Page 11 of Enchanted Village

“Ladies,” Silas repeated, this time more forcefully. They both looked at him as if just remembering he was there, but there wasn’t a shred of embarrassment in either of their expressions. If anything, Priya was looking at him the way a good teacher looked at a student who had interrupted a lesson. It was a look Silas had attempted but hadn’t quite mastered himself in the classroom.

“Sorry,” Silas said. “I only wanted to say . . . I didn’t actually, well, meet this woman. We just sort of interacted. I asked her about the kurlop. She seemed very . . . preoccupied. I just don’t want you getting the wrong idea.”

Sarah and Priya exchanged the kind of look that spoke to years of marriage and partnership. When both women turned their eyes on Silas, he felt cowed by the power of their respective gazes—and certain he had to tread very, very carefully.

“Now, let’s get one thing perfectly clear,” Sarah said. “We do not play about Miss Margaret Nettle. So, if you’re thinking of pursuing her, young man, I want that to be crystal. You understand?”

“Oh, I understand,” Silas insisted. “But I wasn’t—”

“So, you think there’s something wrong with Margaret?” Sarah asked, eyes narrowing. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“Nothing wrong,” Silas said quickly. “Of course not.”

Nothing wrong at all, actually. Other than the fact that she hadn’t seemed interested in him in the slightest. Silas started to say as much, but Priya cut him off.

“Angel of a girl,” Priya said. “Anyone would be lucky if she turned her eye on them.”

Priya said this with the slightest hint of disdain in her voice, as if she was not quite convinced that Silas was up to snuff.

“You and I both know that girl deserves a chance at some happiness,” Sarah said, attention now on Priya. “And Silas is a nice enough young man.”

Priya remained visibly unconvinced. “But a man.”

Silas felt the thread of the conversation had been thoroughly lost.

“I’m sure she’s wonderful,” Silas said, determined to right the ship. “I’ll be sure to tell her so if I ever see her again. And that kurlop thing she was saving—”

“Of course she was saving a kurlop,” Priya said with a laugh.

“Fiona would be proud,” Sarah said. “She always said the girl had fire.”

In unison, the pair turned to look at Silas. After a moment’s assessment, both faces relaxed, and Sarah leaned forward.

“Margaret’s pub is called the Toasty Owl. You’ll find it right down the street. But you be careful, Silas. You break that girl’s heart, and I’ll curse you myself.”

The threat was said with such sweetness and honey that, for a moment, Silas was certain he had misheard, especially when Sarah pulled back and flashed him a bright smile.

“Now then,” she said. “How about that refill?”

Chapter Six

When Margaret had woken up that morning, her back and legs had ached. At first, she’d been uncertain as to why—it had been a busy night at the pub, but nothing out of the ordinary—until she realized there was a heavy, leaden weight on her legs. A dragon-shape weight. Bernie had apparently, finally, decided to vacate the bowl, and had instead thrown her body onto Margaret’s legs so that, during the night, Margaret had had to twist her body into a pretzel . . . and Margaret’s body did not naturally allow for such contortions.

She’d extracted her legs, to Bernie’s chagrin, and sat up, catching a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror across from her bed. As usual, her hair had spent the night finding new ways to defy gravity and court frizz. Her cheeks were pink from the added warmth of having Bernie’s body serve as a furnace against her own. Sleep had to be rubbed out of her brown eyes.

It had been a busy night at the pub. Liza had swung by after finishing her bookkeeping, which was good, because even though Margaret could’ve handled the crowd alone, it would’ve been hell. However, this had meant that Liza had also spent most of the night assessing potential suitors for Margaret. Margaret had heard the phrase “How about him?” at least a dozen times. Most of them, upon closer inspection, had been obvious duds. But Margaret, true to her word, had attempted to chat up one of them. He was a striking man with sharp, chiseled cheekbones and sleek, raven hair. Margaret had found him mesmerizing—that is, until he smiled and she saw the flash of a vampire fang.

“Never get involved with a vampire,” Margaret’s mother had told her when she was fourteen. “The juice just isn’t worth the squeeze, I’m afraid.”

Liza, thankfully, agreed. She did keep pestering Margaret about the stranger from before, but he hadn’t shown up, despite Liza’s attempts to manifest him into the pub. Margaret had the keen sense that he’d become one of those people who Liza would reminisce about later. A real what-if kind of person. Liza loved doing that, but Margaret? Margaret was more grounded. She had to be, but she’d never take Liza’s dreams away from her. Even when they turned into the occasional annoyances.

Speaking of Liza, Margaret knew her friend would be showing up soon for lunch. Margaret finished her daily scrub of the pub, leaving every surface sparkling. She loved when the place looked like this: the stone glossy and the portrait frames shining. Even now, from where she sat with her elbows on the bar, looking out over her favorite place in the world, she could see the gilded frame that ensconced her most beloved portrait, reflecting the light from outside and scattering it all over the pub.

It was her favorite for a simple reason: the three women it depicted. Two of them had auburn hair, though one wore hers down and another had pigtails. The third had bright-white hair that was corralled by a forest green kerchief. Between the three, there were freckles to spare and smiles wide, each one caught in a laugh.

In looping, white writing on the side, the artist had signed their name in an unreadable scrawl, but the title above the signature was easier to read: The Nettle Girls.

Margaret had never found out who her mother had commissioned to paint the portrait of her, her mother, and her grandmother. It had been created based on a photo, and she’d never thought to ask. Now she’d never have the chance. All Margaret knew was that the portrait had shown up in the days after her grandmother died and had been mounted on the pub wall ever since.