Page 39 of Beyond the Cottage

The last one troubled him. He believed Gretta could handle herself in the field she’d chosen, but he didn’t relish the idea of her alone in other cottages with other witches. Though, really, it seemed the witches ought to be wary of her.

Ansel thought of Isobel and paused a step. He needed to pay her a visit as soon as possible.

When they reached the top, Ansel left the lantern inside the doorway. He hunched against the wind and led Gretta onto the platform ringing the tower.

Its crumbling brick walls had wide cutouts facing every direction, letting in wind and mist, but the plank roof shielded them from the worst of the weather. The platform perched above the glowing tree line, offering an expansive view of the swamp and beyond.

Gretta came up behind him. Ignoring the rain, she rushed to a cutout and leaned over the ledge. Ansel clenched his hands to keep from pulling her back by the waist.

“Careful.” He came up beside her. “It’s unstable.”

“What is this?”

“The watchtower. Guards once used it to make sure no one came in or out.”

“How is this supposed to help me escape?”

With the lightest touch on her elbow, he steered her around the platform and pointed. “Do you see the spire on the horizon? That’s Antrelle City Hall, northeast of here.” He pulled the pink vial from his pocket and offered it to her. “A pinch of your dust will get you there in minutes.”

Gretta studied the vial with a frown. She snatched it from his hand and tucked it away. “Already reconsidering your promise to bring me back?”

I could,his villainous side whispered.It would be easy enough to lock her up again and keep her forever…

“No,” he said. “But it’s insurance in case you don’t believe me.”

She continued studying the horizon. Droplets speckled her lashes, and a long strand of hair lay plastered to her cheek. She dragged it off her lips with a pinkie.

She used to wear her hair short. It had been fine as bird feathers, and she’d wake up with it in little spikes. He’d smooth them, calling her his pigeon until she stuck her tongue out at him.

What would it feel like now? Cool and silky or heavy like velvet? When it was dry, it had a bit of wave, suggesting a texture more like—

He needed to stop thinking about her fucking hair. He needed to stop thinking about her altogether. Obsessing over their past and the woman she’d grown into was as pathetic as sleeping outside her door. Whatever they used to be, he was dead to her now. She’d said it herself.

Thunder cracked, and Gretta jumped. Shrinking from the ledge, she wrapped her arms around herself.

He was truly pitiful because he wanted it to behisarms around her. He wanted to be the one protecting her from everything that frightened her. Which was stupid, and pointless, and why couldn’t he shut his goddamn brainoff?

“Do you want to go back in?” he asked, voice deep.

“I like being outside.”

“You seem nervous.”

“I’m not.” She flinched when lightning struck nearby.

Ansel stared at her profile, his body thrumming with the need to do something for her. But what? What could he possibly do that wouldn’t make everything worse?

He dug his fingers into the ledge until grit fell to the canopy below.

He’d thought he could handle being near her—he couldn’t. Now it was too late. He was going to dig his grave deeper.

“Gretta.”

She looked at him and took a startled step back.

“I need to say something,” he continued. “Will you let me?”

“If it’s another apology, I don’t—”

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