Page 54 of Magic and Matrimony

“Your code?” I dart a glance at the woman who’s settled into Ambrose’s arms. He’s kissed her. She’s cursed. There’s no reason I should grab her by the hair and tear her out of his arms. That would be ridiculous. And incredibly unkind.

“0315.”

That’s the day we got married. I look up at Ambrose but quickly shield my surprise and focus on the phone. I find Bethann’s phone number and hit call. A woman’s voice screeches out on the other end. “Is she there? Is she with you?”

My voice cracks as I respond. “I’m calling for Ambrose Roth. There’s a young woman here.”

“Oh my God. She left in the middle of the night. We were hoping she didn’t come back there, but we assumed... My husband’s already on the way.”

“A little warning would’ve been nice, Bethann,” Ambrose mutters under his breath.

“Where is her father, exactly?” I ask as I watch the woman stroke Ambrose’s chest. He’s given up trying to hold her back and now she’s clinging to him like a monkey.

“He should be there within the hour,” the woman on the phone answers. I forgot she was still there.

“I won’t go back with him,” the woman shouts at me. Or at the phone, I suppose.

I hand the phone to Ambrose, who says goodbye to Bethann and hangs up.

The three of us stand in the front hall as I wonder what to do next.

“Should we go into the great room? I can make some coffee or tea,” I offer, completely out of my element.

“My baby doesn’t like coffee, do you?” the woman says. I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from snapping at her. He lovescoffee. He even has a giant machine like you find in cafes in his kitchen. But what would be the point? This is old magic at work, and she has no control over what she’s feeling. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“I’ll go make some tea then,” Ambrose says, but the woman starts to sob again, clinging harder to his chest.

“Why don’t you go sit down. I’ll make the tea,” I say, feeling my blood pressure rising as each minute passes.

I stomp off toward the kitchen, feeling annoyed, but also feeling bad for this woman and Ambrose. Neither of them wants this. None of us want our curses. I know he can’t control it, but I’m still pissed. Because that woman has kissed Ambrose. I don’t get to kiss him and I’m his fucking wife.

I fumble with a teacup, nearly dropping it as I get the pot and saucers down from the cabinet. I slap my hands to the counter and lower my head, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down. Breaking dishes isn’t going to help anything.

I don’t even know if Ambrose has tea here. I’ve never seen him drink it before, and I don’t like it, so I have no idea where it might be stashed. Nor do I really know how to make a proper cup of tea. There's a kettle on the stove and I fill it with water. While I wait for it to boil, I search the cupboard and find some tea bags. I throw them in the teapot and say a prayer to the Crone that it all tastes fine.

Although I don’t really care. I’m not going to drink it.

I find a tray and add some sugar and pour some milk into a tiny jug that matches the teacups.

Why am I bothering?

Oh, right. Because as soon as I’m done, I’ll be going back out into that room. Should I just disappear upstairs and leave them alone until the woman’s father shows up? I feel sick at the idea. I don’t believe that Ambrose would do anything with the woman, but I’m a little afraid she might force herself on him.

The kettle whistles and I pour the steaming water into the teapot. The porcelain lid makes a gentle clink when I set it back on. Holding the tray with two hands, I push open the kitchen door with my butt and head back to the great room. Ambrose is still standing, and the woman is draped all over him, petting his chest and trying to grab his face.

“The tea is ready.” I wince at how shrill my voice sounds.

Ambrose extracts himself from her hold like a slippery eel. “Amanda, I have something I can put in your tea that will calm you.”

She has a name.

“Do you mind?” Ambrose asks as he opens what I thought was a decorative box on a table next to the windows.

“Of course not. I know you just want to take care of me,” she simpers, and then sneers at me. Like I’m the one interrupting her afternoon. I blow out a breath. This woman deserves my pity, not my annoyance.

She’s wearing pajamas but has a full face of makeup on. Her hair has been blown out and curled as well. It’s as if she partially got ready, but couldn’t waste any more time changing her clothes. Or maybe she was afraid someone would stop her from coming here if she took more time. The scariest part is the look of possession on her face as she stares up at Ambrose, and the pure hatred there when she glares at me.

Ambrose nods and brings a small brown vial over to the table where I’ve set down the tray. His eyes are full of apologies when he meets my gaze. He pours out a cup of fragrant tea. I don’t even know what kind I made, but it smells floral. He gently rocks the brown vial back and forth and then pulls out the stopper. The scent of anise, valerian, and a hint of lemon hit my nose. This is a sleeping potion. I know because I regularly make them for Morty’s store.

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