Page 78 of Big Little Spells

“She will. To you. I would wager my riches on it.” We make it down the path to his door, and he sweeps a hand through the air to open it. Inside, I swear I hear a choir sing out. It’s quite a theatrical effect. His mouth curves. “And I have ample riches.”

I answer that with a roll of my eyes.

“Let’s go to the library,” he says, leading me through the house that gleams and shines and seems to rearrange itself around us as we walk. I swear the library was in a different direction before.

There is a table set up like the water scrying day. Different bits and bobs are on it. I can hear what I assume is his pet weasel, squeaking in its cage. Something inside me almost thinks a name I know, but I focus on the table instead. I can’t quite connect Sage’s droning lecture this morning to this, but I also can’t pretend I’m trying that hard to put any of it together.

When he is here. Standing across from me. And the moment our gazes catch, the air changes.

Suddenly, there is nothing but us. And all the magic I know we can create together. With our bodies. With who we are.

And that’s what we do. With no words spoken. No excuses.

We simply meet in the middle, hands and mouths. We don’t bother with a bed this time, just the soft rug below us, books all around us.

And too much magic to bear.

Until we’re left, naked and panting, leaning into each other as we fight to recover. To survive what we just did to each other so we can do it again.

“Perhaps I will enjoy dying at your expense,” Nicholas says lazily from beneath me, a languid hand sliding down my back.

He says it so offhandedly. So calmly. But it ties me into knots. I roll off him and frown at him from the side. “I don’t find that funny.”

We’re stretched out on a rug that whispers of ancient looms and handweaving, all of it lush and fine. There’s a fire crackling in the hearth. He stares at the ceiling in naked perfection, gleaming as much as the rest of this place, all his riches fading to nothing next to the glory of him.

No wonder he’s such an asshole.

“That is because you have not lived long, meae deliciae,” he murmurs, not sounding at all disturbed by my reaction.

“I’m not going to kill you.” I am certain of it. So close to being certain. Because even with my visions finally working the way they should, that doesn’t make my magic so powerful I could strike down a man who literally knows all the magic. And has immortality to go along with it.

He takes a very long time to speak, and when he does, he turns on his side to meet my gaze. “There are all sorts of ways to be the death of someone, Rebekah.”

I frown at this. It seems like another one of those veiled, coded messages I have to untangle and unfurl because he can’t simply tell me what I need to know. Why can’t anything be simple?

Then I shake my head at myself. Life has never been simple, and part of healing is accepting that it never will be. You can strip away the trappings, you can get to know your soul and center. You can find peace.

But in the grand scheme of things, simplicity doesn’t exist.

“We should practice,” Nicholas says.

“Practice what, exactly?” I return, and I reach over to trace my way down one of his arms, with all its muscles and that sense that enchantments lurk beneath his skin.

Suddenly my clothes are on me. His spell, clearly, because the last thing I was thinking about was clothes. Meanwhile, he’s fully dressed himself and standing above me. And instead of magicking me to my feet, he holds out a hand.

I want to lecture him on consent, but instead I take it and he helps me to my feet. And I warn the ghosts of Wilde women past to settle down. Because maybe if they’d enjoyed a little respectful chivalry here and there, so many of them wouldn’t have run afoul of humorless witch hunters over the ages.

It doesn’t hurt me any to accept help.

That’s another thing it took me years to learn, and it feels like a kind of spell here. With him.

He keeps my hand in his as he turns me to the table. “Litha is the balance of light and dark, the sun standing still at the top of the world, or so it seems on the solstice. But the Joywood will want to use your chaos against you, Rebekah. You need to learn to balance it. So that you will only use it when you choose, and when it’s time.”

Still cryptic, I note.

I stand at the table, my hand still in his. I could pry into his future if I want. I can feel it tugging at me, the visions like little flashes in the corners of my eyes, trying to tempt me to look. But maybe part of controlling my chaos is not looking at the future of the man I’m sleeping with because I can control it now. His past isn’t flashing before me, and maybe I need to ignore the way his futures—and everyone else’s—tugs at me, unless and until they ask.

That sounds so virtuous and honorable that I’m a little nauseated by the whole thing. I frown down at the table. “If I’m named after chaos, why do I have to control it?”

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