Chapter 12
TESSA
Bogdan has come to a cornfield in a coat I wouldn't trust near a glass of red wine.
He steps out of the car beyond the barn, brushing a hand down the black wool before he looks for me. The gravel shifts under his shoes. Behind him, a scarecrow leans over a painted sign for the maze, its stuffed fingers pointing toward the rows.
I forget the hanger in my hand.
“Go on,” Peggy says. “You've been watching that driveway for twenty minutes.”
“I was wondering where we'd park the van.”
“The van's been parked since three.”
She takes the hanger before I can defend myself.
I leave her beside the last rail of costumes and cross the barn with my skirt brushing the backs of my thighs.
My dress is green velvet, fitted through the waist, with sleeves that flare over my wrists.
I've put on black tights and flat boots for the paths.
The pointed hat is mostly for the customers, although I like how it makes Bogdan smile when he sees me.
He meets me at the doorway. His hand closes around my waist before I can decide how enthusiastic to look, and I go up on my toes to kiss him.
The brim catches his cheek.
He lifts the hat off without letting me go, kisses me properly, then holds it out of reach when I try to take it back.
I laugh against his mouth. He's warm beneath the open coat, wearing a black sweater that fits his shoulders closely enough to make me resent the weather.
I run my palm down the knit, and his grip at my waist tightens.
“Better,” he says.
“For you. I'm losing all my authority as a witch.”
He settles the hat back on my head. “You can frighten me later.”
His thumb moves once at my waist before he releases me.
I've been busy since Peggy and I arrived, climbing in and out of the van, fastening costumes, finding a glove that had somehow made it into the box of spare hats.
The work falls out of my attention while I look at him.
I want the evening to last longer than the job.
Beyond the barn, Cinderstalk Farm spreads down a gentle slope toward the corn.
The stalks stand taller than the entrance arch, their brown tassels stirring above strings of orange lanterns.
A cider counter has opened beside the gathering area, where pumpkins sit on hay bales and the first guests are showing their invitations.
Nothing here has the polished darkness of Bogdan's clubs.
The paths are dirt, the barn smells of straw, and there's a wheelbarrow full of misshapen gourds beside his car.
It's exactly what I wanted.
We spent nearly an hour and a half getting here from Boston this afternoon.
Klim's Friday review of the bookings kept this job on the calendar with extra cover.
The private adult preview has a guest list, farm staff at the entrances and room for our guards to stay close.
We need to see the performers move in their costumes on the actual paths before the October nights begin.
The hosts can't bring the cornfield to our fitting room.
Matvei came with us. He's by the barn door now, speaking to Bogdan while I gather the loose covers from the rail.
Another guard is already at the maze entrance.
Nobody has promised the world will behave because I've gone out to enjoy it.
They've made it possible for me to do my work here, and I want to take the rest of the evening too.
Peggy comes out with the booking folder tucked beneath her arm. She has a black lace skirt over her leggings and a witch hat tipped so far back it looks ready to fall off. A smear of gold glitter crosses one cheek.
“They're starting in half an hour,” she says. “I'm staying for the costume photographs. You two can go and pretend you're normal.”
Bogdan takes the empty covers from me and lays them on the barn table. “How long do you need her?”
“She's yours until we pack.”
I like hearing her say it. The grin I give Peggy must make that obvious, because she laughs and turns back to the rail.
He offers his hand. I take it.
At the cider counter, steam rises from the paper cup warming my palms. Bogdan pays before I can get my purse out, then takes the second cup and follows me to an empty bale beneath the lanterns. I sit on the edge so the straw won't catch my dress. He remains standing until I tug at his coat.
“You can sit down. It won't ruin you.”
He looks at the bale, then at me. I take a folded garment cover from my tote and spread it over the straw beside my hip. He lowers himself onto it with his knees spread to keep the cup steady.
There's something deeply satisfying about seeing him here. I know what his men sound like when they speak to him. I've seen a room make space for him before he asks. Now a piece of straw is stuck to his trouser leg while he tastes cider from a paper cup.
“Too sweet?” I ask.
“No.” He drinks again. “You look surprised.”
“I was expecting you to demand something older and more expensive.”
