Page 47 of The Witch's Spell
These days, Faolan sleeps more soundly than he used to, and for longer periods of time. He used to wake at the slightest sound or shift in the bed.
Once I’m dressed and have my hand upon the door handle, I turn to look back at him.
His inky hair is spread out on the pillow and across his shoulder, and in sleep, the furrow that so oftenmars his brow is gone, leaving his face calm, serene. It’s an expression I’d like to see on him more often. But peace, it seems, is hard for Faolan to come by, even here in Brookside.
And I know Cathal and Thorne certainly aren’t helping.
Now that I’ve kissed Thorne, though, I’m starting to worry about what’ll happen once we get the portal back into Fairyland functioning again and banish the magical fog once and for all. Will Thorne take up his satchel, cane, and cloak and be gone from Brookside at the first opportunity? Will I ever see him again? The thought of watching him walk away doesn’t sit right in my stomach.
But I already have three men of my own and a cottage that’s still too small. It would be selfish of me to ask Thorne to stay, when there’s not even a bed upon which he can rest his head. Even so, I think I’ll find it difficult to let him go.
With a small sigh, I turn back around and ease quietly from the room.
In the parlor, I find Thorne kneeling before the hearth, adding another log to the fire. He’s glamoured this morning, as usual. I’m surprised he was able to disguise himself so quickly when Alden came upon us in the library yesterday. One moment he was the true Thorne, and the next he was a human version once again.
“Good morning,” I whisper, not wishing to wake Faolan, whose hearing is impeccable.
“Morning,” Thorne whispers back. Then he turns his focus to the hearth. Leaning forward, he blows gently on the flames.
And they flare to life with such intensity that I take a startled step back.
His magic. Right. He’s kept so much hidden from us that I’m still learning bits and pieces about him at a time. Perhaps today he’ll tell me more about himself, about who he is under the glittering skin and crystal eyes.
Thorne pushes to his feet and regards me with a smile. The sun is only just now starting to rise, its light tickling the edges of the drapes drawn over the window above the couch—the window Alden replaced this fall after Faolan threw himself through the glass. And as the light grows brighter, easing through one inch at a time, it touches the side of Thorne’s face.
For a moment, I see therealThorne, and my eyes widen. But just as quickly, it’s gone, his glamour tricking my eyes once more. I blink rapidly, as if I’m seeing things that aren’t truly there.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tone colored with concern.
“I just...” I reach out without fully meaning to, and my fingertips find his cheek, which is still hot from kneeling so close to the fire. “I thought I saw the real you for a moment.”
Thorne catches my hand in his, then turns it over so he can trace a thumb across my palm. I shiver at his delicate touch.
“You probably did.” His tone is tranquil, soft. “A glamour is meant to deceive, but once you know the truth, you are not so very easy to trick. In time, my glamour will have no effect on you. You will see me as I am.” Slowly, he bends low over my palm, and his lips press against my wrist, where I can now feel my heart beating.
The pulse that goes through me as his lips skim my sensitive skin starts in my chest and dips lower, to the placebetween my legs. When I kissed Thorne amongst the books yesterday, I wished to explore him the same way I explore fictional worlds, to uncover his skin one inch at a time, read him like one of the romance novels I so love.
But Alden interrupted us. And perhaps I should be more grateful for that.
Because what will I do if Thorne touches my body with his mouth, traces my bare skin with his long, elegant fingers? What will I do if—when—we figure out how to open the portal and get rid of the fog and he’s free to continue on his travels once more?
Perhaps indulging in this fantasy would be doing an unkindness to the both of us, even if I want to so, so badly.
Thorne releases my wrist, allowing me to catch my breath. But the place he touched with his lips still tingles, as if his magic worked its way beneath my skin and now sits nestled there, curled up beside the pulse beating in time with my heart.
“So,” he says, extending to his full height once more, though he leans slightly to the right. “What will you need for the ritual today?”
A SHORT TIME LATER, OUR breath steaming in the cold air, we make the trek back to the fairy hollow. This time, though, our mittens are sprinkled with crumbs, and I giggle at the smudge of blackberry jam along Thorne’s lower lip.
“What?” he asks. “What are you laughing at?”
My lips want to press against his, and my tongue wants to swipe the jam away. But then I picture him leaving, silhouetted against the winter sun, and I resist.
“You’ve got jam”—I point to my bottom lip—“just there.”
“Oh.” His tongue darts out to swipe the sweet jam away, and then he laughs, sending up a plume of steam like it’s dragon’s breath. “Oops. Alden wasn’t kidding about these scones.” He holds his up, half eaten and crumbly, and smiles.
At our feet, Harrison says, “I want some.”
