Chapter Twenty-Five #2
Sasha frowns at me. “What in the hell are you talking about? Who is Nolan?”
Nolan lifts his hand. “I am.”
“What process?” Sasha hisses, ignoring him. She looks at the ceiling again, suspicious. “Is this about the mistletoe? Are you dealing illegal Christmas greenery now?”
I hush her, holding eye contact with Isabella even though it makes me feel like there’s a tuning fork vibrating up the length of my spine.
“So if he violated some sort of rule with the—with the greenery, I just want to assure you that he’s, um, doing everything he can to deliver the final, uh, product on time. ”
The final product being my reckoning, I guess.
Isabella’s face softens, her eyes losing some of their fire and brimstone. “All is well, Ms. York,” she reassures me. “I’m assured Nolan will deliver the project on time.” Her eyes narrow as she shoots him a look. A warning. “He always does.”
Nolan shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Always a pleasure to see you, Isabella.”
“And you have always been a terrible liar.” She laughs. She looks at me. “Harriet. This has been very illuminating. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I respond. “I think.”
She wanders back to the snow globe shelf as I exchange another heavy look with Nolan. I’m not exactly sure what’s happened in this conversation. He takes a half-step closer, hand reaching for my elbow.
“Harriet,” he says. “Can we—”
“Where did you find this?” Isabella snaps. She’s crouched in front of the lowest shelf, cradling the dainty birdcage music box I never bothered to return to its proper place. Instead I put it with the snow globes, hoping someone might stop by the festive display and pick it up.
“The music box?”
She nods wordlessly, standing slowly. She reaches for the knob underneath without looking, twisting it easily three times to the right. The light, tinkling melody winds its way around the room, and her eyes flutter shut, body swaying.
“I think my aunt got it at a flea market in Baltimore,” I offer, though Isabella doesn’t seem to be listening. “It’s usually mostly nonsense and garbage, but sometimes you can find good stuff if you spend the proper time looking.”
“A flea market,” she whispers, her hard edges melting away and revealing something soft beneath. She traces the bird. “My father gave me one just like this when I was a girl. Voliere de la Cour,” she whispers. She lifts her head and presses it to her chest. “How much do you want for it?”
“You can have it,” I offer, hoping it might earn me a little goodwill with the tiny, terrifying boss of the spirits. Maybe some for Nolan, too.
Her dark eyes turn assessing. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. It’s no problem.” Nolan makes a low sound of protest. I ignore it. “We have some gold paper I really like. I could wrap it up for you, if you wanted?”
“Harriet,” Nolan interrupts. “You don’t have to.”
“Why not? She obviously likes it.”
“So do you.”
“Not like that,” I say.
Isabella stands at the register with the music box cradled in her hands, oblivious to the conversation happening around her.
She only has eyes for the small metal bird and the precious box beneath.
It’s the same way my aunt Matilda used to look at boxes that arrived at the doorstep of the Crow’s Nest. That very first look, when she cracked open the cardboard, dust motes spiraling out and old, faded things settling in.
She knew the value of the trinkets inside exceeded anything anyone could pay with money. She knew there were memories attached.
She honored that.
The melody stops and Isabella immediately winds it again, the first note slightly out of tune.
Nolan drags a hand through his hair, jaw clenched tight. “You don’t need to do things to make other people happy.” He moves closer, ducking his head. “Don’t be a steamroll, Harriet.”
I laugh. “A steamroll?”
“You are almost stubbornly self-sacrificing.” He huffs. My smile fades. “I wish you’d assert yourself more.”
The hit lands somewhere in my softest spot.
I wish you’ d assert yourself. Toughen up, Harriet, it’s not a big deal.
Why are you crying? Come on, Harriet. You’re acting like a child.
It’s the same sentiment I’ve heard more or less for the past two decades, and heat climbs my cheeks. Nolan pales, his face immediately falling into something apologetic. “I just meant you don’t have to give up the things you enjoy for the contentment of others.”
“I know what you meant,” I whisper. It’s the best I can manage.
“If you haven’t noticed, this is an antiques shop.
We sell antiques.” And the first time I sold that specific music box, it was to an ungrateful woman in matching athleisure who thought the dove was a sparrow.
In my mind, it’s going to an infinitely more appreciative audience.
His lips flatten in a line. I flit my gaze to Isabella, who is watching our exchange with interest. “Sasha can wrap that up for you,” I offer.
“I’m going to grab a broom from the back for the rest of this—” I gesture at the odds and ends decorating the floor from Sasha’s earlier mishap.
