Page 63 of Beyond the Cottage

The realization of their imminent sleeping arrangement set Ansel’s heart pounding. For the first time in over a decade, they’d spend the night close to each other. Technically, he’d been sleeping within feet of her the past two nights, but there’d been a door between them. It made a world of difference. He dried his sweating palms on his trousers.

Fuck…was henervous?

Absolutely not because that would be pathetic. It was only sleeping. Isobel’s parlor wasn’t a cramped cage. He’d be on the floor, Gretta would be on the couch, and the arrangement held all the intimacy of a military barracks. He only prayed he didn’t humiliate himself with one of his nighttime episodes. That was, if he could fall asleep at all.

Grateful for the shadows hiding his flush, Ansel stood. He let Gretta precede him into the cabin as she muttered curses to herself.

A furious shriek and a clatter greeted them.

“Harry, you worthless sack of alligator bait!”

They entered the kitchen to find Isobel dragging a chubby ball of fur from a cupboard. Flour dusted the raccoon’s muzzle, and she held him aloft by his scruff. Harry chittered at her merrily.

Isobel set him on the floor, shooing him with a bop on the rump. “See if I don’t make a cap out of you yet.” She slammed her hands on her hips and gave Ansel and Gretta an exasperated smile. “Well! Looks like a sleepover.”

Ansel glowered at her. “It wouldn’t have been remiss of you to wake us, you know.”

“Aw, honey. You both looked so precious, I didn’t have the heart. I’m dreadfully sorry if I’ve mucked up your night.”

“Uh-huh,” Gretta said, reclaiming the chair she’d sat in earlier. “You sound really put out.”

“Oh, I am, I am. Terrible imposition.” Isobel clapped her hands together. “So! Who wants to play cards?”

Chapter 23

As Ansel and Isobel put away dishes, Gretta sat on the counter furthest from them, half-heartedly skimming her notes.

Dinner had been uneventful. The conversation topics had ranged from the market value of anti-aging charms to the ethics of using love potions. Gretta had stayed quiet through it all. Her curiosity was piqued when Isobel diverted to Seven and Jonas, but Ansel had dodged the more gossipy questions.

He kept his word about the conditions Gretta had given him. He’d tasted all her food and sat between her and Isobel while they ate. So far, the witch had pretty much minded her manners, though overbearing didn’t begin to describe her.

She doted on Ansel like a mother duck, foisting more food on him than Gretta could eat in a day. And he devoured it, the food and affection alike. He’d brushed Isobel off when she praised his invention, but Gretta could tell he was pleased. Whenever Isobel patted him, he subtly leaned into it.

Gretta had thought him touch-starved before, but now she realized it was a gross understatement. He’d been an especially affectionate child, and she couldn’t help wondering if he’d found an outlet for it after the cottage. It certainly wouldn’t have come from his family.

She didn’tcareif he was lonely, of course. But she understood neglect’s damage. It had taken her years to accept, and eventually embrace, solitude. She wasn’t sure Ansel had that same capacity.

He approached with a green bottle, and she returned her eyes to her notes.

“Do you want some?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Dandelion wine,” Isobel chimed. “Finest in six parishes.”

Ansel filled a teacup. “I promise it isn’t poisoned. Izz would rather drink turtle piss than taint good booze.”

He verified it by taking a sip and handed her the cup. After pouring a small splash for himself, he returned to the table and hauled a sleeping raccoon off his chair. He settled it on his lap.

“I’m beginning to worry about fleas more than poison,” Gretta muttered. “Raccoons are an interesting choice for house pets.”

“Pets, ha.” Isobel opened a drawer and pulled out cards, paper, and a pencil. “They occasionally show up to mooch off me, and now they think they own the place.”

Gretta swirled her drink, sniffing it. It probably wasn’t smart to indulge while in a witch’s cottage, and she’d promised Brand she’d ease up. Still, she craved a warm glow to smooth out her nerves. She could hold her liquor, never mind wine, and maybe a glass or two would relax her.

She drank, wincing as the syrupy liquid went down. It tasted bitter and sweet, like flower petals soaked in honey, and it was stiffer than regular wine. Gretta usually preferred the brown stuff, but she’d been served worse.

“Gretta, love,” Isobel said, turning up a lantern. “What games do you play?”

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