Chapter 8
VIII
Celeste: Rafe tells me that you need to memorise all the alcohol serving rules in one night. I’m coming over to help, and I’m bringing snacks.
Iscrunch up my face. “The law is that I must refuse service to patrons I suspect of being intoxicated.”
Rafe bows, nearly bashing his head on a low rafter as he straightens again.
My cottage isn’t built for men of his height or anyone with a tail that constantly swipes into things.
“She’s done it again, thanks to my excellent acting abilities.
I should be on Broadway. I could have been in movies!
My acting abilities are luminous. Not only did I perform a skit about the dangers of serving intoxicated persons, but I embodied the fleeting tragedy of the human condition. ”
“You did?” I quirk an eyebrow at him as I straighten the picture frames he knocked over during his skit. “What about the bit where you were pretending to be a goose?”
“The goose was obviously symbolic.”
“Autumn wins the prize again.” Celeste tosses me a lemon sherbert, which I catch in my mouth. I chew my prize candy while Rafe escapes to the kitchen to prepare for his next absurd skit.
We’ve been at this for hours, and I can’t believe it, but Rafe’s unhinged memory techniques are actually working.
First, he threw all the sofa cushions on the ground so we could play ‘the floor is hot lava but it’s actually underage patrons.
’ Then, he rewrote the lyrics to popular songs so they would be about alcohol and food hygiene laws (his rendition of Ricky Martin for ‘Living La Vida Listeria’ was particularly memorable).
Now, we’re playing ‘Alcohol Law charades’ where I have to guess the law Rafe acts out.
Every time I get something right, he knocks something off a shelf in celebration.
It’s delightful, but hard on my knick-knacks.
He emerges from the kitchen a few moments later, wearing a faux moustache he cut from some paper and carrying a glass of milk.
“I’d like your finest Irish whisky,” he grins at me. “In a sippy cup.”
“You’re literally drinking chocolate milk.”
“The whisky isn’t for me, obviously.” Rafe changes tactics. He points at a potted plant. “It’s for my friend in the corner.”
“I don’t see a friend.”
“That’s because he’s invisible. You’re discriminating against him based on his disability.”
“No, I’m refusing to serve a minor. Your invisible friend can still get a drink if he shows me some ID.”
Rafe holds up his hand, palm facing me. There is nothing in his hand. “Here it is. All perfectly in order.”
“Like I told your ghost friend from a previous skit, your ID must be corporeal.”
Rafe makes a pouting face. He takes a sip of chocolate milk, getting it all over his cardboard moustache.
“But, if you’re between sixteen and seventeen and you’re here with your family,” I add, “I’m allowed to serve you a glass of alcohol with a meal, but you’re not allowed to pay for it.”
“You’re going to nail this test tomorrow.” Celeste grins as she readies another sherbert.
I glance around the sitting room, strewn with Rafe’s various costumes, empty Glazed and Confused bakery boxes, sherberts I didn’t manage to catch. I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.
And I haven’t had to read a single line from the regulations.
Studying can’t be this easy, can it?
Celeste stands, covering her mouth as she yawns.
“As much as I want to hang around to see what other absurd skits Rafe comes up with, I have a 4 AM date with my sourdough. So I bid you both good evening.” She hunts out her handbag and cardigan.
I embrace her, and she whispers in my ear. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“That’s not happening,” I murmur back.
“Sure it isn’t.”
“I’m married.”
She leans back and studies me, her expression suddenly serious. “I’m not going to tell you what to do. But I’m not looking at a married woman, Autumn. I’m looking at a woman who has only just discovered what freedom is. Don’t let Warrick take that away from you when he isn’t even here.”
I close the door behind her, her words clattering around in my head. The sides of my face ache from laughing. The house is a mess. Warrick would have a heart attack if he saw it.
Rafe stands in the middle of the chaos, looking every bit like the cat who got the cream.
A shaft of light from the wall sconce passes over his face, highlighting the dark stripes in his flame-coloured hair.
Those two tufts stick up from the sides of his head – I remember thinking they looked ridiculous, like his giant wing-nut Siamese cat ears, but now I think they’re ridiculous and kind of hot…
My body tugs towards him, the buzz and hum of bees squirming deep in my belly. A lone bee dances around my head. She should be asleep in her hive right now, but she dances in lazy circles, pointing me towards Rafe, as if saying, “go on, you know you want to.”
I do want to.
That’s a problem.
My fingers clamp tight around the door handle.
