Page 56 of The Cupid Chronicles

“I’m still working,” I tell her.

Her frown deepens. “Sounded like your staff is going to handle things so you don’t have to.”

“Do you want to ask your questions?”

“Yes,” she says. “But now I want to devour this entire plate of food and maybe part of yours, and I really want to do that before it gets cold.” She picks up a loaf of bread and tears a chunk off.

I love that she’s not shy about eating in front of me, but I don’t say so. And once again, the way she shovels the food into her mouth but still takes time to appreciate it makes me like her a little more than I want to.

“I know what you’re going to ask,” I say.

“All the same thousand questions I’ve already asked but you’ve refused to answer, probably.” Her mouth is full of bread, but I can still hear the sarcasm.

“Right.” I squint at her. Am I really going to do this? I haven’t talked about the magic in three years, and only ever with my grandpa. But it’s obvious if I don’t, Iris won’t go away.

If the magic wants her to know, then I’ll tell her, and maybe—fingers crossed—I’ll be able to get rid of it for good. Besides, there’s still a chance she won’t remember anything I tell her tomorrow.

“I was in the same boat as you a few years ago,” I say.

She stops chewing.

“You’re not hallucinating.” I meet her eyes. “The building we live in is magic.”

Chapter Seventeen

Iris

I stare at Matteo,mouth full, mid-bite.

I’m not sure I’ve heard him right.

Did he actually just tell me—out loud—that our building is magic?

I’m not sure what surprises me more—the fact that he admitted it or the fact that he’s willing to talk to me at all.

I swallow my bite and wait for him to continue. When he doesn’t, I say, “What do you mean? Like, forrealmagic? As in Merlin and casting spells and?—”

“No, it’s not exactly?—”

I keep talking. “Who started it? Is there, like, a coven? Is it scary magic? Am I going to get turned into a frog? Or maybe it’s more like Harry Pot?—”

“Iris.”

It’s the first time he’s said my name, and when he does, I stop. A shiver runs down my arms. I force myself to ignore it.

“What I’m about to tell you isn’t going to make any sense,” he says.

“Nothing about this entire last week has made sense,” I quip, stabbing another piece of chicken. “Have at it.”

He picks up the loaf of bread, tears off a small piece and pops it in his mouth. After chewing thoughtfully for a moment, he says, “I’m trying to figure out the simplest way to explain this.”

“Just say it. No matter how ridiculous it sounds.”

He half laughs to himself. “No matter, huh?”

“And don’t leave anything out,” I say. “I don’t want the abbreviated version here.”

He swallows the bread and goes for another piece. “Fine, but are you prepared to leave here, after I explain everything, and still not understand what’s happening? No—more accurately, not understandwhyit’s happening?”

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