The most incomprehensible thing in the world to a woman was a man who rejects her offer of directions. Charlotte might never have set foot in Clacton-on-Sea before, but as soon as she obtained a map of the town (not stealing it, since if the shopkeeper wanted money for his maps he obviously would not display them on a wall rack, but instead lock them in a cabinet behind the counter, guarded by himself, a pit bull terrier, and two alarm systems), she automatically became an expert through the simple expedient of reading. Alex, however, just seemed to go any which way he happened upon.
“I’m familiar with this town, and know a shortcut,” he insisted, tugging on her hand as he attempted to lead her down entirely the wrong street.
“But it’s not on the map,” she replied, tugging back.
“Map,”he scoffed, as if the word itself was pure nonsense, let alone the concept.
Thus went the conversation, on a looping circuit, over the two daysthey spent searching the town for Lady Armitage. At night they barely spoke beyond instructions likeMore, faster,andMy God don’t you dare stop or I will smack you with my shoe,as they engaged in what Charlotte liked to think of as reasonable constitutional exercise, and Alex viewed more frankly—i.e., using other words beginning withf. But the days were full of argument.
For example: “You’re eating your lobster all wrong,” he said as they picnicked on the cottage roof at twilight, looking out over the sea. (Officially, they were searching—after all, who knew when Lady Armitage might take a skiff out for an evening’s sail?)
“As a vegetarian,” Charlotte retorted, “you have no right to comment. I do declare—”
She paused, suddenly breathless, as a cool, whispering breeze swept up from the shore, the sky’s own incantation, making her shiver. Her derelict imagination stirred with dreams. Why had Jane Austen not advised her of how vast an expanse a woman’s wonder might encompass? Could she even return to her scrupulous existence after watching wild stars dance out from beyond the edge of the world?
Of course, the question was redundant. It was her prophesized fate and her duty to remain in London and one day lead the Wicken League. But perhaps it didn’t have to be as dreary as she’d always anticipated. “When I get my amulet back,” she said, mostly to herself, “I will use it to help other people know life can be this beautiful.”
Alex stiffened. She glanced at him, and found his eyes dark with wary amusement as they stared down at her.
“What?” she asked anxiously.
“You surprise me.”
“Why, because you doubt I will beat you to the amulet?”
She’d meant it as a joke, but there was no humor in him. “No, because you don’t talk like a witch would.”
Charlotte laughed a little, frowned a little, considered running away to hide a little. “And how does a witch talk?”
“I don’t know.” He looked away, pushing a hand through his hair. For a minute it seemed that he’d rather jump off the roof than answer.
“Alex?” she prompted, rather unnerved by this sudden seriousness in a man she’d not thought capable of it.
He shrugged. “Not interested in beauty. Or in helping other people.”
“Oh.” It wasn’therhe thought wrong; it was all witches. She relaxed teeth she did not know she had been clenching. “It’s true: some of us care nothing for beauty or charity. My aunt does good works only to spite others. But some are caring and good—notlegallygood, that is, but they use the incantation whenever they can to aid others. My mother is one such.”
Alex did not reply, his expression closing even further. Charlotte nudged him with her elbow. “I myself am not so good, however, that I’m going to let you win the amulet.”
He laughed then, like she’d hoped he would. He removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking her close against him as if he feared she might fly away.
“Reprehensible lout,” she murmured, leaning her head on his shoulder.
“Wicked little witch,” he answered, and kissed her hair. She sighed, and the sun set like summer passion in their eyes.
And later, as they prepared for bed: “You are exasperating,” Alex told her when she picked up his clothes from where he’d tossed them on the floor.
“You are disorderly,” she replied, folding his shirt and placing it on a chair.
“Oh?” His eyes smoldered as he turned to look at her, and Charlotte swallowed dryly. She retreated behind the chair, but it was auseless defense; within two steps the nefarious pirate caught her. When he hoisted her over his shoulder, Charlotte did all she could to not laugh as she faked a struggle. He tossed her onto his ramshackle bed and demonstrated various unanticipated benefits of disorderly behavior—after which she was willing to concede it perhaps hadn’t been the dreadful insult she’d supposed.
“But you should still employ a mop or flamethrower around this house occasionally,” she said as they sat on the bed later, eating biscuits they’d stolen from Bixby’s kitchen.
“Next you’re going to want me to wear perfumed pomade in my hair,” Alex grumbled; then, at the contemplative look in her eye, hastily kissed that thought out of her mind—and every other with it.
And the following morning: “Stop being so bloody well aggravating, woman,” he said when she stole from him five pounds he’d stolen from a passing tourist, and gave it to a ragamuffin girl instead.
“Stop being uncivilized,” she countered, handing him the gold bangle she’d stolen from that same tourist.
