From behind her, Arthur said in a too-sweet voice, “Yes, Maggie?” She knew if she turned around, he would be looking at her with a self-satisfied grin that would probably make her go weak in the knees or something else ridiculous.
She didn’t say anything. She just held out her arm, and he was at her side again. He looped his arm around her waist, supporting her as they finished the last stretch of the walk.
Once they were inside, Maggie tried to care about the mess, but Arthur didn’t seem to see it. She lowered herself onto the couch and let him fuss, too exhausted to even mind as he found her a blanket and then a pillow from her unmade bed.
“I wasn’t expecting guests,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, and he shushed her, actually shushed her. She had half a mind to protest, but then he was putting a glass of water on the coffee table and lining up the vials supplied by Nurse Whitney.
“Do you remember what I told you?”
“No,” she said petulantly, burrowing into the blanket he’d draped over her. Should she be this tired? Every muscle felt weighed down by exhaustion, every movement felt like she was still swimming through the viscous pall, with time slowed down and the atmosphere more soup than air. Her head fell back against the pillow, and she thought, maybe, she could close her eyes for just a moment. Arthur had already watched her sleep in her office—what was a little longer?
Her eyelids fluttered closed, but Arthur was suddenly on his knees, shaking her gently. She felt so out of it and not quite here. Didn’t Arthur say her dreams would be strange? Because she couldn’t remember why Arthur Taliesin would be in herapartment. This had to be one of those dreams. But he looked so worried. Didn’t he know she was just fine?
“Maggie, you need to take this,” he said quietly, holding out a dropperful of medicine.
“Sure,” she said, but her head tilted back, and the world slipped away again.
He slid his hand behind her head and helped her hold it up, his fingertips grazing the soft skin behind her ear. “Please,” he begged, and she held her eyes open just a little longer, taking the dropper from his hands and putting it to her lips. The violet liquid tasted of pennies and something else horrible. She grimaced. “Good girl,” Arthur whispered. She might have flushed, might have wished she were in a state to enjoy Arthur on his knees before her, but then the wave of sleep crested over her, and she let it carry her away this time, blissfully dreamless.
Chapter Twenty-One
Maggie couldn’t have said whether she slept for five hours or five days. Her body ached where her side pressed into the couch cushions, and there was a trail of drool across her chin. Her hair was a mess, still tangled in knots after it had risen in that approximation of a crown while she was within the pall. She coughed and cringed at the cotton ball feel of her mouth, but then she remembered the glass of water Arthur had left for her, and she gulped it down.
She couldn’t quite remember everything about the walk back or Arthur in her apartment, just strange flashes and memories of heat, of a dip in her stomach, of his strong arm around her waist and his fingers against her neck as he cared for her. She was beginning to wonder if he was still there when another voice nearly yelled, “Thank the gods above and below.”
Dahlia came in from the kitchen, armed with two cups of coffee, the divine smell wafting toward Maggie to wake her up. After she handed Maggie her mug, Dahlia pulled out her phone and typed out a quick message to someone before putting it back in her pocket.
Maggie untwisted the blanket from her feet and wrapped it around her shoulders. Once she was tucked in, she cupped the mug Dahlia had offered her in her hands, taking pleasure in thewarmth radiating through her palms. “What are you doing here?”
Dahlia joined her on the couch, sliding her feet under Maggie’s knees. “I was just about to text you and demand to know if you were still in the damn pall, when he called me.”
“Who?” Dahlia’s eyebrow quirked up. “Arthur?” Maggie asked, slightly incredulous. Dahlia’s face was unreadable. “Wait—how long have I been asleep?”
“About thirteen hours. I tried to get you to move to your room, but you wouldn’t budge.” She shrugged. “I slept in your bed.”
“Nurse Whitney said I’d be fine,” Maggie huffed in annoyance. “I don’t know why he called you. I didn’t need a babysitter.”
“You spooked him, Maggie,” Dahlia explained with a slight scold in her voice. “He was so worried about you, he called me in a near panic. You were so out of it. He felt like someone needed to be here to make sure you woke up, but he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable if you came to and found he’d been staying in your apartment with you.”
Maggie bristled at Dahlia’s tone, and she didn’t know what to do with any of this information. Dahlia picked at the lint on the fluffy blue blanket covering their legs, not quite meeting Maggie’s eyes. “What is going on between you two? I’m not sure if you hate him or like him. If I can’t tell, how do you think he feels?”
Why did it sound like Dahlia was on Arthur’s side instead of hers?Shedidn’t even know how she felt about Arthur, especially not now that she remembered their kiss. She wanted to let herself want him; she wanted to like him. She wanted to erase thelast six months and pretend they never happened. She wanted to forget what happened at Bryn Ridge with her ex so she could just let herself fall. She wanted to kiss Arthur Taliesin so she could see if it was as good as she remembered.
She thought about keeping this secret to herself, like a precious jewel, but instead, she blurted to Dahlia, “I have to tell you something.”
“Okay,” Dahlia said, drawing out the sound.
Maggie brought the blanket up to her chin with half a mind to hide under it completely. Her cheeks warmed, and she didn’t know why this was so difficult to say. Dahlia was the only person she wanted to tell, but something about it felt too big. It felt like an admission, evidence of her growing desire that she wasn’t sure she wanted to cool.
“It’s him,” she finally stammered, the words falling out of her mouth.
“Who is ‘him’?”
“Arthur,” Maggie practically whispered. “He’s the man I kissed on Beltane.”
Dahlia’s gasp was a cartoonish, silly sound, but Maggie understood. It was unbelievable. “How do you know?”
“The spell broke,” Maggie explained. “When I felt…” She paused, unsure how to explain what had unraveled the spell. “While we were in the pall, I was overcome by one of the unsettled dead.” Maggie knew the lack of reaction from her friend meant that Arthur had already filled her in on this part of the story. Dahlia tucked in closer to Maggie. “That, plus the pall sickness—I passed out while we were still inside the pall. Dahlia, he picked me up and carried me.” Even now, shecouldn’t quite believe it. She was heavy, and, yes, he was a tall man, but she wasn’t the kind of woman men typically picked up and carried. “I was in and out of consciousness while he carried me, but my head was on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. My cheek was against his jacket. It was like that night, when we were dancing.”
