Zero Probability Event #2
Doing my best to push all uncomfortable thoughts aside, I aim a wicked grin at Rowan. “I haven’t changed.”
Rowan laughs, then scratches his fingers through his short beard. Does that feel soft, or bristly, I wonder?
What is actually going on in my brain right now?
“So, that night, I erm… winged it.” I shrug, mildly embarrassed because Rowan is such a competent and organised person.
“I took elements from three different spells, and I made do with the ingredients I had available because I hadn’t known I was going to do this until I did it.
I used the croissant Ethel had stolen for me as the link for my intention. ”
“That explains the salt all over the floor,” Rowan muses.
I nod, my cheeks heating. “Anyway, as you can imagine, a lot of my casts have unintended side effects because of how… chaotic, my crafting can be.”
Rowan suddenly sits up, eyes round and alert. “Yer telling me that ye uncovered a corrupt official from the Office of Time, the Lost Colony of Roanoke, and a plan to eliminate the entire Romulan Bloodline by accident? Fuckin’ hell, Milo.”
I lower my head further and poke the toe of my boot into the carpet. My hair falls around my face like a curtain, just one that’s a little too short to fully hide me from view.
Then he adds, “Just how powerful a witch are ye?”
My breath lodges in my throat. What?
Rowan continues. “We work with witches regularly, as ye can probably imagine, and never—not once—have I known one strong enough to jerry rig a spell on the fly. Let alone have that spell yield these kinds of results.”
Unable to lift my head, I’m acutely aware when he rises from his chair and steps close enough that our sides almost touch.
And of course, because I chose to wear this stupid hoodie today, his hot breaths fan over my skin.
Who packs an off-the-shoulder, cropped hoodie to wear during a voluntary kidnap situation anyway? Me, apparently. I do that.
“Maybe Maverick would’ve been a better codename for ye,” he adds, but I’m not listening. Not at all.
Maverick? What?
He takes the Sharpie from my hand while I consider if I might be having a heart attack—that rapid clenching isn’t normal, surely? Then he leans even closer to write the words, “salt” and, “croissant (Ethel)” on the paper pinned to the wall.
“What other ingredients did ye use that night?”
Still unconvinced that I’m not actively dying, I try—really hard—to think back. “Time. I was supposed to cast at three in the morning, but I got impatient and went early.”
Rowan stabilises himself with a large, warm hand on the back of my neck to write.
Has it always been so hot in here? Why’s it so hot in here? Is the heating on?
He turns his head, and he’s so close that if I were to lean, just a tiny bit, I’d feel those short beard hairs scrape my skin. Then I’d know if they’re as soft as they look… Goosebumps rise on my flesh.
“Milo?” My name, in that accent, from those lips, is murmured so close that Rowan’s breath disturbs my hair… “What else?”
Almost hypnotised, I sway a little.
“Crystals, candles, a pentagram, and mugwort,” I blurt out in a rapid-fire barrage.
Dutifully and professionally, Rowan adds the items to the list with steady and neat penmanship. It’s a level of calm and composure that I desperately need to siphon into myself. Inhaling a lungful of Rowan’s spiced earthy scent, I hold it for a three-count, while he finishes up writing “mugwort.”
“What’s the significance of the weed?”
My mouth falls open a little. “Weed? Mugwort isn’t a weed! It’s actually called the ‘Witch’s Herb’ and it’s incredibly valuable in boosting psychic powers, astral travel, protection, and for its association with—”
I stare at the paper in front of us.
“Associated with what?”
“The moon…” I whisper.
Rowan caps the pen and perches on the edge of the nearby table, bracketing me with long legs.
“So, this herb,” he says, voice soft and pensive. “How much did you use?”
There are so many thoughts firing through my mind, that I’m now positive I’m not in fact having a heart attack… but possibly an aneurysm.
Unable to form words, I hold my thumb and forefinger approximately two inches apart to represent the clump I’d yanked up from between the pavers—roots and all.
“How much more is that than ye needed to use?”
I keep my hand perfectly still, and although I’m not looking at Rowan, I still observe the widening of his eyes. “Explain.”
I swallow. “It was supposed to be rosemary—for longevity and preservation. But I didn’t—”
“Ye didn’t have any…” Rowan scrubs his hands over his face. “Does this also explain the astral travel every time ye fall asleep?”
Slowly, oh so slowly, I turn to look at him, and nod hesitantly. “Yeah. Yeah, that would explain… Oh my goddess.”
Frantic, I snatch the pen from the table and start a new list underneath. Rowan’s right, every time I’ve fallen asleep, I’ve travelled back to Roanoke Island. But I’ve also had a recurring dream—of Sarah, repeating the same few actions over and over. Why didn’t I see it before?
“Milo?”
Hairbrush, hair, Sarah, link.
“Mhm?”
Thyme.
“What’s this?”
Reflection, mirror, water.
“Spell craft.” I step back and over one of Rowan’s legs. “I didn’t see it before.” I bang the fist that holds the pen into my forehead.