His laugh is quiet, close to my ear. “I'm enjoying what I have.”
I take another mouthful to hide how pleased that makes me. The cider tastes of apples and cloves, hot enough to leave my tongue tingling. A little wind gets beneath the brim of my hat, and I lean into his shoulder to keep it from lifting.
Across the gathering area, a performer in our patched scarecrow costume steps onto a low platform.
Another follows in a ragged gown, lifting its skirt clear of the boards.
Peggy moves along the edge with the farm's photographer while the hosts welcome the invited guests.
I can see the alterations we made working as they should, even when the performers bend to make faces at the crowd.
For a few minutes I watch without trying to remember what else I ought to be doing.
Bogdan shifts his cup to his right hand and rests his left along my knee. The weight of it is welcome through my tights. His conversation with Matvei is over, his phone stays in his pocket, and when I point out a crooked pumpkin, he looks where I point.
I want more evenings like this. The thought surprises me by having nothing to do with how he looks in that sweater. I want to know what he'll say about something stupid I notice. I want him to be the person beside me when there's room to laugh.
He turns toward me. “What?”
“Nothing. You have straw on you.”
I brush it from his trousers. He catches my fingers before I can draw back and kisses them, watching my face over my hand. I grow wet between my thighs at the slow press of his mouth and press my knee into his palm. I forget the cider until it warms my other hand through the cup.
By the time the preview begins, the lanterns show brightly against the corn. We leave our empty cups at the counter, and Bogdan folds the cover from the bale for me. I return it and my tote to the barn table before we join the guests heading toward the entrance.
The first path opens into a broad junction with a map board and a carved wooden pumpkin.
Music drifts from the gathering area behind us.
Farther in, something rattles against a fence, followed by a woman's delighted scream.
I like knowing somebody in a costume is waiting to make us jump.
The anticipation feels light, almost childish, and I want to keep it.
Bogdan pauses to let a group come past the opening. I step to the wooden pumpkin, two paces ahead of him, and lift a corn leaf that's caught the edge of my sleeve.
A man comes around the left-hand path with a beer cup tilted against his chest. His friend nearly walks into him when he stops in front of me.
“Found you a witch, Clayton,” he says.
Beer has darkened the front of his plaid shirt. The friend, Clayton, wears a plastic axe tucked into his belt and the pleased expression of a man who thinks being drunk makes him entertaining.
I let go of the leaf. “Plenty of room to walk past.”
Clayton laughs. “She's got a temper, Patrick.”
Patrick looks me over slowly enough to make it deliberate. I can smell the beer when he leans closer, with the sour warmth of somebody who's been drinking longer than the event's been open.
“We could use a private tour.”
“Try the map. It has pictures.”
I turn toward Bogdan. He's already looking at the men. I don't have to search the paths for him or wonder whether he saw what happened. The irritation stays exactly where it belongs, with the idiot blocking my way.
Patrick reaches for my wrist.
His fingers close around my sleeve as I step past him, catching enough fabric to stop me. I pull my arm back, angry at the feel of his damp hand on my velvet.
“Let go.”
Bogdan is beside me before Patrick answers.
“Take your hand off her.”
He says it quietly. Patrick looks at him, then gives my sleeve another tug, as though the fact that he's still holding it proves something. Bogdan pulls his grip away from my arm. I step clear, my boots firm on the packed dirt.
Patrick swings at him.
Bogdan's left fist hits his nose before the punch reaches him. The crack is sharp enough to hear over the music. Patrick staggers back into the stalks, dropping his cup as both hands go to his face. His nose is bent sideways, blood running over his fingers.
Clayton's smile disappears. He backs into the wooden pumpkin and knocks it crooked before catching himself. Matvei reaches the junction behind Bogdan, already speaking into his radio.
“Out,” Bogdan says.
Neither man argues. Patrick pushes past his friend toward the entrance, bent over the hand clamped beneath his broken nose.
Clayton scrambles after him with one hand raised, suddenly eager to demonstrate that he's touching nobody.
The plastic axe catches a stalk and tumbles out of his belt. He leaves it where it falls.
I smooth my sleeve. The stitching is intact, although I'll remember to clean the velvet before I put it away.
Bogdan turns to me. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.” I take his right hand. “You were right here.”
