Page 31 of The Guardian's Curse

Even with that grim spectre hanging over him, he knew that his resolve would not withstand another opportunity. It was as if she had cast a spell on him. No matter how determined he was to stay away, he only wanted to be closer.

He gritted his teeth and drained the Scotch before reading to Lucia. He read to her for an hour, translating carefully from French to her native Czech to the best of his ability. If Paris was here, he’d likely correct Alistair left and right, but this would have to do for Lucia.

After his reading, he bade her good night and headed to his studio to work off his frustrations with a punching bag. The sunrise alarm found him exhausted and sweaty, but as soon as he stopped flinging fists and stepped under the water to shower, he was thinking of Shoshanna again. His dream returned to him as he gripped himself tight, wishing that it was her body clamped tight around him as he chased a wave of pleasure.

This would not end well.

* * *

For the next two nights, Alistair carefully avoided Shoshanna, other than to accept her nightly delivery of blood. Each night, she went to bed a little later, as if she was slowly becoming nocturnal. It kept him penned in his room even longer, listening to her rattle around upstairs.

On the fifth day after her arrival, Alistair emerged from his chambers to retrieve the blood she’d left. It was warmed to perfection. He was about to close the door when he heard an unfamiliar female voice speaking in rapid French from upstairs.

At the stroke of midnight, the carriage will turn back into a pumpkin.

His curiosity piqued, he crept out of his room and climbed the stairs. Shoshanna was in an open sitting room just down the hall. The other voice came from her laptop, sitting on a plush armchair.

He lingered in the doorway and watched her work. Several large sketch pads were strewn across the floor. Rulers and compasses were scattered over the rug, along with half a dozen pencils and charcoals. Both pads were covered in intricate geometric drawings with colorful notations. And Shoshanna was carefully measuring distances to create a new design on a single sheet of paper.

Her face was furrowed in determination, as if she was angry at the drawing for not already finishing itself. A smudge of charcoal on her cheek gave her a delightful charm. Chalk dusted her golden brown forearms. Her presence filled the room, and it made him content simply to bask in this place, like standing in a kitchen where fresh bread baked.

Meanwhile, the laptop continued playing the story of Cinderella in French.

He finally broke his silence. “Bon soir, Mademoiselle York.”

She startled and turned. A faint smile played over her full lips. “Bon soir, Monsieur Thorne. Tu as bien dormi?”

He smiled. “I slept quite well,” he continued in French. “Thank you for asking.”

“I didn’t know you spoke French,” she said. “Are you originally from France?”

“Austria, actually,” he said. “But I spent a great deal of time in France after I was turned. What is your excuse?”

She gestured broadly to the supplies all around her. “I’m a tisserand. We love our French. I listen to children’s books sometimes to keep it fresh when I’m here in the States.” Her smile faded, and she switched to English. “Do you need something?” Along with her speech, her entire demeanor changed. As if he had blotted out her light, her face was shadowed with tension and uncertainty.

He shook his head. “I heard your story and wanted to see what you were doing.”

“Is it too loud?”

“Not at all,” he said. “What are you working on?”

“I’m waiting on my ingredients to get here,” she said. “In the meantime, I’m drawing up some test arrays for your central piece. I’m working with some very powerful ingredients, so I’ve got to make sure my channels are all correct and balanced. Too small and they’ll overload. Too big and they won’t keep enough power flowing, and...” She trailed off into a laugh. That was a delightful sound. “I’m boring you.”

“That would be impossible, Miss York,” he said seriously. Her cheeks flushed, and he heard the thump of her heart. “This all looks very involved. Not what I expected from a witch. I expected more herbs and lizard parts.”

“In some ways, a tisserand is more engineer than witch,” she said. She yawned and rubbed her eyes. “I’ve been staring at this for hours. I should take a break or go to bed.” He watched her gathering her pencils, neatly arranging them into a small box.

Walk away, Alistair. Return to your room. Let her go to bed.

Many years ago, wiser friends had told him to leave a witch alone, and he ignored them. He knew best, after all. That encounter had left him cursed to be the monster he was now.

He had grown no wiser since then, it seemed. While she stacked her sketch pads, he inched forward. “Would you still like to play the piano with me?” As his question hung in the air, he felt like a gawky teenager again, standing in front of the lovely Clara Hurst and asking her to dance.

Her lips parted in a broad smile. “I would like that very much. Can I wash my hands first?”

Dangerous hope raged through him like wildfire in a drought-stricken forest. “Join me at the piano.”

He darted for the piano, suddenly mired in worry. What was he doing? He needed to disappear. And before he could, her footsteps whispered across the floor. The scent of soap greeted him, and he realized he was too late.

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