Her mouth hitched into a curve.“Details of the perfect herb garden,” she read aloud.Then she flipped the page and read more.“Recipe for peaceful days.”She flipped another page.“Plants that enjoy light conversation.”
“Aloe is on there.”
“I see.”She closed the book and settled it on her lap, running her hand across the battered cover.“This is the journal you told me about.The one that belonged to your grandmother.”
“It is.”
“It’s beautiful.Do you ever feel…”
“I try not to.”He gave a half-hearted laugh.
She lifted a brow.“Do you ever feel, Apollo, as if you belong to your grandmother?As if… perhaps… she tended your soul as warmly as you tend to your plants?Even though you never met her.”She was whispering by the time she finished speaking
He opened his mouth to respond, but not a single irreverent syllable obeyed his command.
She replaced the book and came to him, stood very close but did not touch him.“What do we do now?”
She looked to him for an answer as much as the apprentices had earlier.He wanted to give her one, to be the kind of man she could come to when sick or troubled or simply indecisive, the kind of man she could count on not just to pleasure her, but to care for her… her heart.
He studied his room—the bed, the wallpaper, the one fucking chair.And it didn’t seem so dingy, so shameful anymore.It seemed like good solid soil to grow in.If he could get some light, he’d have everything he needed.
Transmutation.
And Sybil shone brightly.
But she insisted he did too.
Plenty of light then.
He took her hands, hesitantly at first then with greater confidence, and he kissed one and then the other.A smile trembled on her lips.
“I’m going to take you to Bloomsbury Square.To Temple.”He smoothed the wrinkle between her brows when it popped into existence.“And then I’m going to figure out exactly who Mary Sullivan is.”
Her mouth parted on an inhale, curved with pleasure.
She hugged him, and he hugged her back, and the tangle of arms, the press of beating hearts so near to one another was more perfect than the hottest kiss.
But it wasn’t enough.Not for long.And when the desire to do more hit him, he released her, opened the door.
“Can I escort you home, princess?”
She linked her arm through his, and the walk through the early morning light was brighter than it had been just a half hour before.They walked slowly, each lazy step a purposeful delay.He told her the story he’d given the apprentices, and she told him about her visit with the queen.
“Do you think everyone will buy it?”he asked.“That he accidentally turned himself to gold?”
“Yes,” she sighed.“They’d rather believe that than the idea a woman holds such power.”
Silence but for the sounds of a city coming alive.
Then: “You did that, Sybil.”
“I know.I think you helped.”
“I say we don’t do it again.”
She shook her head.“We absolutely do not do it again.”
“Do you… want to tell anyone?What you can do?Because it’s not the machine, Sybil.It’s not.It’s?—”
