Chapter Twenty-One
Maggie couldn’t have said whether she slept for five hours or five days.
Her body ached where her side pressed into the couch cushions, and there was a trail of drool across her chin.
Her hair was a mess, still tangled in knots after it had risen in that approximation of a crown while she was within the pall.
She coughed and cringed at the cotton ball feel of her mouth, but then she remembered the glass of water Arthur had left for her, and she gulped it down.
She couldn’t quite remember everything about the walk back or Arthur in her apartment, just strange flashes and memories of heat, of a dip in her stomach, of his strong arm around her waist and his fingers against her neck as he cared for her.
She was beginning to wonder if he was still there when another voice nearly yelled, “Thank the gods above and below.”
Dahlia came in from the kitchen, armed with two cups of coffee, the divine smell wafting toward Maggie to wake her up. After she handed Maggie her mug, Dahlia pulled out her phone and typed out a quick message to someone before putting it back in her pocket.
Maggie untwisted the blanket from her feet and wrapped it around her shoulders. Once she was tucked in, she cupped the mug Dahlia had offered her in her hands, taking pleasure in the warmth radiating through her palms. “What are you doing here?”
Dahlia joined her on the couch, sliding her feet under Maggie’s knees. “I was just about to text you and demand to know if you were still in the damn pall, when he called me.”
“Who?” Dahlia’s eyebrow quirked up. “Arthur?” Maggie asked, slightly incredulous. Dahlia’s face was unreadable. “Wait—how long have I been asleep?”
“About thirteen hours. I tried to get you to move to your room, but you wouldn’t budge.” She shrugged. “I slept in your bed.”
“Nurse Whitney said I’d be fine,” Maggie huffed in annoyance. “I don’t know why he called you. I didn’t need a babysitter.”
“You spooked him, Maggie,” Dahlia explained with a slight scold in her voice.
“He was so worried about you, he called me in a near panic. You were so out of it. He felt like someone needed to be here to make sure you woke up, but he didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable if you came to and found he’d been staying in your apartment with you. ”
Maggie bristled at Dahlia’s tone, and she didn’t know what to do with any of this information.
Dahlia picked at the lint on the fluffy blue blanket covering their legs, not quite meeting Maggie’s eyes.
“What is going on between you two? I’m not sure if you hate him or like him.
If I can’t tell, how do you think he feels? ”
Why did it sound like Dahlia was on Arthur’s side instead of hers?
She didn’t even know how she felt about Arthur, especially not now that she remembered their kiss.
She wanted to let herself want him; she wanted to like him.
She wanted to erase the last six months and pretend they never happened.
She wanted to forget what happened at Bryn Ridge with her ex so she could just let herself fall.
She wanted to kiss Arthur Taliesin so she could see if it was as good as she remembered.
She thought about keeping this secret to herself, like a precious jewel, but instead, she blurted to Dahlia, “I have to tell you something.”
“Okay,” Dahlia said, drawing out the sound.
Maggie brought the blanket up to her chin with half a mind to hide under it completely.
Her cheeks warmed, and she didn’t know why this was so difficult to say.
Dahlia was the only person she wanted to tell, but something about it felt too big.
It felt like an admission, evidence of her growing desire that she wasn’t sure she wanted to cool.
“It’s him,” she finally stammered, the words falling out of her mouth.
“Who is ‘him’?”
“Arthur,” Maggie practically whispered. “He’s the man I kissed on Beltane.”
Dahlia’s gasp was a cartoonish, silly sound, but Maggie understood. It was unbelievable. “How do you know?”
“The spell broke,” Maggie explained. “When I felt…” She paused, unsure how to explain what had unraveled the spell.
“While we were in the pall, I was overcome by one of the unsettled dead.” Maggie knew the lack of reaction from her friend meant that Arthur had already filled her in on this part of the story.
Dahlia tucked in closer to Maggie. “That, plus the pall sickness—I passed out while we were still inside the pall. Dahlia, he picked me up and carried me.” Even now, she couldn’t quite believe it.
She was heavy, and, yes, he was a tall man, but she wasn’t the kind of woman men typically picked up and carried.
“I was in and out of consciousness while he carried me, but my head was on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. My cheek was against his jacket. It was like that night, when we were dancing.”
“Holy shit, Maggie.”
His heartbeat couldn’t lie, she realized. She didn’t doubt the way Arthur reacted to her when she could hear it so clearly in his chest, just like she had on Beltane.
“And then, when I woke up in our office, I remembered everything. But I couldn’t think straight.
