Chapter 11
Eleven
Burning-cold blackness. Pain everywhere, all at once, as if she’d been set on fire. She tried to complete an Eskimo roll, but the kayak had capsized toward her weaker rolling side, and she couldn’t carry the movement through. Suspended upside down, disoriented by the cold shock, she grappled for the fastening loop of the waterproof spray skirt that held her into the cockpit of the kayak. The cold had already begun to mix her up; she couldn’t find the loop and panic was taking over.
She managed to fight her way sideways until her face broke the surface for the split second necessary to drag in a quick breath. Going back under, she searched for the loop and found it. A frantic tug, and the spray skirt came off. She fought her way out of the kayak. Coming to the surface, she grabbed the overturned craft and filled her lungs before another wave broke.
It was unbelievably cold. Her skin and flesh were numb, her blood pressure ratcheting furiously. The kayak paddle bobbed a few feet away, still tethered to the bow on a leash fastened with nylon snap hooks. Panting, she maneuvered to the bow, gripping the elastic deck to maintain her hold on the kayak. Gripping the leash, she tugged until the paddle was in reach. It was hard to make her hand close around the handle.
She had to get out of the water. Her fine motor skills were gone. In about ten minutes, blood flow to nonessential muscles would shut off.
Reaching under the kayak, she found the foam paddle float stored beneath the bungee cord on the deck, and pulled it free. She needed the paddle float to climb back into the kayak. Her hands were as clumsy as if they were encased in pot holders. She worked to slide one end of her paddle into the nylon pocket on the back of the float.
Before she had finished, a wave slammed into her. It was like running into a concrete wall, the impact nearly knocking her out. Wheezing, choking, she saw that the foam paddle float had been carried away. Her fist gripped the paddle handle, its leash still fastened to the kayak.
She made her way back to the kayak, grateful for the buoyancy of her life jacket.
With the paddle float gone, the only option was to flip the kayak right side up and try to climb onto the stern in a ladder-crawl maneuver. As she grappled for the deck line, however, she found she barely had any grip strength left.
It was happening too fast. The cold knifed deeper, her muscles stiffening as if she were turning to stone. She was scared, but that was a good sign; it was when you stopped feeling scared, when you stopped caring, that you were in the worst danger.
She tried to think of a spell, a prayer, anything that made sense, but words floated at the top of her head like the letters in a bowl of alphabet soup.
The yellow plastic surface of the kayak bumped against her head, galvanizing her.
The choice was simple: Get back in, and live. Stay in the water, and die.
Panting, grunting with effort, she flipped the kayak over and worked her way to the stern. The water shunted her in violent surges, up, down, sideways.
Every movement required intense will and focus. She knew what to do: Stow the paddle in the rigging. Push the stern down with your body weight. Kick your feet to launch yourself onto the stern decking. Crawl to the cockpit.
But Justine wasn’t sure if she was actually doing those things or merely thinking them. No, she was still in the water. The bow of the kayak had risen; she must have pushed the stern down. She couldn’t tell if her legs were moving, if she would be able to execute a strong enough kick to launch herself onto the craft. If she screwed up, there wouldn’t be another chance.
In a moment she found herself sprawled on the stern, her legs straddled on either side of the kayak. Thank you, spirits. Fighting to keep the craft balanced, she began to crawl toward the center.
But another wave was coming. A five-foot wall of water rolled directly toward the side of the kayak. Justine watched it approach with a strange sense of resignation, understanding that she was going to capsize again. It was over. She closed her eyes and held her breath as the world spun. The kayak and the paddle were ripped away from her, and she was submerged in a hell of churning coldness. The life jacket buoyed her to the milk-froth surface.
She could barely see or hear in the chaos, but a thunderous roar descended as if the entire sky were caving in. Shuddering, she turned to see a massive white shape upwind of her, rising and falling on the tumult. It took a long time for her disoriented brain to register that it was a boat. She was at the point of not caring about anything at all, not even whether she was rescued.
Someone was shouting. She couldn’t make out the words, but from the sound of his voice, he was probably cursing a blue streak. She felt another wave strike. Coughing up a mouthful of salt water, she tried to push a wet curtain of hair out of her eyes, but there was no feeling left in her hands. More shouting. A bright orange bag with a loop landed directly in front of her.
