“Stay still.” She leaned down and began painting a few inches above his ankle, where the bandages wouldn’t disturb the markings.
“What is that? Smells like mint.”
“An herbal mix based on white willow bark,” she said. “To help with the pain. Commonly used in healing spells.” She bit her lip as she focused, carefully drawing sigils on his skin. “The Uruz rune for healing …” she murmured as she guided the brush into an upside-down V, “and the Witch’s knot, to safeguard from negative influences.” She looked up, smiling. “To protect you from myself.”
“You don’t need to protect me from yourself,” he said, his voice gentle.
“My curse thinks otherwise.”
“It’s not your curse. I was an idiot today,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“And I’m sorry for yesterday. For yanking you into the water and … what followed.”
Simon’s gaze caught hers, somehow earnest and sad at the same time, and her lips went dry.
A lightpopand the smell of smoke came from behind her.
“Fire.” Simon pointed behind her shoulder.
“Shoot, shoot, shoot!” It was nothing big—she didn’t even see flames, only smoke coming from the side of the desk—but she still discarded the bottle in panic and ran to the desk, throwing a blanket over the smoke.
“How did a desk catch on fire?” Simon asked.
“Welcome to the side effects of my spells.” She lifted the blanket; save for an inch of scorched wood, everything was fine. “On the bright side, it means the spell is working.”
“Well.” Simon chuckled. “At least it wasn’t my leg.”
She came to sit beside him. “I think it’s best we stay here tomorrow. You’ll be much more comfortable than in the car. Nick told me the place from the postcard might be Ross, a town a few hours south of here.”
“So we have our next stop.”
She nodded, and they sat in silence.
“Tell me about the night in Vegas,” he said.
She raised her eyes. “Why?”
He gave a half-committed shrug. “It made me marry you. I want to know.”
“It was the three cocktails that made you marry me.” But she told him, anyway; about how Jinx escaped her leash and he found him; about how she fell into the Golden Luck Fountain and got the dress from the other bride; and about how they got married by Elvis, real name Ricardo, who didn’t at all think it odd they didn’t know each other’s real names.
“Did we exchange rings?” He spread his fingers as if he expected one would pop up.
“No, but you bought me this from the gift shop.” She brought her locket out from under her shirt.
“God, that looks tacky,” he said, then put a hand over his mouth. “Sorry, I—”
“No, no, I know it’s horrendous,” she said. “Like I mentioned. Three cocktails.”
He laughed. “And you still have it. After all this time.”
“Well, your soul was in it for three years. And at that point, I got used to it.” Still, it wasn’t just that. She consciously put it down into a little velvet-lined box for a safe rest every evening, and consciously picked it back up every morning. A part of it was a habit; but the other part was nostalgia, a memory of that night.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “For not giving up on me.”
She’d never give up on bringing him back.
But it was sad she had to give up on the rest.
