Chapter 8
Wednesday arrived with the kind of crisp autumn clarity that made Salem look like a postcard of itself.
Forbes had spent the day making minimal progress on Alan’s genealogy records—his mind kept drifting to green-gold eyes and the memory of Gwen’s smile when he’d told her liking her wasn’t in question.
He’d meant it. That was the interesting part.
The tour that evening had only made it worse. He’d watched her work for two hours—commanding the crowd, weaving history into something living—and by the time the last tourist wandered off, he’d stopped pretending any of this was purely professional interest.
They walked to the café together, shoulders brushing in the October chill, and Gwen led him to a corner table by the window. She’d left her hair down today, honey-blonde waves catching the warm lamplight, and she was wearing a deep green sweater that made her eyes even more striking.
She slid into the chair beside him rather than across, and Forbes noted with pleasure that she’d chosen proximity over formality.
Pay attention to this one, that quiet voice reminded him. This one matters.
“So,” she said, her smile hitting him like a punch. “You survived another tour. Thoughts?”
“I’m enthusiastic.” The word came out before he could stop it.
Gwen’s eyebrows rose. “...would you like a minute to rephrase that?”
“Too late. It’s out in the world now.”
She laughed—that warm, genuine sound he was learning to crave. “Well. At least you’re honest about it.”
Honest. The word snagged at something inside him. He made his living telling stories—fiction, invention, beautiful lies dressed up as history. His father would call it “entertainment at the expense of accuracy.” His mother would say he had “such potential, if only he’d apply it properly.”
And here he was, sitting next to a woman who did actual magic, wrestling with whether he could believe what he’d seen with his own eyes.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
“I’ll order for you,” Gwen said, flagging the barista. “Chamomile and honey, right? That’s what my mom gave you.”
“Ye remembered.”
“It’s literally one data point. Not exactly a feat of memory.”
“And yet ye remembered.” He let his smile show. “If I’d kent attention from ye could be earned so easily, I’d have asked for tea a week ago.”
Pink crept into her cheeks. “Flattery won’t get you extra honey.”
“Worth a try.”
Their drinks arrived a few minutes later, and Forbes took his with a nod of thanks. When they were alone again, the humor faded into something quieter.
“So,” Gwen said, wrapping her hands around her mug. “You survived the herb explosion, witnessed my magic going enthusiastic, and still showed up for coffee. Either you’re very brave or very foolish.”
“Can’t it be both?”
“In my experience, it usually is.”
“I’ve endured worse than a wee bit of rosemary shrapnel.”
“Such as?”
“Yer first impression of me.”
Gwen’s mouth fell open, then curved into a reluctant smile. “...fair enough.”
“I deserved it,” Forbes added. “For the record.”
“You did. But you’ve been making up for it.” She tilted her head, studying him. “Most people would have found an excuse to leave after the magic demonstration. Made polite noises about needing to check emails or catch a flight.”
“I’m no’ most people, Gwen.”
“No.” Her expression softened. “You keep showing up instead.”
The simple observation landed hard. Forbes thought about all the times people hadn’t shown up—colleagues who’d distanced themselves when he chose fiction over academia, friends who’d drifted away when success made them uncomfortable, his parents who attended every book launch but never quite managed to say they were proud.
Don’t get ahead of yourself. One coffee date. That’s all this is.
But it didn’t feel like just one coffee date. It felt like the start of something.
“Can I ask ye something?” he said.
“That depends on what it is.”
“Yesterday. At yer family’s house. Ye mentioned yer magic running hot—too much power for small tasks.” He watched her carefully. “Has it always been like that?”
Gwen considered the question, and Forbes appreciated that she took it seriously rather than deflecting.
“As long as I can remember. My grandmother was the same way, apparently—she once set fire to a church bell tower doing a simple blessing.” A wry smile. “The Bishop women tend toward... dramatic magical signatures.”
“Dramatic.” Forbes turned that over. “That’s one word for making the air pressure change with a candle and some herbs.”
“Would you prefer ‘enthusiastic’?” She threw his earlier word back at him. “Or ‘aggressively oversized’?”
“I’d prefer ‘powerful.’ Because that’s what it was.”
Gwen’s hands stilled on her mug. “Most people focus on the explosion part. The mess. The lack of control.”
