Chapter Seventeen
Jet lag might not have been “the silent killer” but that didn’t mean it wasn’t brutal, or so Maggie thought as she tossed
and turned three hours later, utterly exhausted but totally unable to sleep. The clock read nine minutes to midnight when
she finally climbed out of bed and stepped into the chilly corridor. The halls were dark and empty, but lights burned in the
sconces like a trail of breadcrumbs in the night.
She was halfway down the stairs when—
“I told you not to sleep after a red-eye.”
Maggie jumped and almost screamed. Her heart was beating a million miles an hour as she looked down at Ethan, who was sprawled
across the bottom step like a sentry, standing guard but falling down on the job at the same time because Ethan always managed
to be everything. All at once.
Cool but hot. Formal but relaxed. Intimidating but totally approachable. Even his smile managed to be self-deprecating but
just a little bit smug at the same time.
“So what’s your excuse, Mr. Post Red-Eye Protocol Man.”
“Worst. Superhero. Ever.”
She didn’t smile. But he did. Just to spite her. She watched him look down at her T-shirt then mouth the words as he read
no, i don’t put my enemies in my novels. my enemies aren’t that interesting . When Ethan laughed, he got those little crinkles around his eyes that make hot guys even hotter and Maggie wished they were
at the top of the stairs just so she could give him a push.
“Maybe I’m waiting for Santa,” he told her.
“You’re early.”
She watched him sprawl across the steps like a cat in the sun, utterly at home in someone else’s mansion. So comfortable in
his skin and the world and his place. So sure that people would always adore him because people always had.
“Oh, I like to be prepared.”
“Why? Are you a Boy Scout as well as a Navy SEAL and an Army Ranger and a CIA operative and... Oh yeah.” Seriously? “International assassin?” Maggie stepped over his outstretched leg, then headed for the library, desperate for silence and
solace and something to read. “Good night, Ethan.”
“Why don’t you like me?” Ethan’s voice was flat in the dim, chilly air.
“I don’t know you,” Maggie tossed over her shoulder, not even slowing down and far too tired to argue.
“We’ve known each other for five years.” He darted in front of her and forced her to stop.
“And for four and a half of them you couldn’t have picked me out of a lineup.”
“I...” It was like he heard the words but didn’t understand them. “We’ve crossed paths a dozen times.”
“And every one of those times you thought my name was Marcie .”
It should have felt victorious, the way the smile slid off his face. He looked like she’d just ripped off a mask and announced
she was an alien. A hologram. A ghost. It was like he didn’t know her at all. Which... he didn’t know her! At all! But,
evidently, that was news to Ethan, who tried to rally. “We’ve been together pretty much nonstop for twenty-four hours, so—”
“So I haven’t been with a man! I’ve been with a social media feed.” And then she couldn’t help herself—she dropped her voice
to a very Ethan-like tone. “Look at me, I’m charming on an airplane. Ooh. I’m hot in a limo. Hey! I’m quippy over... What?”
she snapped when he gave her his cockiest grin.
“So what you’re saying is... you think I’m hot?” He arched an eyebrow and Maggie couldn’t stop herself. She burst through
the library doors.
“Where is that sword?” The dagger would also do. “Oh, is that a crossbow?”
Someone had banked the fireplace and the flames flickered behind the screen, sending shadows dancing through the dark. Beyond
the windows, falling snow filled the sky and even the stars had stopped shining. She was sleepy and a little hungry and the
clock dinged . Midnight.
It was December twenty-third.
It was December twenty-third.
It was December—
“Maggie?”
She spun, but, in the darkness, the dark green and purple rug was hard to see and her foot caught on the upturned corner and
Maggie felt herself falling, crashing, landing right in Ethan’s arms.
She would have preferred the hard floor. Maybe a nice cliff? If only she could have broken a bone or two...
“Easy...” His voice sounded like chocolate tastes: dark and rich and like something you’d regret indulging in later. “I
have you.”
Maggie wanted to laugh. She was going to cry. Because, the truth was, no one had her and no one ever would. Maggie had herself.
And that was enough. It was. It was—
December twenty-third.
“Hey.” She was still in his stupid arms and he was still gazing down at her with his stupid face and stupid eyes, looking
like he was worried—like he cared. Like—
A loud, crashing sound broke through the silence, reverberating down the stairs and through the library’s open door.
At first, Maggie thought she might have dreamed it, but Ethan was already darting out of the library and up the stairs and
into the long, main hall where Cece stood outside the closed door of Eleanor’s office. There was a broken cup and saucer on
the floor and she was struggling to balance a tray in her hands.
“Aunt Eleanor!” the girl called, kicking at the bottom of the door since her hands were full. “Aunt Eleanor, you locked me
out again!” She waited a moment. “I found that tea you like in the back of the pantry. I told you no one else had been drinking
it.” Cece spotted Ethan and Maggie and lowered her voice. “Probably because it smells like the back end of an old donkey.”
She turned to the door again. “Aunt Eleanor?”
But no one called back and the door stayed closed and a moment later classical music came booming out of the room.
“I guess that’s a no,” Cece told them, sounding worried. “The doctor doesn’t want her working all night anymore.”
“Dr. Charles?” Ethan asked and Cece shook her head.
“No. The woman she saw after she fell.” She shifted the heavy tray in her hands and moved to a small table a little way down
the hall. “I’ll leave your tea on the table. Don’t work too late, okay?”
Down the hall, a door opened. “Would you keep it down out here?” Rupert snapped. “You’re going to wake—” The baby began to
cry and Rupert cringed as if he was the one who was going to have to put her back to sleep.
“Sorry, Rupert. Good night.” Cece smiled at Ethan and Maggie, then gave a yawn and walked away.
There was a bookshelf on the wall across from the office door. It was covered with antique cameras and magnifying glasses
and kaleidoscopes and crystals. Maggie could think of at least six Eleanor novels that were about prisms or looking glasses
or seeing things in ways no one ever has before. There was a lesson there—Maggie knew it. But there was also a clock, nestled
in the middle and blinking red: 12:03 a.m.
On December twenty-third.
And Maggie felt every ounce of fight drain from her body. Two minutes earlier she’d been full of steam, but now she was an
old balloon, weak and sinking under the weight of too much string.
“Maggie?” She could feel Ethan’s breath on the back of her neck, so close that, when she turned, she could actually feel the
rise and fall of his chest, but she just stood there, caught in his gaze as he whispered, “I could always pick you out of
a lineup.”
He walked away and she went back to bed, and ten minutes later she fell into a deep, deep sleep.