He's still watching my face when I move closer. I lift the brim of my hat out of the way and kiss him, my free hand closing around the front of his sweater beneath the open coat.
I feel wonderful.
The admission makes me smile against his mouth. Patrick wanted me to stand there while he enjoyed being disgusting. Now he's leaving with his friend trotting after him, and the man I want has his arm around my waist. I'm warm, steady on my feet and very glad I came.
When I draw back, Bogdan looks down at the sleeve Patrick grabbed.
“He should've let you walk past,” he says. “He saw you were with me.”
“He should've let me walk past anyway.” I smooth the front of Bogdan's sweater where I've crumpled it. “I'm glad you were here. I'm not sorry you hit him, and I don't want to spend our evening talking about him.”
His hand spreads at my back, drawing me close enough to feel him breathe. “Neither do I.”
Matvei returns from the entrance, where the farm staff have met the men. He tells Bogdan they're being taken out of the event, then stays near the opening while the other guard comes farther along the path.
A few guests are still watching us. Near the map board, a woman lowers her phone. Its screen catches the lantern light before she turns it toward the friend beside her.
I notice it, then notice Bogdan flexing his left hand once at his side.
“Let me see.”
He gives it to me. The knuckles are reddening, with no split skin. I touch the back of his hand lightly, feeling the warmth beneath my fingers, and bring it up to kiss beside the sore patch.
“You'd be terrible in that scarecrow costume,” I tell him.
“Why?”
“You're supposed to stand still and frighten pigeons.”
He looks past me at the abandoned plastic axe. Then his mouth lifts, and the last of the tension in his shoulders eases beneath my hand.
We take the next turn together. Matvei follows at a distance that leaves us room to talk without losing sight of us.
The path bends between dry leaves, with lanterns hung high enough to keep the way visible.
An actor rattles a bucket behind a panel farther ahead.
Bogdan looks at him before he jumps out, spoiling the surprise so thoroughly that I start laughing.
I put my arm through his and lean against him while we walk.
Around the next bend, he stops me beside a row of pumpkins lit from within. His hand comes up to my cheek. I expect another question about Patrick, but he kisses me instead, gently enough that I have time to close my eyes before I move closer.
The corn whispers over our heads. His coat brushes the backs of my hands as I hold him, and the tip of my hat presses against his shoulder. For once I don't care if it comes off.
When we return to the barn, Peggy takes one look at us and reaches for my sleeve.
“Matvei told me. Are you all right?”
“I'm having a very good evening.”
Her attention moves to Bogdan's hand. She lets go of the velvet and gives me a look that says we'll discuss this in considerably more detail later.
There's packing to finish. Bogdan carries the covered costumes to the waiting van while Peggy checks them off, and I collect our hat boxes from beneath the table. The work goes quickly with him taking the heavier rails. Matvei stays near the vehicles as the last guests leave through the lanterns.
Peggy's phone makes a small sound against the booking folder.
She looks at it, then turns the screen toward me. Somebody has tagged the farm in a video from the maze. Patrick's plaid shoulder fills the opening seconds before the picture shifts and Bogdan steps into view.
The recording caught the grab.
“Save it,” Bogdan says beside me. “Send the whole thing to Klim.”
Peggy does. I watch until my own hand reaches for his sweater and the picture tilts away. Whoever posted it kept that part too.
“I can ask the farm to remove the tag,” Peggy says. “It might slow it down.”
I look at Bogdan beside me, then at the screen. “Leave it for now. It shows what happened. They can see him grab me, and they can see exactly what I thought of Bogdan afterward.”
Peggy's mouth curves. “That part's very clear.”
Outside, the car is warm enough that I take my hat off as soon as I sit. My tote is tucked beside my feet. Bogdan settles beside me while Peggy leaves in the other car with her escort, and our driver turns out of the farm.
The journey back takes nearly an hour and a half. By the time Boston's lights gather around us, my hat is on Bogdan's knee and my hand is tucked into his right one. His left rests open on his thigh, the knuckles starting to darken.
My phone lights up with another notification from the farm's tag. I turn it facedown. Tomorrow people can tell me what they think of the man beside me.
Tonight I know exactly how I feel.