Her thought process had been dismantled. She stared at it dumbly, her brain slow to process what her reaction should be, her limbs and torso shuddering violently.
Furious commands shot through the air, willing her into action. She knew the sounds were words, but they made no sense. Although she didn’t understand what she was supposed to do, her body took over. She found herself making clumsy pounces for the bag, like a puppy playing with a ball. The second time she tried, she managed to close her arms around the orange foam shape. She held it to her chest. Immediately she was towed through the punishing water.
Her thoughts kept disintegrating before she could attach meaning to them. It didn’t matter, although some distant part of her brain knew that it should matter. The whole world was water, above and below, water dragging at her feet, urging her to sink into the feeling and go to sleep where it was dark and calm, far beneath the waves.
Instead, she was hauled upward with stunning force. Consciousness jolted through her as she was dumped onto a padded bench in the back of the boat. Shivering too hard to speak or think, she lay on a bench, looking up at a man whose face was familiar but whose name she couldn’t recall. He stripped off his Windbreaker and wrapped it around her. Lightning split the sky with long branches as the man went to the helm station.
It was a recreational boat with a removable bow cover, unsuited to heavy open seas. The outboard engine snarled as the man threw it into gear. Since the waves were too high to put the boat into planing mode, he was forced to go slowly.
Jason. The recognition curled through the vapor of exhaustion, and with it, she felt the faintest flicker of emotion. She couldn’t fathom how he had come to be there. No sane person would put his life at risk for a woman he barely knew.
He worked methodically at the helm, taking ninety-degree turns, fighting waves that attacked the boat from all sides. It took experience and skill to do what he was doing, riding each crest at an angle, reducing power on each downward slope to keep from burying the bow. The boat rolled up and down, yawing, while the water’s energy threatened to push the stern sideways. Justine expected the boat to capsize in a trough at any moment.
She huddled inside the thin carapace of the waterproof jacket while her circulation made a cautious attempt to restore itself. Continuous full-body shivers made her teeth clack until her skull vibrated. Stiffening against the tremors could make them stop for a second, but they resumed instantly. Time faltered like a badly edited video. Her hands were entirely numb but she felt tack-hammer pulses at the insides of her elbows.
Justine closed her eyes, steeling herself to endure every upswing and dizzying descent, every smack of cold water coming over the side. Although she wasn’t watching Jason, she was aware of his struggle against every shift and jolt of the boat to adjust their course.
Eventually it seemed that the waves weren’t as rough. The engine was running slower. Raising her head, Justine cast a bleary glance toward the bow and recognized the lighthouse on its familiar bluff. He had gotten them to Cauldron Island. She couldn’t believe it.
Jason flipped the boat’s starboard bumpers to the outside of the hull. They approached the dock at an angle with the engine in neutral. As soon as the boat lined up, he shifted the engine in reverse, causing the stern to swing neatly toward the dock.
After cutting the engine, he proceeded to tie the lines. Seeing Justine struggling to sit upward, he pointed a finger at her and snarled a couple of words. Although she couldn’t hear him over the storm, it was clear that he didn’t want her to move yet. With despair, she saw the towering line of narrow stairs leading to the top of the bluff. The climb was a challenge even on good days. She wasn’t going to be able to make it.
When Jason had finished tying the lines to the dock cleats, he reached down into the boat for Justine. She gave him her stiff white hand and did her best to help as he pulled her out. As soon as her feet touched the dock, she found herself being lifted over Jason’s shoulder. Her body collapsed like a folding chair. He carried her fireman-style up the steps, one arm locked behind her knees, the other gripping the stair railing at intervals.
She tried to stiffen against the shivering, knowing the involuntary movements weren’t helping. But Jason’s hold on her was hard and secure. He ascended with astonishing ease, taking some of the stairs two at a time. As they reached the top, his breathing was labored but steady. He could have carried her twice as far without stopping.
Taking Justine to the front door of the limestone house, Jason banged on it with the side of his fist.
In a matter of seconds, the door opened. Justine heard anxious cries from both Rosemary and Sage… “Mother of Earth!” and “For Hades’ sake…”
Jason didn’t stop to ask or answer questions. He carried Justine into the main living area and started to issue commands before he had even deposited her on the sofa.
“Get blankets. Start a bath. Warm, not hot. And make some tea with sugar or honey.”
