Page 70 of Potions and Proposals
“What about those who don’t cross over, like…?” Benedict had never dared to ask before.
“Like me?” Peter arched an eyebrow. “I’m not ready to go yet, and even if I wanted to, I can’t. I still have my debt to pay. One thousand souls for that damned necromantic spell. It’s not easily paid off. You’ll probably cross over before me, but at least I know you’ll be waiting for me.”
“Would you warn me if something was to happen to Lucinda?”
“As in would I help you stop it?” Peter asked, getting to the root of his question.
He nodded, taking a seat on the couch in the sitting room. The pillow Lucinda had used the other night was still there.
“You must love her something awful if you want to anger Death.” Peter sat on the table across from him, pouring him a drink.
“That’s not an answer.”
“No matter how much you love someone, you can’t change their fate.”
“But you said they can,” Benedict said, wanting to know what he’d meant earlier.
“Only if a decision, or a series of decisions, alters their course – but it’s rare. Death has a habit of catching up.” It sounded like Peter had looked into it.
“Being a Grim doesn’t sound like such a terrible fate, if it keeps someone alive.”
“You’ve really got it bad,” Peter chuckled, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Don’t dwell on what ifs! You have her now, so make use of the time you have. Stop thinking about death.”
“It’s hard not to when a grim reaper is constantly darkening my door,” Benedict pointed out, grinning.
“I understand your desire to protect her. You lost Dad and me in a matter of months, but you aren’t going to lose her.” Peter said quietly.
Benedict lifted the glass of vodka to his lips. The thought of losing her troubled him far more than the thought of being bound to her. An uncomfortable tightness settled in his chest as he thought of never seeing her cycling through the town on her ridiculous pink bike, or hear her lecturing him about something mundane.
He took the pillow and clutched it to his chest, the faint smell of her perfume tugging at his heart. In that moment, Benedict realised that eternity with her might not be enough.
By the second Saturday of October, Lucy hadn’t seen Benedict since she’d discovered his fruitless trip to the crone and collected the cloaks. She couldn’t believe he’d risked his life to help them get their elements swapped back while she’d waited for the curse-stripping potion ingredients to come in, which they finally had yesterday.
She closed the Hawthorne grimoire with a thud. She couldn’t delay handing it over to Emerson any longer, afraid he would start to grow suspicious. There was no reason to hang on to it.
Lucy placed the old grimoire in its protective case and sealed the latch for the last time. Pulling her lilac sleeves over her hands, she couldn’t help but feel proud of herself for not having set it alight in the past couple of weeks. It was a waste to see it locked away, probably never to be touched again, but her translations would help provide some insight into past magicpractices, and the ingredients and their uses could assist modern medicine. It brought her some relief to focus on the positives, even if she felt like the rest of her life was going up in flames.
“I believe this is for you,” she said, handing the case to Emerson up in the library. She hadn’t wanted to interrupt his lunch with Rosie, but if she didn’t give it back, she feared she’d keep going over every page until she lost her sight or mind.
He stared up at her as though he’d forgotten about his orders.
“Are you sure you’re finished?” he asked, placing his hand on the case gently as if it would shatter. “I don’t mind waiting any longer. I’ve already told the Order that your delay was justified.”
“Thank you, but I’m afraid there’s nothing more to do. Everything they should need to read the pages is within the case,” she said, relieved to put it behind her. She suspected his wish to delay had something to do with Rosie. Even though he’d started work at the university last week, he stopped by every day to have lunch with her at the front desk.
Emerson reached for his bag to put away the grimoire, knocking a glass of water over onto the case files Rosie was working on.
“Shoot!” he exclaimed, correcting the glass.
“Just grab the original– the rest are just printouts,” Rosie said, jumping up and moving the files to the other end of the table.
“I’m so sorry! I should’ve been more careful around your work,” Emerson exclaimed, using the napkins from their lunch to clean up.
“Lucy, give us a hand,” Rosie said, expecting her to protect the documents from the water.
Her request was innocent, but damning. Lucy fidgeted.
“It’s just a bit of water, and I have the originals,” she said, picking up the sodden papers. “I’ll go make new copies in the office.”