I could barely walk. I haven’t even really thought about what all this means.
And there he was, taking care of me. Making sure I took my medicine.
” Maggie’s voice cracked. Gods below, she was so sick of crying.
“He called my best friend to make sure I stayed alive.”
“Why do you sound so sad, Mags?”
“That’s too much!” Maggie’s head was pounding. “We aren’t even friends. We barely like each other!”
“Maggie,” she said gently. “Men who do not like you don’t tuck you under a blanket and get you glasses of water or call your best friend to take care of you.
They don’t worry about you or carry you to safety.
They don’t leave their tweed jackets behind.
” Dahlia nodded to a spot on the arm of the couch behind Maggie.
Maggie whipped around, nearly spilling her coffee.
Folded neatly on the back of the couch was the tweed jacket she’d had wrapped around her when she woke up in their office.
A clear memory of her asking if she could keep it returned to her and her cheeks reddened, but she grabbed it and brought it to her lap. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
“Sure. None of it means anything.” Dahlia rolled her eyes. “Don’t lie to me, Maggie Linden. More importantly, don’t lie to yourself.”
Maggie shook her head. “He doesn’t remember the kiss. He just knows that it would be bad form to let his office mate perish in a pall he created in the first place.”
“How can you be sure he doesn’t remember?”
“If he remembers, he didn’t tell me. And the only reason he wouldn’t tell me is because he wished it hadn’t happened in the first place.”
“Hmm,” Dahlia said in that annoying, knowing way she had. “And why do you think you, of all the people in the linguistics and runology departments, were chosen to be his office mate?”
“It was random.”
Dahlia actually laughed at that. “You told me Dean Clearwater offered him an office in Ferox Hall. What sounds better? Your own private office in boring, stuffy Ferox Hall, or a damp, glorified closet with a hot linguist?” Maggie groaned.
This conversation was not going how she wanted.
“I’m just being honest! You think he didn’t have something to do with that decision?
Dean Clearwater would give that man anything he wanted, including the exact office mate he requested. ” She paused. “Would it be so awful?”
“Being sold out by Dean Clearwater to keep Arthur Taliesin happy? Yes,” she retorted.
“No, you dumbass, having a summer fling with Arthur Taliesin.”
Maggie sat up. “Whoa.” She held out her hands. “When did we start talking about summer flings? The man smiled at me a couple of times. He lent me his jacket because I was delusional with pall sickness and cold.”
“And you danced with him under the stars and had one of the best kisses of your life…”
“You’re reaching.”
“Am I?”
“I don’t date coworkers. Not anymore. You know that.”
Dahlia sighed, leaning back against the arm of the couch. She took a sip of her coffee, looking at Maggie over the edge of the mug, but Maggie couldn’t meet her gaze. Dahlia’s voice was very gentle as she said carefully, “Stop letting Evan ruin your life. He’s not worth it. He never has been.”
Maggie wished she could hear his name and not feel that creeping vine of self-doubt and rage crawl across her skin, but it was still there.
Perhaps its thorns were not quite so sharp, but it still pricked.
Evan, who had once been Maggie’s everything.
Evan, whom she had once been so sure she’d marry.
Evan, whom, it turned out, she had never known at all.
“I can’t go through that again.” She hated how small she still felt when she talked about Evan and what he did to her.
“I can guarantee that if Arthur Taliesin did half of what Evan did to you, we would all burn him at the stake.” The anger in Dahlia’s voice was sharp and well worn. “We wouldn’t let him get away with it like your so-called friends and mentors did back then.”
Maggie knew that things would have been different if she’d had Dahlia Hawberry on her side back then.
Sometimes, when the burning shame of what happened creeped up her neck, she imagined exactly what she’d say to Evan now.
And when that didn’t work to soothe her, she’d imagine what Dahlia would say to him, every curse she’d put upon his head, and it made everything a little bit easier to bear.
“Stop letting that sorry excuse for a man ruin your happiness.”
Maggie traced the pattern in the tweed. “You think Arthur will make me happy?” She looked up at her friend, wanting Dahlia to tell her it was a terrible idea. No, she wanted Dahlia to tell her Arthur was madly in love with her. She didn’t know what she wanted at all.
Dahlia shrugged, a small smile tugging up the corners of her lips. “I can’t know that, but neither can you.”
“I hate it when you’re logical,” Maggie said, burrowing beneath her blanket and resting her head on the arm of the couch.
Dahlia tucked down underneath the blanket with her, like they were girls at a sleepover. “He is very hot, though.”
Maggie sighed. That he was.