Page 80 of Enchanted Village

When he was gone, she wept in the rain.

Chapter Forty

The worst part of grief, perhaps, is that life goes on.

The world does not stop for loss, not of life or otherwise. It carries forward, infinitely pressing you into the next day, whether you are ready for it or not.

Margaret was not ready. She was the furthest thing from ready, actually. She had returned to her room with mud-splattered clothes and hair, and curled up on the floor. She wasn’t worthy of a bed. She wasn’t even worthy of the bedroom, but she was too tired to drag herself outside and die of frostbite. So, she shivered on the floor in her wet clothes, wishing for death to claim her, as well, until she felt a hand on her shoulder and tried, weakly, to swat it.

“Up, dearest,” Liza said. “Into the shower. You’re getting mud all over the floors.”

It took Bernie snapping her teeth near Margaret’s face in warning to get her moving. Mostly, she allowed Liza to drag her into the tub and turn on the water. She didn’t move or complain as Liza tapped her wand against the tub and filled it with warm water and bubbles that smelled faintly of apple slices and lavender. She said nothing when Liza charmed her clothes away and left Margaret to soak for some time, only to return with a potion that she promptly worked into a lather in Margaret’s hair. She barely noticed when the water drained away and Liza spelled a new set of pajamas onto Margaret, flannel ones with red stripes and warm, wool socks that matched.

“Bed,” Liza commanded, and Margaret obeyed, getting under the quilt and pulling it up to her chin.

“Sleep,” Liza said, and Margaret didn’t know if it was a spell or not, only that her head hit the pillow and she fell asleep at once.

In the morning, Margaret woke to the smell of pancakes. When her brain registered that she was not the one making said pancakes—and that that meant that Liza was the one responsible—she sat straight up, knowing that Liza, as magical as she was, was a terrible cook known for and prone to kitchen fires.

“Relax,” Liza said. “It’s Imogen.”

Margaret blinked. These words didn’t register for her. What did she mean, “It’s Imogen”? As in, Imogen was cooking? In her pub’s kitchen?

“She’s fine,” Liza said, waving her away. She was tidying Margaret’s room with her wand, cleaning up the last of the dried mud puddles. Light was streaming in now, guiding her work.

“You don’t have to be here,” Margaret said, knowing it was a lie. Knowing that Liza knew it was a lie. Because this was friendship at its core, wasn’t it? Being there for someone in their ugliest, smallest moments.

Liza said nothing, did not even dignify the statement with a response. Just waved her wand until a plate of pancakes levitated into the room and landed on Margaret’s legs.

Margaret breathed in the smell of syrup and dough. Imogen had added blueberries on top. Margaret lifted the fork that had accompanied the plate and ate without coming up for air.

Liza waited to speak until Margaret had a full stomach, until the last pancake disappeared. Then, she whistled, and footsteps fell on the stairs. Imogen appeared in the doorway, wearing one of Margaret’s aprons.

“Now,” Liza said. “Let’s talk.”

It turned out that Liza had not stayed with Margaret all night and all morning. She had made several trips. The first had been to find Imogen, who had taken watch over Margaret while Liza was out.

The second was to hunt down Patrick Kerrigan, who was at Fox Bar, celebrating another successful night.

Liza had said many things. She had done many things. Drinks had possibly been thrown, though she would neither confirm nor deny this. She had not accepted it when he told her that he had warned them that he would do whatever it took to succeed.

“So, he had the ingredients,” Margaret had said, and Liza had sighed.

“I think so,” she replied. “But I don’t know.”

She had told him off, though, in front of a crowd. She’d let them know every rotten detail about him, how he’d aimed to push Margaret out from the start, how he’d taunted her. She’d told them all he wasn’t right for Hex Hollow.

Margaret swallowed. “Was Wyatt there?”

Liza shook her head.

That was good. Margaret didn’t want him to see that.

They were quiet for a while.

“I’m losing them, Liza,” Margaret said, shaking. “They’re slipping away. Even when I try to hold on, I can’t keep them here.”

“You’re losing their things, maybe,” Liza said. “But you’re not losing them. Not the memories.”