’t enough. She had no idea how to attract new customers to purchase the completed batches of every item she made, andthatwas the frustration. Each recipe called for exact amounts. Halving and quartering were not an option if she wanted to maintain quality, leaving salves and ointments, all with expiration dates, eating up her finite shelf space.
She’d gone seeking Anzan out at the end of the agonizing workday, finding him still behind his numerous screens. It was a relief to push away the aggravation of the morning, going limp in his sticky confines, swinging in a web as he kissed his way over her hips. This was all she required to center herself, to remember that she had everything she needed right here — the two of them, alone together.
His lips had just reached the crease of her thigh when a thump over her head made her eyes pop open.
“What was that?”
Anzan sighed heavily, pulling back as she struggled to sit. “That, my dearest one, is the sound of a cat on the roof. He must have followed the light.”
She closed her eyes stubbornly, reclining against the web once more. She could ignore the noise, Ladybug told herself. She could focus on the sensation of Anzan’s lips kissing over her pelvis, the crook of her knee being pulled back slowly . . .
Thump.Thumpthumpthumpthump.
“Is he learning how to Riverdance?” she snapped, pushing up again, the moment broken. The next thing she knew, she was being cut free, Anzan’s long, curved clawsshink-ing through the webbing.
“Perhaps you will find it easier to relax in your bedroom, little bug.” His voice was steady, but she didn’t miss the muttered “although I suspect not,” a moment later.
The black cat was sitting on the front steps when she pulled into the driveway the following afternoon, was there sitting on the back garden wall when she opened the back door a while later. When the sun went down, rather than giving up for the day, he sought them out, going from window to window all around the house.
She was at her wit’s end.Why did you think you could outlast him? He’s immortal. All he has is time.
It all came to a head at the end of the week, the day Anzan finished his work week early and she left her order queue, and they ordered takeout. Movie night. Her favorite night of the week, their time together, uninterrupted, peaceful and comfortable.
The long room at the back of the house had been made Willow’s makeshift bedroom once she’d grown too weak for the staircase. Since her aunts’ deaths, the room had been transformed several times over the years — an ill-planned crafting room, a carryover hanging space for dried herbs, and at one point, a home for the stacks and stacks of books she’d inherited from a passed-on member of the coven, who’d been close with Authricia.
When Anzan had haltingly asked what the plans were for the space, she had enthusiastically given consent for him to turn the room into whatever he wanted.
A home theater was not what she’d anticipated, but the finished project — displayed after leading her blindfolded down the hallway, guiding her by the hand and standing silently behind her once she was in the room — had delighted her completely, awonderfulgift.
She was no stranger to his gift giving at that point.
Araneaen culture was matriarchal, he had explained, females placed at the head of the family and revered. Although marriage contracts were often brokered in infancy, young Araneaens were expected to follow a courting protocol, showering their intended with gifts and tokens.