“What happened?” Rosemary asked, opening the storage ottoman beside the sofa and pulling out quilted blankets.
“Kayak capsized,” Jason said brusquely, bending over Justine’s shuddering form. He tugged off her wet neoprene boots. His voice was low and ferocious as he continued. “Did it occur to you to take five fucking minutes to listen to the weather radio, Justine? Ever hear of a small-craft advisory?”
Stung, she tried to explain that no advisories had been in effect when she’d set out, but she could only manage a few incoherent sounds through the chattering of her teeth.
“Shut up,” he told her roughly, and yanked off her socks.
Rosemary, who wasn’t generally fond of men to begin with, shot him an affronted glance.
Sage laid a gently restraining hand on her arm. “Start the bathwater. I’ll make tea.”
“Did you hear the way he—”
“He’s just a bit frazzled,” Sage murmured. “Let it be.”
Jason wasn’t frazzled, Justine wanted to tell her. He was furious, and sky-high on adrenaline. And she didn’t especially want to be left alone with him in this mood.
As both women exited the room, Jason began the difficult task of removing Justine’s neoprene pants. The insulated fabric clung stubbornly to her legs despite the nylon facing inside. Jason’s breath came in harsh bursts as he pulled the pants free, the neoprene actually ripping in his brutal grip. Justine lay with her fists clenched, her body shaking until it felt as if the flesh were about to rattle loose from her bones.
Tossing the pants aside, Jason reached for her base-layer capris. Realizing that he intended to strip her naked, Justine began to protest.
“Quiet,” Jason said roughly, pushing her hands aside. “You can’t do this by yourself.”
Her dry-top and tee were next, joining the pants in a soggy heap on the floor. Her wet bra and panties were removed efficiently. The tremors running through her limbs were so violent that she couldn’t even cover herself. Justine blinked her burning lids against a rush of tears. She felt like a miserable half-dead sea creature, like some unwanted catch that had been dragged up in a fisherman’s net.
Standing over her, Jason grasped the hem of his damp T-shirt. Justine’s eyes widened as he stripped it off in an efficient movement. He was powerfully built, all tough, defined muscle with no hint of softness. His skin was smooth and honey colored, with a dusting of dark hair trailing down from his navel and disappearing into the top of his board shorts.
Kicking off his boat shoes, Jason lay beside Justine. He pulled her naked torso against his and arranged quilts around them both.
“It’s the best way to warm you,” she heard him say gruffly.
Justine nodded against his shoulder to let him know that she understood.
He tightened his arms, his shoulders hunching in the effort to surround her with himself. He was inhumanly hot, or it must have seemed that way because she was half frozen. The sensation made her frantic to have more. As another attack of bone-jarring shudders went through her, she struggled to get closer.
“I’ve got you. Try to relax.” He was still breathing fast from exertion, searing strikes of air against her neck. His hair-roughened legs tangled with hers, the solid muscles of his thighs clamping to keep her still.
She wouldn’t have survived without this, his body heat feeding into her, penetrating down to the lurking coldness. He was all around her, his breath mixing with hers, his skin salty with sweat and ocean water. She could feel his pulse points, the flex of muscles, the movement of his throat when he swallowed. At some point in the near future, she was going to be humiliated by the memory of this, but at the moment, she was too desperate to care.
She was overtaken by another paroxysm of shuddering, and another, while he murmured to her, gripping her close. Gradually her skin began to prickle with the return of sensation. Her hands hurt, palms needling until her fingers opened and closed convulsively. Wordlessly Jason reached for her hands and pressed them flat against his sides.
“Sorry,” she croaked, knowing her touch was icy.
“Everything’s fine,” he said gruffly. “Relax.”
“You’re angry.”
He didn’t bother to deny it. “When I saw your kayak floating upside down—” He paused and took a short breath. “I knew that even if I managed to find you, you were going to be in bad shape.” A savage note entered his voice. “Do you know what would have happened if I’d taken a few minutes longer, you reckless idiot?”
“I wasn’t reckless,” Justine burst out. “The weather wasn’t that bad when I—” She was forced to stop as a cough tore through her salt-scoured throat.
“You were stubborn,” he insisted. “Pigheaded.”
That’s just great, coming from you, she wanted to say, but she stayed silent, her chest heaving. Every time she tried to breathe, a sob escaped.