“Most people are looking at the wrong thing.” He leaned forward slightly. “The candle flared because ye’ve got more power than the spell required. That’s no’ a flaw, Gwen. That’s a calibration problem.”
“A calibration problem.” She looked at him with what might have been wonder. “You make it sound so... solvable.”
“Is it no’?”
“I don’t know.” She turned her mug in her hands, thinking.
“My mother says I’m built for something bigger than household charms. But I haven’t figured out what that is yet.
And in the meantime, every small spell turns into a minor disaster, and I’ve got forty-four documented trials that all end the same way. ” A small shrug. “It’s frustrating.”
“I can imagine.”
“Can you?” There was curiosity in her voice, not challenge. “Your skills seem fairly... cooperative.”
Forbes laughed despite himself. “My skills cooperate because I’ve spent fifteen years learning what they’re actually for. Took me a while to figure out I was better at storytelling than scholarship. My father’s still no’ convinced I made the right choice.”
“Your father?”
“Professor at Edinburgh. Serious academic. Had plans for me that involved peer-reviewed journals and a respectable university position.” Forbes traced the rim of his cup. “Instead, I chose bestselling fiction. Chose to make history accessible rather than exclusive. Chose readers over academics.”
“Chose to tell beautiful lies,” Gwen said softly, “instead of documenting truth.”
The words hit closer than she probably intended.
“Aye.” He met her eyes. “And here I am, sitting beside a woman who does actual magic, trying tae decide whether I can believe what I’ve seen with my own eyes. When my entire job is inventing things that never happened.”
“That’s quite the irony.”
“I’m aware.” He smiled ruefully. “My father sent a detailed critique of my last novel. Found seventeen historical inaccuracies. Never mentioned whether he actually enjoyed reading it.”
“That must be hard.”
“It was. Though I’ve started tae wonder if his criticism is just clumsy affection—connecting the only way he knows how.
” Forbes reached across without hesitation, covering her hand with his.
Her pulse jumped under his fingers. “Still carrying around his voice in my head sometimes. Telling me that fiction isnae real work. That entertainment isnae enough.”
“For what it’s worth,” Gwen said, her fingers curling around his, “I meant what I said when we met. About your books. The way you bring history to life, make it feel immediate and real—that’s a gift, Forbes. Whether your father sees it or not.”
Warmth bloomed in his chest. “Even after I was a snob about local history?”
“Even then.” She blushed. “I may have had a small crush on the author before I met him and discovered he could be kind of insufferable.”
“Insufferable. That’s generous.”
“I’m a generous person.” Her smile turned teasing. “I’m still deciding whether the real Forbes lives up to the one I imagined.”
“And? What’s the verdict?”
“The jury’s still out. But you’re making a strong case.” She laughed, and the sound settled into his bones like music.
They talked for another hour—about her grandmother’s stories, about his research adventures, about Salem’s hidden corners and Scotland’s misty hills. The conversation flowed easily, and Forbes was truly relaxed in a way he rarely managed with anyone.
He kept catching himself thinking: How would I write this scene? Not academically—not the way his father would document it—but the way he wrote his novels. With heart. With wonder. With the freedom to make things beautiful even if they weren’t perfectly accurate.
Maybe that was the key. Maybe he’d been approaching Salem all wrong—trying to verify instead of simply experience. Trying to meet standards of truth that had never been his own.
What if the magic was just history that hadn’t been properly documented yet?
Then the café lights flickered.
Just once. Just briefly. But Forbes saw Gwen’s gaze dart to the overhead fixtures.
“Is the electricity meant tae flirt with us,” he asked, keeping his voice light, “or is that just a local custom?”
Gwen’s expression eased. “If the lights start winking at you, that’s Salem saying welcome.”
“Should I wink back?”
“Absolutely not. The town doesn’t need encouragement.”
But her free hand had moved to the base of her throat, pressing against skin, and Forbes noted the gesture.
“The town’s been having odd electrical issues lately,” she admitted. “Sydney mentioned it yesterday—lights flickering during her tour, someone’s phone dying at full battery. Things always get a little strange before Samhain. Energy shifts, the veil thins...” She shrugged. “It’s probably nothing.”
Probably nothing didn’t match the thoughtful look in her eyes. But Forbes let it go—for now.
“I want to show you something,” Gwen said eventually, reaching into her bag.
