Page 68 of Enchanted Village

Chapter Thirty-Two

Margaret’s mind was a knot of threads she couldn’t begin to undo. She’d thought that, by stepping into Fox Bar, she would be able to see what she was up against. And she’d found that, no doubt about it. But seeing the lights, the over-the-top theatrics, the shiny, gilded thing that was siphoning off her guests hadn’t made her feel better. No, it had made her feel worse. Because this? This she could never complete with. That cold realization had plucked her heart from her chest and smashed it to the ground.

But she also hadn’t expected Silas to defend her that way to Patrick, or Liza, for that matter. And that, also, made the knots stranger still. If she could believe, as Liza had once said she did, that no one cared about her or was rooting for her, then maybe she could’ve curled up next to Bernie by the fire, cried herself to sleep on the stone floor, and been done with it. She could’ve accepted that this village really wasn’t the place for her and she had long overstayed her welcome.

But now? Now, she was simply more confused.

“We’ll tackle this together,” Liza said, squeezing her hands as they stood outside the pub. “I promise.”

Margaret had lost her words, so she simply nodded and pulled her friend into a hug. Liza stepped back from her, then regarded the pair of them with a soft smile. She took out her wand, flicked it once, and the temperature spell slipped away, leaving Margaret chilled from the swirling snow outside and Silas back in his regular clothes.

“Send me a letter tomorrow,” Liza said, and Margaret nodded again. Then Liza turned up the street and walked away into the haze of white, which was steadily picking up.

“I should get back to the inn,” Silas said, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around at the churning snow. “Looks like this night might be an intense one.”

He leaned forward, taking Margaret’s hand and kissing her on the cheek, his lips so featherlight on her skin that she nearly burst into tears right there. God, she had never been a crier before, but something about him, about this week . . . all of it had her feeling like she was a can of soda that someone had kicked around.

“Liza’s right,” he said quietly, lips still lingering near her cheek. “We’ll sort this out. You’re not alone, Margaret.”

Now, she really was going to cry. But she nodded because that was the last thing she wanted him to see. He squeezed her hand, then let it drop before stepping back. She turned into the pub. Outside, she heard the crunch of his boots on gravel.

She let herself slide to the cold stone floor so that she could peel off her boots. She gently pulled the ruby pin from her hair, letting her curls free. It pinched a bit, no matter how careful she was, and when she pulled it away, there were three of her long hairs in the metal.

She had her mother’s hair. She had her mother’s everything, really. When her mother had been alive, people told her that all the time. They’d be standing next to each other or walking side by side in the village, and strangers would stop to tell her that Daphne must have cast a duplication charm, because this young woman was her exact match.

But she wasn’t a match, was she? Because her mother had kept this pub going after Margaret’s grandmother had died. She hadn’t given up. She hadn’t allowed some horrible wizard to move in across the street and steal everything they held dear.

Margaret had, though. Margaret, the non-magical witch. Margaret, the mistake.

She hadn’t realized Bernie had flown over until she felt the coolness of her snout against Margaret’s hand and turned to see the dragon watching her, calico scales shimmering in the low candlelight. Instantly, Margaret folded her legs crisscross beneath her, gathered the dragon into her lap, and began to cry.

Why had she tortured herself by going to Fox Bar? For god’s sake, she had been in the sky today on a carriage led by hippogriffs. She had flown above Hex Hollow and kissed a man who made her feel like anything was possible, even when the world cruelly reminded her that it wasn’t.

Why hadn’t she let the day end there? Why, why, why?

Bernie looked at her, amber eyes soft.

Because she hadn’t expected it to be so bad, had she? Just like she had hoped her regulars would come to her pub that first night, would stick by her, so had she hoped tonight that the worst wouldn’t be true.

But, of course, it was.

She was never enough.

There was a bang that made Bernie fly up into the air, so fast that her talons sliced through the fabric of Margaret’s dress robe and against her skin, leaving ribbons of torn skin and fresh blood pluming on her calves and thighs.

“Shit,” Margaret said, wincing at the pain. Bernie was flying in the air, wings whipping in the direction of the sound, which must have been the door, judging by the chill that had swept in.

Liza must be back, Margaret thought, as she fought to stand and keep her dress from absorbing more of her blood. Excellent timing, too, as she needed these dragon-talon wounds closed up quickly before the poison took.

“Bernie got me,” Margaret said, holding her skirts up as she turned. “Not intentionally, but you really threw open that door—”

The words died on Margaret’s lips. It wasn’t Liza at the door. It was Silas, pushing the door closed behind him, even as the wind fought to keep it open.

Silas, no longer in his coat but in another thermal shirt. Maybe the same shirt. But regardless, it was the shirt that showed every muscle in his arms working to close the door. The shirt that clung to his stomach, that even had the indecency to rise up and reveal a sliver of skin along his abdomen as he threw all his weight into closing the door.

Silas, who when it finally did close, turned and looked at her with a tortured sort of expression.

“I got as far as changing at the inn,” he said. “And then I knew I had—”