Page 13 of Magdalene Nox

The lack of any kind of emotional attachment seemed a rare blessing these days. She was restless, like a caged animal prowling the terraces and multiple dining rooms and sitting rooms, and whatever else her mother called these ridiculously appointed spaces where no one ever dined or sat.

Why did this baffling woman need a house with 13 bedrooms and 17 bathrooms? And why were these the details Magdalene was forcing her overtired brain to focus on?

Well, if she were to be honest with herself, the latter would be easier to answer. For the past month, she’d studied Dragons’ paperwork, she’d slept, she ate on occasion; she went about the dregs of her last days at St. Mary’s, handing over the responsibilities to the new Headmaster–or at least pretending to by not standing in the way of it, since George was actually handling most of the logistics.

George…

Her mind seized the name and latched onto it. For the past three days now, her planner had highlighted the bullet point of ‘return George’s calls,’ and she kept postponing it. She’d come down to St. Mary’s, cleaned out most of her personal effects, and hightailed it to her mother’s in a very deliberate—if very cowardly—act of self-preservation.

Except, as she wandered the many rooms and hallways, the kitschy surroundings both jarring and strangely comforting, she wondered why—of all the places in the world she could go—she would choose her mother’s house. After all, with her money, no hotel, resort, or secluded refuge was out of her price range. What succor was she hoping to find here? And why was she avoiding absolutely everyone, even those who had a legitimate claim to her time?

With regards to George, it was an easy enough answer. She had known Magdalene for two decades. She would notice her distractedness, her melancholy, or whatever it was that had her in its grip. And George, bless her, would ask questions and try to fix things and cheer her up, and Magdalene had absolutely no need for any of that.

What Magdalene did need was… Her thoughts ground to a stop, the cartoonish screech of the proverbial brakes making her smile. Then images of her night in New York with Sam flooded her memory.

Memories and regrets.

Even by her own standards, she’d behaved like a coward. Dawn had been breaking when Sam dozed off, and Magdalene’s sense of self-preservation had won out. She’d been trying to locate her panties, only to find them in tatters by the doorway, when her eyes landed on a folder lying neatly on a little table next to it. There, the familiar logo of the Teachers’ Association Conference stared at her. The potential implications of this were devastating.

Sam was clearly an attendee, and with Magdalene’s speech finally being slated for the following day, her anonymity would be shattered. For all the damn effort she had put into avoiding the convention crowd—not that she'd had any intention to hook up with anyone—it had all been for naught.The folder had glared at her, all poison and retribution, and Magdalene had all but run from the room, from New York, from Sam.

Sam…

The name alone made Sam special. Names suddenly gave people a real and memorable quality. Magdalene suspected that Sam would have been real and very much unforgettable all on her own, but knowing this indelible piece of information about her, added a layer like an etching on her skin. One that both burned and soothed at the same time.

Sam…

No, Magdalene didn’t have any second thoughts about canceling her appearance at the conference, blaming her decisions on the lack of proper organization and the general chaos of the event. But she did regret the way she’d left Sam, even if there’d been no alternative—not with Sam being a teacher and with now more than intimate knowledge of Magdalene Nox’s off-the-clock proclivities.

She couldn’t allow that information to make the rounds among educators, and certainly not now when she was on the cusp of stepping into her dream.

Sam…

And yet,despite, despite, despite… So many things were between them to warrant so many ‘despites,’ that Magdalene couldn’t stop herself from repeating the name. It was troubling, especially because she kept telling herself she didn’t want to know it at all.

There was a reason she’d never shared any details with her one-night-stands. She’d been single for five years, indulged in these kinds of affairs when her professional responsibilities allowed her, and she’d never once asked the names of these women.

The sheer number of other things she hadn’t done, or known, or considered in her five years of finally allowing herself the luxury of loving women—

She stopped her prowling abruptly when a buzzing noise interrupted her line of thought. Her phone lit up on the coffee table in front of her, among the spreadsheets she was supposed to be perusing and the notes she was studiously avoiding. Her heart sped up. She’d changed her number, again, and there had been a few weeks’ lull with the anonymous calls. But the mouth breather on the other end always tended to find her.

Magdalene took a deep breath. She wouldn’t let anyone dictate how she lived her life, especially not some psychopath. Another deep breath and she picked up the ringing device.

One look and Magdalene raised her eyes towards the ceiling, her earlier prediction that she wouldn’t be able to avoid George much longer confirmed. Her secretary was quite persistent. As Magdalene turned the phone away from herself, she shrugged. There was absolutely nothing that St. Mary’s needed at this time that George couldn’t solve, and if this were Dragons’ business, Timothy would be the one reaching out to her.

“I see ‘no’ doesn’t mean ‘no’ to that woman.”

Her mother forgot her birthday almost every year, didn’t as much as send flowers for particular celebrations, yet she had the uncanny ability to know exactly what Magdalene was doing when and with whom.

She stood stock-still, not wanting to give her mother the satisfaction of showing that she’d startled her, even though she knew that Candace would see through her attempt at composure, if only she chose to pay attention.

Studying her manicure, as she leaned on the doorframe, Candace was a picture of nonchalance.

“Can’t she see you’re busy woolgathering? A woman needs time to daydream, work be damned. I don’t even know why you’re pretending to be taking notes, since the ink in that fountain pen dried out three days ago, after you filled it up last and proceeded to leave it open on the table.”

Well, it appeared her mother had been paying attention, after all. Which meant only one thing: Misdirection was in order.

“I have never known you to not like my friends, mother.”

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