She pulled out a small sprig of rosemary. “I’ve been testing a theory. My mother suggested the misfires might be related to my emotional state—specifically, trying too hard versus just... doing.”
“And?”
“And I’ve been practicing when I’m calm instead of when I’m trying to prove something.” She glanced at him sideways. “You seem to have a calming effect on me. Which is annoying, by the way.”
“My apologies for being soothing.”
“You should be sorry. It’s very inconvenient.”
She glanced around the café—the barista was restocking cups behind the counter, the only other customer absorbed in her phone near the door—then held the herb between her fingers, closed her eyes briefly, and whispered something too quiet for him to hear.
The rosemary began to glow.
Not dramatically—just a soft green light that pulsed once, twice, three times before fading gently back to normal. No flares. No explosions. Just steady, controlled magic.
Gwen opened her eyes and studied the herb with satisfaction. “Well. That’s interesting data.”
“That’s all ye have to say? ‘Interesting data’?”
“What would you prefer? Dramatic gasping?” She echoed her own words from yesterday, eyes dancing. “I told you—I’ve been practicing. This is trial twelve of the calm-state experiments. "First time it's worked this smoothly, though."
Forbes studied her, something warm and wondering in his expression. "Ye said I have a calming effect on ye. And now yer magic works perfectly for the first time." He reached over and covered her hand with his. "Perhaps yer magic likes me."
The words landed soft as a touch. Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks.
"That's quite a theory."
"I'm a writer. We're allowed to have theories." But he was looking at her like he half-believed it.
"Ye're genuinely no' surprised," he added after a moment.
“I’m pleased. There’s a difference.” She tucked the rosemary back in her bag. “Surprised would mean I didn’t expect it to eventually work. Pleased means the hypothesis is proving out.”
“Ye’re treating yer own magic like a research project.”
“Of course I am. How else would I figure out the pattern?” She smiled at his expression. “You look like you’ve never met a witch who believes in the scientific method.”
“I’ve never met a witch at all. Present company being my entire sample size.”
“Then you should know we’re not all dramatic cauldrons and mysterious pronouncements. Some of us keep spreadsheets.”
Forbes laughed—really laughed, the kind that came from honest delight. “Ye’re remarkable. Has anyone ever told ye that?”
“You did. Yesterday.” But she was blushing. “I’m starting to think you mean it.”
“I do.” He caught her hand again, threading his fingers through hers. “Ye’re the most fascinating person I’ve met in years, Gwen Bishop. Possibly ever.”
“That’s quite a claim.”
“I’m a writer. We’re allowed to make dramatic statements.”
“And here I thought you were all about historical accuracy.”
“Only in fiction.” He lifted her hand and pressed a brief kiss to her knuckles—a courtly gesture that made her breath catch. “In real life, I’m learning tae appreciate a bit of mystery.”
When the barista announced they’d be closing soon, Forbes realized over an hour had passed. The café had emptied around them, and their tea had long gone cold.
“I’ll walk ye out,” he said.
They emerged onto Essex Street together, the October air crisp and cool around them. Halloween decorations caught the streetlight—pumpkins on doorsteps, fake cobwebs in windows, the cheerful macabre of a town that had learned to profit from its dark history.
“Friday,” Forbes said as they paused on the sidewalk. “Dinner. I’ll cook something that probably won’t poison ye.”
“Such confidence.”
“I’m being realistic. My culinary skills are... aspirational.”
“Then why offer to cook?”
“Because—” He stopped, considering how honest to be. “Because I’d like to spend an evening with ye somewhere that isnae public. Where we can talk without performing for an audience.”
Gwen’s expression softened. “That sounds lovely.”
“Aye?”
“Aye.” She mimicked his accent, and he was grinning like an idiot.
“Friday, then. Seven o’clock. I’ll send ye the address.”
She nodded, and for a moment they just stood there—two people on a Salem sidewalk, neither quite ready to walk away.
“Forbes?”
“Aye?”
Gwen rose on her toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Soft. Brief. Just at the corner of his mouth.
“Thank you,” she said. “For showing up.”
Then she was walking away, honey-blonde hair catching the glow of the streetlamps, and Forbes stood rooted to the spot with his hand raised to his cheek like a man who’d just been handed something precious.
Easy, MacLeod, he told himself. Pace yourself.
But he was smiling all the way back to Herrick House.