She turned her head to the side and gave him the smallest smile, but it was better than the grief he’d seen there a moment ago. “I didn’t want it anyway. I couldn’t imagine being in the same city as him, but it meant scrambling to find a last-minute position. I had given up, when Dean Clearwater called me for an interview.”
“I’m so sorry, Maggie.”
She just shrugged. “I am, too, but at least I didn’t marry him. At least I ended up here with Dahlia.”
At least she ended up here with me, Arthur thought selfishly.
“When I got here, and I needed to start thinking about what to publish, I realized I had no interest in what I’d researched before with Evan.”
“What were you studying?”
“A very safe, boring analysis of incantation length in de novo spells, collaborating with our alchemy colleagues to rework time-sensitive alchemical incantations to shave off seconds here and there. To be honest, I felt so out of my depth during my early years at Bryn Ridge that I thought I had to choose a focus that was more traditional. More…” She paused. “Oh, I don’t know, more serious.” She curled her fingers in quotes as she said it. “When I let myself research what I wanted all along, it was such a good feeling. I get to combine my love of literature andtranslation with linguistic spellmaking. I’m only doing what I love because everything went up in flames.” She glanced over at him, and he hoped she could see how angry he was for her, how much he hated the way academia sometimes chewed people up and spit them out with no care. “No question in your mind that I’m telling the truth?” she asked hesitantly. “Maybe I did steal his work.”
That was such a ridiculous notion, it had never crossed his mind. “None,” Arthur said emphatically. “I’ve seen your work. There’s no way you had any reason to steal from someboy. Your research is brilliant, Maggie.”
She flushed a deeper shade of red, even the tips of her ears matching her hair. “I’d like to say I wasn’t fishing for compliments, but I absolutely was.”
“Would you like me to give you some more?” he asked. He had gotten closer to her as she’d told her story, leaning toward her almost imperceptibly until their bodies were mere inches apart.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Tell her, tell her, tell her, but instead he said, “I’ve never seen students love their teacher as much as yours love you. Not even Rory can make me laugh like you do.” He paused and then he said, “You’re mean to me, but I think I like it.”
“You should, maybe, talk to a therapist about that last one,” she said, grinning, and then they were both laughing, and he never realized how light he could feel.
—
Maggie was agrown woman. She was a grown woman who was capable of complex, varied spellwork. She was a grownwoman sleeping in a warded tent in a warded campsite. But she was in the Wilds, and the sun had set, and she was alone in her tent. Gods below, she could not sleep like this. Every sound outside had her trembling, spinning more and more ridiculous possibilities, until she was certain there was a wraith breathing right outside her tent door.
Plus, she had overshared, completely, by the bonfire. The wine had made all the reasons why she was keeping what happened with Evan close to her chest seem silly and unnecessary, but now that the buzz had worn off, she wondered if Arthur had truly meant what he’d said, all those too-kind things that even now were making her blush.You’re mean to me, but I think I like it.She groaned.
She rolled up the sleeping bag Arthur had laid out for her and carefully unzipped her tent. Arthur’s lantern was extinguished, which was proof enough for Maggie that the man was inhuman, because who could sleep in the dark when there were banshees about, so she held her lantern aloft and crossed the short distance between their tents.
“I’m coming in,” Maggie whisper-yelled, looking around the dimmed faefire torches that let out small halos of light. There was no answer from inside, so she unzipped his tent and ducked inside, zipping it quickly behind her. She breathed heavily, resting her head against her knee.
“Arthur?” she whispered, holding up her lantern. He was sleeping. He had slept through her entry into his tent, which, frankly, alarmed Maggie. Wasn’t he supposed to be protecting her? How could he do that if he wasasleep?
Then she realized that he was curled up under his sweatshirt,no sleeping bag to help pad his body from the hard ground beneath or keep him warm. She looked at the sleeping bag in her arms and groaned, exasperated. “Arthur!” she said louder, tapping him with her foot. No way was she getting any closer so he could startle and accidentally hit her with some uppercut. The man was brilliant at everything else; he probably boxed on alternating weekends. “Arthur, please,” she hissed.
Finally, he gasped awake, sitting up and looking around. She knew she must look ridiculous, crouched in the tent, holding her sleeping bag in front of her like it was a shield. “Maggie? Is everything okay?” he asked groggily.
“No, it’s not! You’re fast asleep!”
Arthur yawned. “I did think that’s what we said we were going to do when we went to bed…” He looked at his watch. “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Bullshit,” Maggie said, grabbing his arm and pulling the illuminated watch toward her. Could he see the way her face turned cherry red in the dusky light? Because sure enough, they had said good night only fifteen minutes ago. “The time doesn’t really matter anyway. I entered your tent, called your name twice, and you just kept sleeping! You’re supposed to be keeping us safe.”
Arthur rested his elbows on bent knees that Maggie noticed, for the first time, were uncovered. The sweatshirt he’d been using for a blanket was bunched up on his lap, and he’d changed out of the shirt he’d worn earlier on the trail and into a looser, threadbare Dartwood shirt that looked approximately twenty years old. “Are you a threat, Maggie?”
“No, but—”
“Then I fail to see how I didn’t protect us.” Arthur looked like he was about to laugh again, and Maggie wondered, breathlessly, how she could have ever thought he never smiled. His face was constantly quirking into some kind of amusement, joy, laughter. It was infuriating. It was so…fun. She was having fun. In between the terror, that is.
His grin fell for a second, and there was undeniable heat in his expression as his eyes roamed down her body. They had cleaned up in their individual tents after saying good night, and he hadn’t seen the clothes she’d brought to sleep in. Suddenly her shorts seemed too short, the old cropped T-shirt she wore showing too much of her round breasts and soft belly.
Maggie huffed and then changed the subject. “Where’s your sleeping bag?”
Arthur adjusted his sweatshirt. “I forgot it,” he grumbled. “Well, actually, I forgot your sleeping bag. Rory took my nephew camping a few weeks ago, and he never gave it back. I should have checked before I left.”
