Page 67 of Enchanted Village

“We should do something,” Silas said. “Shouldn’t we?”

Liza watched, worrying her lip. At last, she shook her head.

“She’s a big girl,” Liza said. “She can handle herself.”

And Liza handed Silas both her and Margaret’s bags that she’d been holding and chased after Margaret, joining her on the floor as they each spun and twisted to the beat. Sometimes, they would grab each other’s hands and flail together, but mostly, they flailed individually but near each other.

It wasn’t pretty. It was feral, actually, and a bit concerning. More than once, Silas saw Margaret nearly spin directly into another witch or wizard. Her hands didn’t know where to go. Her hips moved of their own accord. Her footwork was mostly wrong, and when it was right, that was an accident.

But she was free.

Free and utterly mesmerizing.

“So,” said a deep voice near Silas. “You came here, after all.”

Silas didn’t give Patrick Kerrigan the satisfaction of turning to face him. He kept his arms crossed and his eyes on Margaret and Liza.

“Can I get you the house cocktail, made with the finest wizard brandy?” Patrick offered, holding up a glass filled with amber liquid. “Rare type. Complex aging process, I’m told, to ensure a smooth blend—”

“No thank you,” Silas said.

Silence hung between them for a moment. The entire time, Silas kept his eyes forward, watching Margaret as she danced.

“I admit I expected you and Margaret might make it here,” Patrick continued after a beat. “But I’m surprised Liza’s here. I figured she’d sooner burn the place down.”

He chuckled, but when Silas didn’t return in kind, Patrick coughed instead.

“Look,” Patrick said. “This wasn’t personal. This was business. And I warned you—and Margaret—what I intended to do.”

Silas glanced over at Patrick, finding the man in a brown version of what Silas himself was wearing. At the very least, the man didn’t appear to be preening. He looked relieved but not proud. Still, Silas didn’t think he could ever forgive Patrick for what he’d done to Margaret. And also . . .

“That’s a lie,” Silas said.

Patrick blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“This was and is personal to you,” Silas said. “You told me yourself. You don’t lose. And you decided that winning here meant pushing Margaret out.”

Patrick shifted on his feet. “That can be the natural consequence of a business.”

“No,” Silas said. “It’s more than that. You could’ve tried to make this work for both of you. But instead, you came in here on a mission to destroy Margaret’s life’s work.”

“I assure you, that wasn’t—”

“I respect,” Silas said, finally turning to face Patrick, “that you set a goal to achieve. If anything, I was raised to admire that in a man. But if your business was truly the better one, you wouldn’t have needed fireworks and fake charm to get people in the door. You wouldn’t have needed to buy your way into the neighborhood.”

Patrick looked like he’d been punched in the gut.

“There’s no heart here,” Silas said. “The villagers will see that sooner or later.”

Something hard settled in Patrick’s face. Up until that point, he’d looked mostly shocked at Silas’s declaration. But now? A line had been drawn.

“I wouldn’t get used to this crowd,” Silas said, stepping right over the line. “The newness of this will fade. And then we’ll see which place they really choose.”

He didn’t realize that Liza and Margaret were standing behind him until he turned around to leave. Margaret’s eyes were glassy with tears, but she was smiling at him, too, as she reached for his hand.

Liza was murderous, though. When Patrick’s eyes found her and he smirked, bringing the glass up to his lips in a long, slow sip, something in her seemed to snap. The rest happened in slow motion: One moment, Patrick was drinking from his glass, the next, Liza had snatched it from his hand and tossed it back, glaring at him the entire time.

“Just as I suspected,” she snapped, pushing the glass back into Patrick’s hand. “Your drinks are shit.”