She felt Jason’s hand pass gently over the tangled wet mass of her hair. “Don’t cry,” he said, his tone softening. “I won’t say anything else. You’ve had enough for now, poor baby. It’s all right. You’re safe.”
She struggled to hold back the humiliating tears and pushed at him.
“Let me hold you,” he said. “I’m an asshole, but I’m warm. And you need me.” He sat up and lifted her into his lap, and wrapped the quilt around both of them. “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured. “When I pulled you out of the water, you were only half conscious and you were turning blue.” He used a fold of the quilt to blot her wet cheeks. “If this is an example of how you look after yourself, I swear I’m going to take on the job. Because someone has to take care of you.” He rocked her as if she were a child, murmuring roughly into her hair. “Someone has to keep you safe.”
Justine’s sobs eased into sniffles. His arms were solid around her, his heartbeat strong beneath her ear. She had never felt so dependent on someone in her adult life. The surprise was that it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. The gentle rocking motion lulled her, and she wanted to sleep, but Jason kept asking questions… whether she felt cramps in her legs, and what day of the week it was, and what she remembered from being out on the ocean.
“I’m tired,” she told him at one point, her head slumped on his chest. “I don’t want to talk.”
“I know, baby. But I can’t let you sleep yet.” His lips brushed the rim of her ear. “What was your favorite toy when you were a little girl?”
A few last shivers ran through her, and his warm hands chased them. “Stuffed animal.”
“What kind?”
“A puppy. The kind with black-and-white spots.”
“Dalmation?”
Justine nodded. “I kept trying to invent spells to make him real.”
“What was his name?”
“Didn’t have one.” She licked at the film of salt on her dry lips. “I knew I couldn’t keep him. Never kept any of my toys. We moved too often. Better not to care.” She made a protesting sound as he eased her upward to a sitting position. “No—”
“Your friend is here with some tea. Lift your head. No, I’m not giving you a choice, you’re going to drink some.”
Justine opened her mouth reluctantly as he pressed the rim of the mug to her lips. She took a tentative swallow. The liquid was warm and heavily sweetened, the honey soothing her throat. She felt its progress all the way into her chest, softening the innermost chill. “Another,” Jason prompted, and she obeyed, her hands lifting to cradle the sides of the mug.
The more she drank, the warmer she felt. With startling rapidity, the temperature under the quilt blazed into a bonfire. She felt as if she’d been sunburned from head to toe. Gasping, she tried to dislodge the quilt to let some cool air inside.
“Stay still,” Jason told her.
“I’m too hot.”
“Your temperature gauge is off. You’re not warm enough by a long shot. Drink more tea and stay under the blanket.”
“For how long?”
“Until you start sweating.”
“I am sweating.” She could feel the dampness between them.
His hand swept along her naked thigh, resting at her hip. “I’m the one who’s sweating,” he told her. “You’re as dry as a bone.”
As Justine tried to argue, he held the mug against her lips and forced her to drink again.
After bundling Justine more firmly in his lap, Jason turned his attention to Sage and Rosemary, who had both come to occupy the chairs near the sofa. Justine could only imagine what they were making of the situation.
Sage filled the petite upholstered Queen Anne chair like a nesting hummingbird. She was diminutive and pink-cheeked, her white hair framing her face in spun-sugar waves. She beamed at Jason with sky-blue eyes, clearly one blink away from infatuation.
Rosemary’s attitude was far more equivocal. She sat in the chair matching Sage’s and stared at Jason with a narrowed gaze. Whereas Sage was adorable and apple-cheeked, Rosemary was tall, angular, regally beautiful, a lioness in her later years.
In response to their questions, Jason explained that he had taken the boat out with the charter company captain in the morning, when the weather had been overcast but still relatively calm. After a couple of hours of assessment, they had returned to the marina to go over the paperwork. By the time the charter process was completed, the storm surge had started to move in and a weather advisory had been in effect. Priscilla had called Jason before he had left the marina, to tell him that Zo? was concerned about Justine’s safety.
Justine only half listened to the conversation, feeling as if she were on the brink of heatstroke. She was roasting beneath the blanket, held firmly against Jason’s bare chest. When she finished the tea, Jason took the empty mug and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table. The movement drew a stifled gasp from her. Now that she was thawing out, the heat and proximity of him was nearly overwhelming. The thin synthetic layer of his board shorts was all that separated them, making it impossible to ignore the hard masculine contours of his body.
