Page 75 of Enchanted Village

His eyes widened. “Please don’t tell him I said that.”

Silas laughed. “Of course not.”

Silas glanced over his shoulder to see if his uncle had heard the slight, but the door remained open and empty.

“Oh, well, let’s just head down to the pub, then!” Silas said, standing. “She doesn’t open for a few hours, but we can get you one—”

“Oh no,” Wyatt said quickly, holding up his glowing green hands. “I’m not going anywhere looking like this.”

He hung his head, looking so morose that Silas’s heart broke just a little bit. This teenager—this child—had trusted him, and so far, Silas had let him down. All the boy wanted was a hot chocolate. Silas could run down to the pub, grab it from Margaret, and carry it back. He’d keep it warm somehow. Maybe he could ask Liza for a warming spell.

“You don’t know what she puts in it, do you?” Wyatt asked. “Like, what the ingredients are?”

The question sparked a recent memory—much of which was not acceptable for Wyatt or any of his students or colleagues at Emberwind to know about—of Margaret in the garden, pointing out the various flowers, herbs, and remedies in the space.

And that one there, that’s the nectar I use on the hot chocolate. It’s what makes them perfectly sweet.

Silas remembered the exact blossom. He also remembered the exact entrance that would take him from the grounds into the garden. Surely it would be quicker—and less intrusive for Margaret, who might still be in her “grief ball,” as she’d called it—for Silas to pop in and grab the blossom, bring it back here, and add it to another powdered mix of hot chocolate? The ingredient was magical, after all. It might not be entirely the same, but he hoped it’d be close enough.

“I have an idea,” Silas said. “You stay put and wait for the headmaster, and I’ll be right back.”

Silas dashed from the office, jogging down the stone hallways and out onto the grounds. Before, he had never noticed the slight ripple in the vines of the campus’s giant weeping willow tree. But now, he saw it and recognized it for what it was: the entrance to Margaret’s garden.

He slipped in, finding it just as enchanting as it had been last night, though perhaps slightly less because he wasn’t with Margaret. Still, he found the flower easily enough and plucked it, holding it carefully in his hand. He took a moment to look around at the splendor, at the secret she had entrusted him with. Then he turned.

And found Wyatt standing there on the threshold, looking around with awe.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

It took Margaret a few hours by herself to start regretting her oversharing with Silas, which, if you asked her, was a regular record.

“I’m shocked it happened at all, Liza,” Margaret told her friend. “If I wasn’t crying, I was bleeding. Hardly my best look.”

Liza laughed. She was one of two people who had appeared at the pub right at 5 p.m., which Margaret supposed she should have been grateful for. Imogen was the second, currently back in her usual place at the end of the bar, her dainty fingers wrapped around a hot apple cider that Margaret had mixed for her. Imogen had offered no explanation for her reappearance, just sat down in her spot and began to read. She didn’t seem to notice or care that Margaret was discussing her sex life, and Margaret wasn’t sure whether or not she should be offended by that.

“But you did it,” Liza said, also sipping a cider. “You actually did it. Honestly, Mags, I’m impressed. It’s been so long since you’ve gotten any, I was beginning to think you’d given it up.”

Margaret laughed. “You and me both. Emotional intimacy is a turn-on . . . who knew?”

Liza looked perfectly smug and like she wanted to continue gloating. So smug, in fact, that Margaret almost didn’t want to say what she said next. But in the end, the words came out easily—easier than she had expected.

“I’ve also been thinking,” she said. “And I . . . I do want to make some changes here. To the pub. Some real changes.”

Liza looked like Margaret had cast a stunning spell on her. Her mouth literally fell open. “Are you . . . are you serious?” Liza said. “Damn, that must have been an exceptional lay to knock that kind of sense into you.”

“Liza!”

Liza grinned. “I’m just saying, I’m glad you’re saying it. Your mom wouldn’t want this place to be a museum, babe. She’d want you to make it yours.”

Margaret smiled. She could admit now that, when she looked around, she did see places where she could adjust things. Where she could add some things that felt like her.

She turned away from Imogen so that the young woman wouldn’t see the redness building in her cheeks, the shame threatening to turn into more tears. God, was she a faucet? How did she turn these damn things off?

Liza’s hand fell on top of hers.

“I . . . I’m just going to need some help,” Margaret said. “I want to make the changes. But I’m still so scared. So scared of ruining what she made.”

To Liza’s credit, Margaret saw the moment, the flash across her face, when she was deciding how hard to push. And when it passed, Liza sighed.