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The grin that spread across his face was warmer than even one of Margaret’s cups of tea. This creature, contentedly purring against his leg.

“I take it she likes her gift,” Silas said.

Margaret tilted her head. “Her gift?”

Silas pointed to something by the fireplace, the bed he’d made for Bernie out of wooden boards and a soft down bed in the center. He’d painted Bernie across the front.

Margaret’s mouth fell open. It was exactly the perfect size for Bernie, and even the color was a perfect complement to her eyes. Bernie finished her nuzzling of Silas’s leg to fly over to the bed and test it, kneading the comfy cushion with her talons.

“Oh no,” Margaret said as she watched the sharp tip disappear into the fabric. “She’ll rip it!”

“Can’t,” Silas said with a grin. “I had some kids who needed to practice some strengthening charms lend their skills to it. It should hold up for a while.”

Margaret couldn’t do anything but stare as Bernie continued her kneading, the smile on the creature’s face nearly bringing tears to Margaret’s eyes.

No one ever saw creatures the way Margaret did. They didn’t appreciate the scales or the claws. But Silas . . .

Silas saw Bernie. And if he saw Bernie . . . did he see Margaret, too?

“Don’t worry,” Silas said, guiding Margaret away from the crowd. “I got you something, too.”

Margaret laughed, fighting to find a sentence that could even begin to capture her gratitude. But she didn’t have the words, so instead, she said, “But Christmas isn’t for weeks.”

Silas smiled. “Think of these more as ‘you’re going to crush Fox Bar’ gifts.”

Margaret flushed. “Well, I should’ve gotten you something. You’ve been helping me here. And I . . . couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No need,” Silas said, then handed her a small bag. She opened it, peering at the contents inside with confusion.

“Anyway, I wanted to get it for you,” Silas said. “It’s nothing obscene, I promise. In fact, it’s just an enhancing oil.”

“A what?”

“For spells and charms!” Silas said quickly, perhaps realizing it sounded like he was gifting her lubricant. “I spoke to the shop owner and told them about how you were working to get this place back in shape, and they said this would make any spell or charm work faster and better. Just rub a little on your wand—”

Silas started to demonstrate the shopkeeper’s motion, but Margaret grabbed his hand just as he seemed to realize he was getting himself into deeper trouble.

“And then I got you a scarf as well,” he said, cheeks now tinged more than pink. “Because it’s been, well, going to be winter soon. And if you don’t like either one, I’ve been told you can exchange it . . . though they didn’t give me a receipt. Do they do receipts here? Either way, just let me know. You can unwrap it and see if it’s to your liking.”

But Margaret couldn’t focus on the scarf. She was focused on the oil, on the fact that she still hadn’t told Silas that she wasn’t magical. What would he say? And how could she look him in the eye and tell him? Too much time had passed now.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure it’s beautiful.”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Silas was a reasonable man. When Margaret had told him that she could only handle friendship, he had respected it. And it had been enough, usually, just to hear her laugh, to talk to her, to help her with her pub. He enjoyed watching the way she threw herself into her work, how she was always experimenting and creating new drinks or spinning stories about guests. She told him about all the details of the pub, anecdotes about its history. He’d fix a sink, and she’d tell him about the time a drunken wizard had accidentally made it explode attempting to get their wedding ring out of the drain.

She was, simply, a marvel—but a marvel he could maintain the boundary of friendship with.

But there were other times when Silas felt that boundary tested. Like tonight. What had possessed her to put on that outfit or to wear a shade of red that made her full lips impossible to ignore? Was she testing him, or trying to drive him mad?

It was a cold, cold shower that night at the inn. Silas was so distracted that he nearly grabbed a small bottle from the counter that would’ve turned his hair blue in a flash if he hadn’t noticed just before emptying its contents onto his head. Thankfully, his hair remained its usual dark tousle, but it was a narrow escape.

However, when he did wake the next morning, he found that thoughts of Margaret had not ebbed. Instead, she continued to flash across his mind in unrelenting waves.

Margaret leaning over the bar to ask him if he saw something he liked.

Margaret unlacing her top and letting it slide to the floor.