She was acutely aware of her nakedness beneath the blanket, the intimacy of being pressed against him. She didn’t like feeling so vulnerable. Her tense weight settled deeper into his lap, and unnerving darts of pleasure went up her spine. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t keep from squirming. Beneath the quilt, his hand clamped on her hip, holding her immobile. Steaming, trembling, she turned her face against the hot skin of his shoulder.
“Zo? called us when she saw the storm gathering,” Rosemary was saying, “and when I told her that Justine hadn’t arrived yet, we were all very worried.”
Jason explained that he had taken the Bayliner out to look for Justine, and the storm’s escalation had made what should have been a short trip into a prolonged struggle to keep the boat on course. He had eventually seen the bright yellow flash of Justine’s kayak amid the swells, and had gone to pull her out of the water.
“We can never thank you enough,” Sage told him earnestly. “Justine is like a niece to us. We would be devastated if any harm came to her.”
“So would I,” Jason said.
Justine lifted her head to look at him in surprise.
He smiled slightly and touched her face, his thumb stroking over a film of perspiration that had gathered on her cheek. “I think she’s warm enough now,” he said to Rosemary. “I’ll carry her to the bathtub, if you’ll show me the way.”
“I can walk,” Justine said.
Jason shook his head, stroking back a lock of salt-stiffened hair from her face. “I don’t want you to move any more than necessary. There can be an afterdrop with hypothermia, when your core temperature keeps going down.”
“Really, I’m—” Justine began to argue, but he ignored her, lifting her against his chest as if she weighed nothing.
“It seems you’ll be staying with us for the night, Mr. Black,” Sage said. “According to the latest report, the storm isn’t likely to end until tomorrow.”
“I’m sorry to impose on you.”
“It’s not an imposition in the least. There’s a pot of soup on the stove, and two loaves of Dark Mother bread in the oven.”
“Dark Mother?” Jason repeated with polite interest.
“A reference to Hecate. We’re nearing the autumn equinox, or what we call Mabon, which is the modern word for the celebration of—”
“Sage,” Justine protested, her voice muffled against Jason’s shoulder. “He doesn’t want to hear about that.”
“I do, as a matter of fact,” Jason said to Sage. “Maybe later this afternoon?”
Sage smiled at him. “Yes, I’ll show you our harvest altar. I think it turned out especially nice this year…” Still chattering happily, Sage headed to the kitchen.
Jason followed Rosemary through the lighthouse, into the master bedroom and connecting bathroom. The storm pummeled the stalwart limestone and wood-shingled lighthouse, rain hitting the multipaned windows like the sound of marbles being dropped onto the floor. The lighthouse, having withstood a thousand squalls and tempests, creaked as it settled in patiently for a long, wet night.
“I need to make a couple of calls,” Jason said to Rosemary.
“I’ve already phoned the inn to let them know that you brought Justine here safely. You probably won’t get a cell signal out here, but you’re welcome to use our landline in the kitchen.”
“Thank you.” Jason carried Justine into the bathroom. He lowered her feet to the floor, wrapped a towel around her, and lifted the toilet lid. “The kidneys go into overdrive when you’ve been exposed to extreme cold,” he said in a pragmatic tone.
Justine gave him an affronted glance. He was right, of course. But the way he was standing there seemed to indicate an intention to remain during the process. “I’d like some privacy, please.”
To her disgruntled surprise, Jason shook his head. “Someone should stay with you in case there’s a problem.”
“I will, of course,” Rosemary said from the doorway.
“Don’t leave her alone even for a minute.”
“I don’t intend to,” the older woman replied, her dark brows drawing together. “There’s another bathroom in the lighthouse tower bedroom—you may shower there.”
“Thank you,” Jason said, “but right now I have to go back to cover the boat and pump excess water from the bilge. It may take a while.”
“No,” Justine said in concern, not wanting Jason to go out alone in the storm. He had to be tired after all he’d done, rescuing her from the ocean, carrying her up all those stairs from the dock. “You should rest first.”
“I’ll be fine.” Jason paused at the door, keeping his gaze averted from her as he continued. “After your bath, go straight to bed.”
“You’re ordering me around again,” Justine said, although her tone was wry rather than accusatory.
