Chapter 27 #2
If she wanted me to stay, this cabinet would’ve helped turn the tide.
I have never been so enamored of an object in my entire life except an actual card catalog I once saw for sale at an antiques shop back in Cumberville. Even in our Podunk town it was so expensive I couldn’t afford a single drawer.
As I methodically peruse the magical offerings on hand, I keep an eye out for that grimoire.
There could be no more fitting resting place for a book of magic spells than a cabinet of magic ingredients.
But even when I get to the bigger cubbies, I don’t find a single book.
Folded fabric, perfectly clean animal skulls, and even some ornamental (I hope) knives, but no book.
I press places on the interior walls, hoping to find a secret door or drawer, but the cabinet does not relent.
It goes all the way down to the floor, so I fetch a stool and look on top, but all I find there are jugs of water like the one in the bathroom.
Water from the falls, I suppose.
“Knock, knock,” Hunter calls, and I gently close the closet door and hurry into the kitchen to find him standing on the stairs, just outside the raggedly cut doorway.
I’m pretty sure he couldn’t see from here to there, but I don’t mention the cabinet.
I’m not even sure why. It feels special and personal, and at least for a while, I want to keep it all to myself, treasure it like a kid with a shiny new doll who doesn’t want to share.
“What’s up?”
He points at the cage. “Where’s Doris?”
And it’s funny, but I feel guilty for admitting what happened.
Like I’m her owner instead of her granddaughter.
It’s not that I’m negligent; she has a fully functional human brain and has chosen to put herself in grave danger all by herself and against my wishes. But I can’t tell him that.
“I don’t know. She flew out the door the other night. I couldn’t catch her. I’ve been calling for her, but…” I trail off.
And admit the truth.
Or some of it.
“I’m really worried about her.”
He steps closer to the cage and looks inside like she might inexplicably be hiding within.
“I don’t know much about birds, but we could make some signs?
You certainly have plenty of window space.
This is the kind of town where handmade signs still work.
And you should use the Chamber group text.
Obviously, if anyone notices a pink pigeon flying around, they’re going to tell somebody.
And we could call the police and animal control.
I’m so sorry.” He pauses. “I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but is she your familiar? ”
He’s still standing on the stairs like a vampire waiting for an invitation. I motion him up, but I’m not sure how to answer.
Is she my familiar?
Yes.
And also very much no.
For a moment, I ignore the question and fill in the silence with hospitality.
“You’ve got to be thirsty. Want some water? Or a Diet Coke? I was going to make some sweet tea, but I haven’t yet. It’s on my to-do list. My very long to-do list.”
“Water’s fine.” He sits on a kitchen stool in that way handsome men have, one leg on the ground and one hooked on the footrest. I put ice in a glass and run water from the tap, and as he drinks, I enjoy watching his Adam’s apple bob like some hunk from a soda commercial.
“I don’t know much about witchy things, but I can hear her talking in my mind,” I finally say, opting for a little bit more of the truth. “If that’s what a familiar is.”
He cocks his head. “That’s weird, then, that she would fly away. Familiars are generally bonded to you. They want to be near you.”
I stare at the door and think about how she bounced and splatted across the parking lot, desperate to escape my many questions. “I guess she didn’t like what I had to say. We were arguing. But she doesn’t know how to survive on her own. She—”
I stop myself before I can say too much.
“Did you have a construction question for me, or were you just craving sink water?”
He rattles the water in the glass and tips it toward me in cheers. “I know it’s a little early, but I’ve got to head out. I’m finished up for the day, and I thought you might like to see the wood that will become your bookshelves.”
I jump up and down a little. “ ‘Yes! A thousand times yes!’ ”
He stands, grinning. “If you’re quoting a Jane Austen movie, does that mean you’re happy?”
“I’m talking to a man who knows I’m quoting a Jane Austen movie. I’m ecstatic!”
He leads me downstairs, and holy crap. It doesn’t look like a bookstore yet, but it doesn’t look like a video store. Wood is stacked in a honey-gold pile, the ground drifting with shavings. He’s marked off the walls and started pulling up the carpet.
“How are you this fast?” I ask.
“When most people ask that, I can’t tell them it’s magic or I’d cough up a furball. But I can actually tell you. It’s magic. My knack. You know how they say ‘Measure twice, cut once’? I only have to measure once, and I’m always correct. It makes building a breeze.”
I run my fingers over a wood board. “What kind of wood is it?”
“Cherry. Normally, I’d consider it a luxury wood, but you found a fantastic deal.” He steps closer, so close I can see the sawdust caught in his hair. “Books and building. We make a good team.”
As much as I love the wood, the man who shaped it is more captivating by far. I turn to face him. We’re standing close now. And for once, he doesn’t seem conflicted at all. I look up, and he looks down. I reach to pull a little curl of wood shaving from behind his ear and toss it on the floor.
“Hey, isn’t the guy supposed to do that?” he asks playfully.
“Well, there’s nothing in my hair.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. Actually, I think there might be something in your ear….” He reaches up and strokes my ear, sending shivers down my spine, before holding up a quarter.
“You do close-up magic?” I ask.
“What can I say? I was a weird kid.”
“Me too. I wonder if it’s a witch thing or an us thing?”
“Probably both.” He turns the quarter back and forth. “Now, most magicians would say you need to clean behind your ears, but I think that might kill the vibe.”
“What vibe is that?”
He reaches toward me—
And past me, running his finger along a board leaning against the wall. “The scent of freshly cut cherry, the crunch of sawdust under your feet, the silvery gleam of dropped nails in the golden-hour sun. It’s romantic.”
I nod and look at his lips. “A tale as old as time. Beauty and the Birch.”
He chuckles. “How do you do that?”
“Make terrible wood puns? I just teak about it real hard.”
His eyes crinkle up, and he reaches for my face, his calloused fingers gentle on my jaw. “It’s adorable.”
And then his lips are on mine, soft and tender, and I close my eyes and melt.
But he pulls away.
His hands are still on my face, and I open my eyes to find him hovering there.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“I will literally die if you stop,” I tell him, because it’s true.
He kisses me again, still gentle but firm, determined.
He approaches kissing me like he does building: thorough and serious.
I have never been kissed this way before.
Like it matters. Like every touch is a stamp that will live forever on my skin.
I let him lead, wait for him to change his angle and run his tongue across the seal of my lips, gently begging entry.
My middle goes hot and dizzy, every atom of my body fizzing and alive.
My hands trace up his sides, the soft warmth of his ribs through his flannel, the hard ridge of his spine.
I am filled with fire and longing, and I almost want to step away from the pile of wood so it won’t catch and burn.
His phone beeps in his pocket, and he reluctantly pulls away.
“Did I mention I’m leaving because I need to give someone an estimate? I don’t think I’ve ever been late for that before, but I mind it a lot less than I thought I wood.”
I laugh and lick my lips. “Still with the wood puns.”
“Well, when you’ve got wood…” He looks down briefly and smiles. “Not complaining. But I do need to go. I’ll be back tomorrow morning, if that works?”
“Fir sure.”
He caresses my face and plants a kiss on my forehead. Right before closing the door, he says, “Pine for me.”
And then he’s gone, the first person to best me when it comes to puns.
I have never minded anything less.