She lay in her bed later, too distressed by all that had happened that day to fall easily to sleep. But eventually she ended up dreamside. And it was all she could do to keep the truth in. It lodged like a rock in her throat, churned in her stomach, prickled her tongue.
He didn’t ask her the question. He didn’t bring the subject up at all.
Instead he recounted, with wry humor, what a morning he’d had dealing with her distractions—no longer suspecting they were anything but what she’d told him in her note. The Christmas tree and angel, gifts twisted to a different purpose, twinkled at them from the corner where his subconscious, or more likely hers, had conjured them.
Her skin burned with guilt everywhere he touched her.
Peter hadwork outside the house to do that morning, so he let Beatrix in—she looked pale, despite the chill—and headed out. After checking on Mrs. Clark (even paler than Beatrix, but no further fainting since yesterday) and fixingthe uneven sidewalk (though “somewhat improving” was more accurate), he purchased a present in Stevenson’s Handmade Goods that he hoped Beatrix would like and stopped into the general store to see the mayor.
“Perfect timing!” Croft gave him a warm smile. “Your rush order came in five minutes ago.”
“Oh, good,” he said, thinking of how Mrs. Clark looked in that old and surely uncomfortable bed.
“How is she?” Croft asked, bustling over to the counter.
Peter blinked. He hadn’t told the mayor what or who the ingredient was for.
“I know this is going in a brew for Sue Clark, Omnimancer,” Croft said with a shake of the head. “Five people told me how you ran out of Reed’s with Daniel Clark yesterday, and two more mentioned that you were up to check on her this morning. Wizard-patient confidentiality doesn’t really work in a town this small.”
He wondered if the town, and not just Mr. Reed, had sussed out that he was in love with Beatrix. He gave a rueful shrug. “This ingredient is the key part of a brew that should make her feel better.”
“Well, that’s news to cheer the soul. No, no, put your money back in that coat of yours, this is on the house.”
“No, really—” he began to say, knowing the price was north of $50.
“I insist,” Croft said, clapping him on the shoulder.
He was about to absolutely refuse—Croft’s habit of giving merchandise away to poor residents oughtn’t apply to him—when he realized that what had raised his hackles wasthe thought thathemight need the charity. He’d left Ellicott Mills unwavering in his determination to never require any again. But the man simply wanted to help the Clarks.
“Thank you, Mayor,” he said. “That’s kind of you.”
Croft grinned at him. “So, how wasyourday yesterday?”
Peter laughed. “Oh, delightful. I understand you’re partially to blame. Did you arrange that performance with Miss Sederey, by the way, or did Miss Harper?”
“Must have been something Miss Harper cooked up too late to mention. Either that, or just a lucky coincidence. I called her once you ran off for your car, of course—was worried you might pop in and catch her with her arms full of presents.” Croft’s smile widened. “Did you like your surprise?”
Peter swallowed over the lump in his throat. “Very much.”
When he got back to the house, he stowed the package for Beatrix in his nightstand and took the other item to the brewing room. She looked up at him, eyes watchful and guarded. For a second, he bitterly regretted telling her what he’d done last night. But he had to, really. She would have told him, had their situations been reversed—though he doubted she would have followed him in the first place.
He pulled the glass bottle full of light green powder from its paper wrappings. “This is the ferrous gluconate we needed for Mrs. Clark’s supplement. Can we get started on it right away?”
“I can take care of it.”
That stung. “I’d like to help.”
“Peter—”
“My mother died in childbirth, too,” he reminded her quietly.
She looked at him then with such fellow feeling—the guardedness falling away—that he took a step toward her without meaning to. He turned awkwardly, set the bottle on the table and fetched the brewer’s guide.
He couldn’t tell if the jumbled-up emotions roiling him were his or hers. But when he trusted himself to glance at her again, she was scrubbing the work area with cool efficiency.
As they chopped ingredients in silence, the feelings mounted, sharp and insistent as a thousand pins to the flesh. Regret. Fear. Anger. Longing.
Suffocation.