Jason still didn’t look at her, but she saw the flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Get used to it,” he said. “Now that I’ve saved your life, I’m responsible for you.”
He left the bathroom, and Rosemary stared after the extraordinary stranger with a stunned expression.
***
After Justine had settled carefully into the warm comfort of the bath, Rosemary dropped an herb-filled sachet into the water. “This will help with muscle soreness,” she said. “And the tea Sage brewed for you was a special medicinal blend. You’ll be back to your usual self soon.”
“I thought she must have put something in it,” Justine said. “I felt much warmer right after I drank it.”
The other woman’s tone was gently astringent. “I suspect sharing a quilt with Mr. Black might have helped the warming process considerably.”
“Rosemary,” Justine protested with a discomfited laugh.
“How long have you been involved with him?”
“We’re not involved.” Justine stared at the surface of the water, which quivered from the infinitesimal trembling of her legs. “We’ve gone out once for dinner, that’s all.”
“What happened to the last boyfriend? What was his name…?”
“Duane.”
“I rather liked him.”
“So did I. But I messed it up. We were having an argument about something stupid—I don’t even remember what it was—and I got so angry, I—” Breaking off, Justine sloshed her hand through the water, sending ripples across the surface. “The headlight on his motorcycle exploded. I tried to come up with an excuse for it, but Duane knew I caused it. Now every time he sees me in town, he makes the sign of the cross and takes off at a dead run.”
Rosemary looked at her sharply. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.” Justine felt a riff of unease as she heard the consternation in the other woman’s voice. “I don’t want to bother you with every twist and turn of my love life, and besides—”
“Not Duane,” Rosemary interrupted. “I meant about the bulb exploding.”
“Oh. Well… it’s not all that unusual, right? I’ve seen you and Sage and a couple of the other coveners do tricks like that.”
“After years of training. But never as a novice.” Rosemary’s expression made Justine sorry she had mentioned anything about the lightbulb. “It’s not a trick, Justine, it’s a dangerous ability. Especially if you haven’t acquired the techniques for focusing and grounding. And it should never happen as a result of temper.”
“I won’t do it again,” Justine said. “I wasn’t even trying to do it in the first place.”
Rosemary picked up a hand towel from the edge of the sink and refolded it needlessly. “Was that the only time it’s happened?”
“Yes,” Justine said at once.
Rosemary’s brows lifted.
“No,” Justine admitted. She tried to sound casual. “I may have tripped a circuit breaker once.”
“What?”
“I dropped a can of floor wax on my foot,” Justine said defensively. “I was hopping around the room and swearing, and the next thing I knew, the circuit blew and I had to go trip the breaker switch in the basement.”
“You’re sure that you caused it? It wasn’t a coincidence?”
Justine shook her head. “I felt a weird kind of energy running under my skin.”
“Depolarization.” The hand towel was shaken out and refolded again. “All living cells generate natural electric charges. But a few individuals are able to build a charge imbalance until a current releases. Like an electric eel.”
“Can any crafter do it?”
“No. Only natural-born witches, and very few of those.”
Deciding to make light of it, Justine waggled her fingers in the air. “So how much power do you think I’ve got in these things?”
“Equal to the amount of your average defibrillator,” Rosemary said with quiet asperity.
Blinking, Justine lowered her hands.
“There is no choice, Justine: You must have instruction. A covener—Violet or Ebony would be best—will help you learn how to manage this. Otherwise you’ll be a danger to yourself and others.”
Justine groaned, knowing that the more she had to do with any of the coveners, the more they would pressure her to join. “I’ll manage it on my own. It’s not going to happen again.”
“Because you’ve decided so?” Rosemary asked caustically.
“Yes.”
That earned her a stern glance. “You can’t control your power, Justine. You’re like a six-year-old at the wheel of a car. Sage will discuss it with you later. I’m sure she’ll persuade you to see reason.”
Justine lifted her gaze heavenward, and began to nudge the floating bath sachet with her toes. She played idly with the chain around her neck, following it down to the small copper key that dangled between her breasts. Lifting the key, she tapped it absently against her lips. A storm gust hit the bathroom window with startling force, the wind shrieking as it rampaged from the roiling sea.
Hearing the hiss of a quick indrawn breath, Justine glanced at Rosemary.
The older woman’s gaze left the window and went to the copper key in Justine’s hand, and flicked back to the window again. “You’ve broken the geas,” she said dazedly. “Haven’t you? The spirits are in turmoil.”
