Page 72 of Enchanted Village

He regarded her, his face hanging above hers, a single dark curl in front of his glasses. Then, he lowered himself on one elbow, kissed her, and used his free hand to remove his glasses.

Then, his mouth was on her again. She waited for the feel of fullness to come, for him to slide inside her, but instead, his mouth traveled down, swirling once around her breasts, and then farther, farther, farther, until she realized exactly where he was headed. By the time the realization had struck, his head was between her thighs and his tongue had moved across her, and now there weren’t just stars behind her eyes. There were entire constellations, popping and flashing and—

“Oh god.”

His tongue, which had felt so heavenly against her neck, felt otherworldly here. This was a pleasure the likes of which Margaret had never before experienced, not alone or with any other man. This was shattering, this was—

She came apart, back arching, breath tumbling out of her, entire body quaking. He appeared above her, eyes shining, drinking in her pleasure as he watched her.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Please,” she said. “I’ll take a potion if that’s what you’re worried about. Please, just . . . Silas, please.”

His eyes darkened, and he kissed her neck again, stirring those nerves that were still fluttering inside of her. And then, at last, he was there, and her hands guided him in until they were one, moving together.

Starlight. Constellations. Over and over she saw them, merged with the flowers around her so that everything was color and light, blossoming and shimmering.

And him, always him, his eyes finding hers, his mouth finding hers. Even when she closed her eyes, he was there, his voice in her ear, his lips against her jaw as he whispered.

“Margaret.”

He came apart, shuddering against her, and she buried her hands in his hair to pull him impossibly closer.

Her name on his lips.

The magic glowed around them, bright and bold against the night air.

Chapter Thirty-Five

It was the best night of not sleeping that Margaret or Silas had ever had. But when the moon fell in the sky and the sun began to rise, both of them knew that it was time to leave the garden. As wonderful as it would’ve been to stay, there were things to be done and discussed. The brief haze of losing themselves in each other was beginning to dissipate, and the reality of what they’d found at Fox Bar was creeping in.

Still, when they returned to Margaret’s room through the painting, Margaret felt certain, at least, of one thing. She would not be facing the reality of her pub’s complete and total abandonment alone. Silas was with her, her hand enclosed in his, and that steadied her.

They showered—Margaret had grass in places she was certain she did not want to keep it—and dressed and then walked down the steps to the pub. It was strange for Margaret to descend the steps with someone else, not just because they were rather narrow and Silas was rather large, but because she simply hadn’t done such a thing in years.

Downstairs, the evidence of last night’s hasty first aid treatment was still there, the red bag tossed on the floor and extra gauze thrown about. Silas helped her pack it up, and Bernie—who kept tossing them both looks that seemed to alternate between exasperated and reproachful—flew it back upstairs.

Margaret checked her watch, which declared that she had plenty of time. While Silas went out to gather firewood—the snowstorm had finally subsided—she gathered a mop bucket, filled it with soapy water, and carried it over to scrub out the bloodstains from her incident with Bernie. As she worked away at the floor, Silas returned with the firewood and set it in the fireplace, lighting it easily so that the pub glowed with warmth.

It was a comfortable silence. At some point, the record player flipped on, filling the room with a soft version of “White Christmas.” Silas hummed along, making her smile as she got the last of the blood out of the floor.

“You tried to change the song in the carriage,” Margaret said, remembering. “Because it was a Christmas song.”

Silas laughed. “I thought you hated them. Liza told me you’re not the biggest Christmas fan.”

Margaret sat back, legs stretched out in front of her. She’d pulled on easy cotton pants and a plain shirt. Cleaning clothes. Not exactly the most attractive attire, but Silas still looked at her as if she was dripping in jewels.

“It’s not that I don’t like Christmas,” she said, wondering just how honest she should get. She wasn’t eager to pop the wonderful, warm bubble they’d built around themselves over the last few hours. Grief made so many people run away, not out of cruelty, but because it forced them to confront the things they didn’t want to think about it.

Still, she wanted to tell Silas the truth. She wanted to tell someone the truth.

“My mom and grandma loved Christmas,” she said. “They decorated every year. I tell you what, even Liza would’ve had a hard time beating their decorations. Grandma grew the tree herself, in the garden, but then she’d charm it to shine just like that big one they’ve got out there. And then there were the lights and the ornaments and . . . it was just, well, incredible. Every year.”

Silas was watching her carefully, waiting for her to go on. But Margaret’s voice was starting to shake.

“My mom was an amazing witch,” she said. “Talented. Gifted. Everyone said so. They adored her. It seemed liked she could do anything. But when my dad left and when I didn’t get into Emberwind . . . she had so much on her shoulders. Raising me alone. Running this pub alone. She had friends, obviously. But she never . . . she never really let people help her. ‘This is my responsibility,’ she’d say. And when she died, I always wondered, was that why? Did she give up too much of herself?”

Silas took a step toward her as the first tear escaped.