“What can I do?” she asked.
He pointed to the box of food. “Want to unpack that on the picnic table while I organize our tents?”
“I brought some food, too,” she said as she set the box on thetable, thinking of the now-squished peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in her small bag. Inside the box were supplies to make a charcuterie spread, with several different kinds of cheese, grapes, and salami, and the bottle of red wine. He’d even remembered a corkscrew. “Um, never mind,” she said, realizing quickly how much effort he’d put into packing their dinner.
“I’m thirty-five years old. I may like to camp, but I do not need to rough it.” He clicked the tent poles together expertly and threaded them through the nylon until it resembled something tent shaped.
“This is more my speed,” Maggie admitted, setting out the cheese and fruit on a wooden board that was also conveniently packed in the box.
Soon, two tents were set up, side by side. Maggie had been preparing herself all day to sleep in the same tent as Arthur. And all of the previous night. Now that she saw she wouldn’t have to share, she couldn’t deny the tinge of disappointment she felt. “This one is yours,” Arthur said as he opened the zipper and pinned back the door. A small lantern hung from the top of the tent, and there was a sleeping bag and pillow inside. “Now, can we please eat? Something about being almost maimed by a banshee has made me famished.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
After dinner, Arthur made good on his promise and brought out handfuls of chocolate, marshmallows, and graham crackers, picking up two sticks and burning the ends in the bonfire. He handed Maggie a stick and set the plate of s’mores supplies on one of his blankets.
Neither of them reached for the marshmallows right away. Maggie’s skin glowed in the firelight, reminding him of Beltane, but gods below, everything reminded him of Beltane. He couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to slide her shirt up her torso slowly, revealing soft inch by soft inch of the skin beneath. At least he had brought two tents, he thought, so maybe he could take care of himself later.
“It’s no wonder people used to think fireflies were magic,” Maggie said, breathless, looking out past the wards.
The insects danced in the spaces between trees, their lights flickering on and off in a language neither he nor Maggie would ever understand. Their quick blinking reminded him of the twinkling lights Maggie had strung up in their office. He was glad she found something about this place beautiful.
“We called them lightning bugs growing up,” he said, knowing how much she’d like this little word difference, and sure enough, her eyes lit up at the mention.
He had been foolish thinking he could keep her safe out here, but even as the banshee had hovered above him, somehow he’d never doubted that they’d be crossing back over the wards. The Wilds felt real, tangible, in a way nothing in the pall did. It made the woods predictable, even in their danger.
A pleasant warmth had spread through Arthur after two glasses of wine. He and Maggie were sitting on separate quilted blankets, though Maggie’s hand was creeping closer and closer to his. He didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable if their hands accidentally brushed, so he lifted his knee and slid to the side, trying to think of some kind of conversation to distract him from the way he wanted her so desperately. He knew it must be plain on his face. “So you did your graduate work at Bryn Ridge, right?”
She tensed. Did she not want to talk about work? She’d briefly mentioned her time at Bryn Ridge and how burnt out she had been afterward; that was fairly standard for rigorous graduate programs that sucked you dry. “I did,” she said, very carefully.
“I’ve heard great things about that program. It’s very competitive,” he went on, thinking this must be a better conversation than the one he really wanted to have about her soft skin and softer lips. “What eventually brought you to Hawthorn? You could have gone anywhere.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” she asked with a snap, and he knew he’d said something wrong. “You ended up here and you went to Dartwood, for gods’ sake.”
He grimaced, tripping over his words slightly. “That’s not what I meant. Hawthorn is wonderful. It’s just an unexpectedmove for someone who went to such a research-heavy program. You said the same thing about me, remember?” Practical arts colleges like Hawthorn focused more on foundational magic, less on groundbreaking research. A program like Bryn Ridge prepared you for a different kind of career, that was all he had meant, and he hoped Maggie understood that.
Maggie bit her lip, taking another big sip of the wine that was left in her cup. She fiddled with the corner of the blanket she was sitting on, and Arthur couldn’t imagine what she was thinking.
“Sorry,” she sighed, shaking her head. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t expect to end up at Hawthorn either.” She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. “I was an apprentice in Dr. Fleet’s lab, along with five other students. Two linguists, an alchemist, a runologist, and a botanist. The other linguist and I…” Maggie cringed, and Arthur couldn’t tell whether the creeping blush in her cheeks was from the wine, the bonfire, or something else. She swallowed and then reached for the wine bottle, filling first her cup and then his. She took a fortifying gulp.
“This is just such an embarrassing story. The other linguist and I, Evan Clark, we fell in love. At least, that’s what I thought was going on.”
Arthur bristled at her words but didn’t interrupt her as she continued her story. “The five of us spent more time together than most families. And Dr. Fleet is notoriously difficult.”
“He certainly has a reputation. I’ve had students who come from his lab and they’re all a little bit traumatized, convinced I’m going to scream at them for every little thing.”
“Evan and I…I thought…” Maggie went on, like she was searching for the words to explain what happened. When she finally spoke again, the words tumbled out of her. “I thought we were going to get married. I thought I was going to have his kids. We had already lined up positions at Coughwain and Trident.” The two colleges were on opposite sides of a small city, and he could see her dream so clearly. An adorable apartment in the city center, dream jobs at prestigious universities, a dog and then kids.
In the flickering light of the bonfire, he saw the tears welling in her eyes, and he wanted to reach across the quilt to brush them away. “Maggie, you don’t…”
She shook her head. “No, I want you to know.” She took another sip of the wine, wiping a drop of it from the corner of her mouth. “It wasn’t real. None of it was. Not how Evan felt about me, not our plans for the future.
“On the day we presented our final research, he went first. He had stolen half my data. He took it and said that it was his, that I must have gotten nervous and copied his work because I wasn’t capable of an original research idea.”
Arthur swore, rage curling at his fingertips. He couldn’t imagine what kind of sniveling, awful man would do something like that, let alone to the woman he proclaimed to love. He didn’t understand how anyone could look at Maggie, talk to her and see how her mind works, and think she would have stolen someone’s data. It was ludicrous. “Surely the dean must have seen right through that ridiculous story of his,” he managed to say through the anger.
Pain flashed across her features, and he wanted to bring herclose to him, tuck her under his arm and ease this hurt. “I went to the dean and presented my side of it, but he wasn’t convinced. He stopped short of accusing me of anything concrete. No plagiarism charges would follow me, but he was good friends with the dean at Coughwain. They rescinded my offer.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” he growled.