“I—” Justine began, but the words died away as she saw the expression on Rosemary’s face, one she had never seen before.
Fear.
“Oh, Justine,” Rosemary said eventually. “What have you done?”
***
Before Justine had admitted to anything, she had insisted on an explanation about what Rosemary and Sage knew about the geas, and why they had never mentioned it to her. That had led to an impasse. “We’ll deal with it later,” Rosemary had finally said, “when you’re not exhausted.”
And when Sage is here to keep it from turning into a brawl, Justine thought darkly.
Rosemary helped her from the bath and gave her a white flannel nightshirt to wear. “You’ll nap on our bed for the afternoon,” she told Justine. “Tonight you can stay in the tower bedroom.” She paused diplomatically. “Will Mr. Black be sleeping with you, or will he take the sofa down here?”
“The sofa, I think.” Justine sighed in comfort as she settled onto the old four-poster bed with its deep cushiony mattress. Rosemary propped some pillows behind her and covered her with a quilt made up of random patches of silk, velvet, brocade, with a backing of sugar-sack fabric.
The storm had thickened, the afternoon sky the color of wet newspaper. A crack of lightning caused Justine to jump. As far as Justine was concerned, Jason couldn’t return a moment too soon. She wanted him safely back inside.
Sitting beside Justine, Rosemary began to braid her damp, freshly washed hair.
The feel of the older woman’s hands in her hair reminded Justine of all the times Rosemary had done the same thing for her when she was a little girl. In the endless whirlwind of being raised by Marigold, Justine had savored their visits to the lighthouse, where life had been calm and quiet and Sage had played old-fashioned songs on the piano, and Rosemary had taken her to the top of the tower to help clean the crystal Fresnel lens. Justine had thrived on their unconditional affection.
Impulsively she snuggled close to Rosemary.
A gentle hand came to her cheek.
Sage came into the room, humming “Pennies from Heaven.” She carried a stack of tissue-wrapped clothing, which she laid carefully on the bed.
“What is all that?” Rosemary asked, resuming her work on Justine’s hair.
“Mr. Black will need something to wear. I opened the cedar trunk and found some of Neil’s old clothes. They’ll suit him nicely.”
Justine bit back a grin as she saw how much Sage was enjoying the situation, having a man in the house.
“Heavens to Hades,” Rosemary said with annoyance, “those garments are from the sixties.”
“They’re still in perfect condition,” Sage said placidly, unwrapping the tissue. “And vintage style is so fashionable these days.” She held up a cream-colored linen shirt with a plain point collar. “Perfect. And these—” She shook out a pair of slim-cut casual trousers, tan with a subtle windowpane check.
“They won’t even reach Mr. Black’s ankles,” Rosemary said sourly. “Neil was hardly bigger than you, Sage.”
Sage laid out the garments and ran an assessing glance over them. “I’ll have to make some alterations, of course.” She said a few words beneath her breath and waved a small, pudgy hand. “How tall would you say Mr. Black is, Justine?”
“About six feet,” Justine said.
Sage tugged at the hem of one of the trouser legs. With each little pull, the fabric extended until she had added a good six inches to the inseam. The magic was accomplished with an ease that Justine admired. “A wonderful-looking man, isn’t he?” Sage asked of no one in particular. “And so well endowed.”
“Sage,” Justine protested.
“I was not referring to the fruit of his loom, dear. I meant endowed with looks and intelligence. Although…” Sage proceeded to lengthen the crotch of the pants. She held them up and asked Justine, “What do you think? Have I allowed enough room in the rise?”
“I think you’re a little too interested in what he’s packing.”
Rosemary gave a little snort. “Sage is trying to find out in her usual circuitous way whether you’ve slept with him, Justine.”
“No,” Justine replied with a sputtering laugh. “I haven’t, and I don’t intend to.”
“That’s probably for the best,” Sage said.
“I agree,” Rosemary added promptly.
Sage smiled at her partner. “You noticed, then.” She began to work on the linen shirt, adding inches to the sleeves.
“Of course.” Rosemary finished Justine’s braid and fastened an elastic band around it.
Justine’s puzzled gaze swept across them both. “Noticed what? What are you talking about?”
Sage replied with equanimity. “Mr. Black has no soul, dear.”