Page 68 of My Faire Lady

I stared at the ceiling hoping she’d walk out.

24

Iadjust the knob on the sewing machine, finishing off the final stitch of the skirt. Behind me, the scrape of a page being turned slices through the silent shoppe, followed by a huff I’ve become quite familiar to.

“You’ve read that spell book at least three times,” I say, holding out the skirt as I examine it. The asymmetrical netting rests perfectly over the tulle, giving the fabric a metallic quality. “Maybe you should take a break.”

I turn toward the table, where Scarlet presses her fingers against her temples. She’s spent the last two days buried in books she hauled into the shoppe, and most nights I don’t hear her come home until the small hours of the morning.

She drops her hands and sighs. “There has to be something I’m missing.”

Draping the skirt across the back of my chair, I cross to the table and settle on the barstool beside her. Our knees brush, lingering for a heartbeat before she pulls hers away.

I prop my chin on my palm. “Take a break. You’ll think clearer when you give your mind a rest.”

A breeze twists through the top half of the Dutch door and teases Scarlet’s hair, tossing it into her face. I reach forward and tuck the strand back, exposing the scar at her brow.

“I don’t know how to make my brain stop,” she says, eyes holding mine. “Every second of the day, it’s churning through everything that will happen if I don’t fix this. I can’t turn it off.”

A bruised purple cradles the skin beneath her eyes—lids heavy from lack of sleep. My heart pinches. If she can’t turn off her brain, maybe I can.

I lean forward, drag the leather bookmark into place, shut the tome, and slide it away. Straightening, I set my hands on the table, palms up. “You’re a witch, aren’t you? Give me a palm reading.”

The first smile I’ve seen in days pulls at her lips, and a shiver wraps around my spine at the dimple it presses into her cheek.

She breathes out a laugh. “Palm reading is a pseudoscience, Lot.”

My mouth goes dry, and I swallow, wiggling my fingers. “What good is your magic if you can’t read my future?”

Her tongue presses against the sharp edge of her canine, deepening her smile into something hungry. “The fates decide your future, not me. But, if you insist.”

She leans forward, the ends of her hair brushing my bare forearm as she drags the pad of her finger across a line bisecting my left palm.

She furrows her brow and hums. “Ah, yes.”

“What is it?”

She looks up at me through her lashes. “It says be careful treating a witch like a magic 8-ball, or she might put a curse on you.”

I lean closer. “What curse do you have in mind?”

“Caster’s choice.” She lifts a single brow, brushing her fingers farther up, over the delicate skin of my inner wrist.

My pulse speeds, and I’m entirely unsure if she’s controlling it with her magic, or if it’s from the warmth spreading across my lower abdomen.

I smirk. “Surprise me, then.”

Her pupils widen, and she shifts closer, her knee brushing the inside of my thigh. “Murrell witches aren’t like the ones you hear about in books or movies. We don’t brew potions in cauldrons or fly on a broomstick or anything you humans make up.” She cups my open hand in hers and traces a complex pattern against my palm. “I specialize in bodily runes.”

A spark weaves under my skin, and I watch her face as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, concentrating. The electric buzz grows, twines up my arm, and climbs over the crest of my shoulder.

“Do you feel that?” she whispers as her finger continues its circle on my palm.

I nod, wordless.

“That’s my magic.” Her finger changes its path, making long, swooping lines from the tip of my pinky to the knuckle of my thumb.

“Is this what it feels like all the time?” I breathe.