Rafe tilts his head, studying me. His tail swishes behind him.
“Do you need to study more?” he asks, his voice softening. “I have a brilliant idea for a skit where you have to serve a vampire.”
“Blood meads are stored at the appropriate temperature in the fridge out back,” I answer automatically. “I…um…”
I’m alone. With Rafe. In my cottage.
And Warrick is missing.
“Autumn?” He strides towards me, but stops in the doorway of the sitting room, leaving only the hallway rug and a pile of muddy galoshes between us. His eyes have blown out, the blue ocean swallowed by enticing darkness. “You’re gripping that doorhandle awfully hard.”
“I’m testing it for strength. One should do that from time to time. I wouldn’t want it to stop, er, handling things.”
He steps closer. “We wouldn’t want that. Autumn—”
Kiss me.
“I’m so tired,” I blurt out.
Rafe blinks. When his eyes open again, the centres have shrunk back, so they’re a deep ocean again. He reaches for Warrick’s coat. “I guess I’ll be going back to the shop, then.”
“Do you…do you want to stay?”
Did I just say that? Why did I just say that?
The bee crawls along my earlobe. Outside the window, I see a few tiny shapes of more bees circling the compost pile.
He blinks again. “Are you sure?”
No. No no no no. That’s such a bad idea.
“I don’t like thinking of you all alone in the shop,” I say. “I worry about you. I don’t want whoever killed Widow Hardcastle to come back and find you.”
“I worry about you,” he whispers, his eyes darkening again. “All alone here, with a witch-killer on the loose. I want to stay, but you have to want it, too.”
“You have to be in your cat form,” I say quickly. “I don’t want you to think this is—”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of your generosity.”
There’s something in his words that sounds desolate.
The bee on my earlobe darts off towards the kitchen. Outside the window, the bees do a final, lazy turn about the compost pile and settle in for the night.
I break away from Rafe’s gaze and move through to the kitchen, conscious of Rafe following me, of everywhere on my body where his eyes touch.
I fix us a simple supper – cheese and chunks of sourdough from Celeste, piccalilli and pickle, handfuls of raspberries and strawberries from the garden, cups of steaming chamomile and lavender tea.
When I come back through to the sitting room, Rafe has tidied all the cushions and set all the knick-knacks back on the shelf.
He stands by the sofa, staring down at something unrolled in his hand.
The quilt. I’d forgotten that I left it crumpled behind the cushions.
“You made this,” he says.
“With my mum. It’s one of the first things I ever sewed. My grandmother dyed all the fabrics using dyes she made from plants. My favourite is the red of the flower petals. I can’t believe how deep and vivid the colour is.”
“It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t shove it behind the sofa.”
“We don’t have a lot of wall space left.” I gesture around at the photo wall and the shelves overcrowded with books and Warrick’s fishing trophies. “I made supper.”
I hand him a plate and cup, and we eat in silence, the air charged with unsaid things.
I wash the dishes and he dries them, moving around my kitchen like he’s lived there all his life.
Upstairs, where the two bedrooms and bathroom are under the eaves, I pull out a fresh toothbrush from the stash under the sink and show him how to work the temperamental shower.
He’s so tall that he has to stoop to get under the rafters.
His tail accidentally knocks a photo of Warrick off the wall. Or maybe it’s not an accident?
While he showers in our bathroom, I clean my teeth in the kitchen sink downstairs.
Back in my room, I open my drawer. My hand brushes the silk nightie Warrick brought me three Christmasses ago, the one with the delicate little rosebuds on it.
My cheeks burn when I think of how excited I was to wear it for him, and my whole face and neck heat when I think of wearing it for Rafe.
I skip over it and choose my favourite old, faded pyjamas.
They’re covered in bright little bees. They’re also flannel and meant for winter.
I’ll be boiling, but at least there will be absolutely no skin showing whatsoever.
No one can accuse me of impropriety if I’m wearing these pyjamas. I certainly can’t accuse myself.
I pull them on in a hurry and clamber into bed as the bathroom door creaks behind me. Don’t look don’t look don’t—
My head turns towards the bathroom as Rafe emerges, his bottom half wrapped in a too-small towel, his hair damp and mussed from the shower, and his skin glistening.
I’m mesmerised by a droplet that falls off the end of his hair tuft and rolls down the orchids framing his abs before reaching that V of muscle…
My tongue dries to the roof of my mouth.
Rafe grips the doorframe, looking from me to the corner of the bed and back to me again with an expression that, for the first time since I met him, appears unsure.