Page 76 of Big Little Spells

“What?”

“You’re not aural or a reading and writing learner. Maybe kinesthetic?”

“I repeat, what?”

Emerson starts walking again with purpose and I feel like I have no choice but to follow, at her speed, as she lectures on about learning.

“There are all different kinds of learning. Aural, kinesthetic, visual—well, visual and visions, maybe? I took a test to see which one suited me best. You should—”

“I’m not taking a test to see how I learn.”

“Your power makes it difficult for you to learn in a traditional setting, so now that you’re back in a traditional setting you need to figure out how...” She trails off and comes to a stop again.

I feel why—cool fire and wild thunder and a long, hard rain—before I turn to look.

Nicholas stands in our path. We aren’t that far from the bottom of his hill. Still, he’s not just at the bottom of the Frost House stairs, but on the official St. Cyprian bricks.

I don’t know why the sight of him on neutral ground makes me feel...so decidedly not neutral.

“Wildes,” he greets us with the faint hint of a nod that harkens back to times of yore. Or Jane Austen movies.

I am entirely too warm. Emerson is clearly embarrassed. It should be funny. But I can’t seem to look away from him long enough to laugh.

“Per your request,” he says, oh so formally to Emerson, but his eyes are on me, and he seems to have as much trouble looking away as I do, “I have designed a few practice tests. If you’re interested.”

“I have to open the store,” Emerson replies with deep, conflicted concern.

“Pity. I do live to serve.”

I think of a few ways he could serve me, right here and now. And though I don’t think Emerson can read my mind—or I hope she can’t—I can tell she is torn between discomfort and the desperate need to use Nicholas’s wealth of knowledge in any way she can. In any way, every way, that might help us win at Litha.

“Rebekah struggled with class this morning. It’s just not the right setting for her to learn,” Emerson hurries to explain as Nicholas’s gaze changes. From cool to...considering. “She could use some individualized help with the material. Maybe more hands-on. I think she might be more of a kinesthetic learner, that is, you know, tactile.”

Nicholas’s eyebrows rise so far on his head that I think it’s the most expressive I’ve ever seen him get. While clothed.

Emerson makes a kind of gurgling noise, as if the potential double entendre has just struck her and mortified her into a stroke.

“You okay there?” I ask. Blandly.

She sucks in a breath, straightens her jacket that doesn’t need straightening, then forces her mouth into what I think is supposed to be her chamber of commerce president smile. It doesn’t quite get there. “Yes, I’m just late. I hate to be late.”

I’m assuming this is what you want? she asks me, without looking at me. Because, of course, she would never feed me to the wolves. Or the one alpha wolf, in this case.

Unless I wanted to be fed.

I study Nicholas. Even if he could tap in to hear us, it’s our own special childhood language. Indecipherable to anyone who’s not us. But I’m sure he can see my answer in my eyes.

Yes, it’s what I want.

He is what I want.

I am not prepared for how fully I mean that, so I focus on Emerson instead.

“You can help Rebekah this morning, and then you should come to Jacob’s house for dinner tonight,” Emerson says to Nicholas, and her smile is more natural. “Give us all some pointers for Litha.”

Never let it be said that Emerson doesn’t grab an opportunity with both hands, regardless of any potential embarrassment.

“Across the river?” Nicholas replies, as if Emerson has suggested heading to Siberia for some winter sunbathing.

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