I can relate deeply to the shattered crystal serving bowl, tipped on its side. “For the rest of this stuff,” I finish.
Nolan tries to reach for my wrist as I move past him, but I evade his touch, wanting the sanctuary of the dark closet. It doesn’t take a lot of introspection to realize why Nolan’s words feel like a balloon slowly losing air, wedged beneath my rib cage.
This morning, Nolan made me feel like my softness was the most beautiful thing about me. Now he’s using it as a weapon to lash out. I understand he might be tense with the sudden appearance of his boss, but I don’t deserve to be on the receiving end of his frustration.
Nolan allows me exactly thirty-two seconds of reprieve in the dark before he shoulders his way in. I lean against a shelf.
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I didn’t mean for that to sound as it did.”
“I know you didn’t,” I tell him, staring dutifully at one of my storage shelves in the dark. I rearrange a wayward can of silver polish and try to move past the boulder in my chest. “Doesn’t mean it’s not true, though.”
Doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to hear him say it.
“Harriet,” he says again, and I feel the brush of his hand between my shoulder blades. He toys with one of my curls. “I let my temper get the best of me. Isabella’s appearance was … unexpected.” He pauses. “And I don’t like her touching your things,” he adds with a grumble.
“None of these things are mine,” I say quietly.
“They’re things I’ve found. Things I’ve taken care of.
But they don’t belong to me.” I can see him only in lines and shadows, his features obscured by the dark.
It reminds me so much of our first meeting that my heart turns over in my chest. “Are you worried?” I ask. “About Isabella.”
“I’m not entirely sure,” he says. “It was a warning, I think. Or as close to a warning as Isabella gets.” He makes another low, frustrated sound. “I can’t see you back here.”
I gesture up at the ceiling. “I still haven’t replaced the light bulb.” He reaches above us without looking and twists the busted bulb.
Soft, golden light immediately fills the room.
A laugh tumbles out of me. I can’t help but be charmed every time he uses his magic.
“Show off.”
A dimple flashes in his cheek as he drops his hand, cradling my jaw instead. He holds my face the same way Isabella was holding the music box.
“This is better,” he says. “I like it better when you smile.”
“Then don’t make me frown.” I circle my fingers around his wrist and hold on, all of my frustration unspooling at the look on his face. “Talk to me,” I whisper. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“Isabella said—” He swallows heavily, his throat working with the motion. “Isabella said the consequences of my actions will affect the both of us.”
I frown. “Okay?”
He drops his hand from my face, settling it on my hip instead.
His fingers search beneath the thick material of my sweater until he reaches skin, and a relieved sigh rattles out of him.
“I don’t know what happens if I miss my deadline.
I thought I would bear the weight of that decision alone, but now—”
Ah, I see. “You’re worried it will affect me as well.”
Nolan nods, hesitant.
“What are the consequences?”
“I’m not sure.”
I picture rusted chains. A lone prison cell. Fire pokers. Keeping Up with the Kardashians on loop. “Should I … ask her?”
“No point to it. She’s already left,” he responds, tugging at my hips until he can rest his chin on the top of my head. His exhale ruffles my hair. “I didn’t like her being here.”
“Your worlds are crashing together.” I give in to the urge to touch him the way I want. I slip my palms up the back of his shirt, scratching lightly between his shoulders. He slumps against me.
This morning seems so very far away now, a touch of the reality we’ve been avoiding casting storm clouds over whatever it is we’re doing.
How many more times will I get to touch him like this? How many seconds can I stretch into hours before he’s gone?
I tuck my forehead against his collarbone and close my eyes.
I know what my consequences are. I’ll forget all of this.
Mistletoe ceilings and fathomless blue eyes that crinkle at the corners.
His hands in my hair and this soft, tender feeling in my chest. I’ll forget that for one perfect holiday season, I was important to someone. That someone thought I was lovely.
Nolan’s hands tighten against the small of my back. Something like determination settles across his harsh features.
“I’m going to keep you safe,” he promises me.
I nod. My mouth quirks up at the corners and I scratch lightly at the back of his neck. Right where his hair starts to curl up.
I smile at him. “I know you will.”
His eyes flash as his magic pours out of him, white-capped seas and night-flecked skies instead of shimmering gold.
It twists around my legs and slips over my shoulders, hugging around my middle.
My hair rises around us like a curtain and his magic hops playfully through the strands, twisting the same way his fingers do.
I laugh at the ticklish, bare-feet-in-the-grass feeling and Nolan’s expression tumbles from something serious to hopeful. Yearning.
It’s the last thing I see before it’s nothing but color and sound, the tug-tug-tug of time yanking us back once more.