Page 38 of Once Charmed, Twice Cursed
I don’t see him. Not once. He delivers my food whenever I’m out, which must mean he’s close by, watching. Waiting for an opportunity to avoid me.
The knowledge makes my whole body cook to a simmer. Whether it’s anger or a perverse thrill at this reverse voyeurism, I can’t say.
Maybe both.
Weston’s aunt continues to improve. I know because she doesn’t cough anymore, and one day, I catch the tread of footsteps across the floorboards. She’s up, finally. Moving around.
I cock an ear, then set aside my book and consider. Weston told me not to visit her, but...
That was before. When I hadn’t yet nestled my heart in his hands. When he hadn’t yet squeezed so forcefully that the pulp bulged out between his fingers.
I splay my book face-down on the table and push back my chair, my decision made. At the tiny mirror over the pump-handled sink, I finger-comb my tangled hair as best I can. A wad of brown strands comes loose in the process, and I unwind it from my fingers, wishing for a brush. But since that’s not happening—my luck can’t create things from thin air, only create opportunities from what already exists—I braid my hair to the best of my ability and pinch my cheeks to infuse them with color.
Then I lean toward the glass. I look... Bright, actually. Alive. Like my time outdoors has instilled me with a vitality I never enjoyed while languishing in that stuffy mansion near Pine’s End.
Too bad this hale exterior conceals a heart that’s withered to ash.
I force a smile, hold it until it looks convincing, then sweep out the door.
At the other side of the cabin, I hesitate after knocking. What if Weston’s aunt doesn’t like me? Worse, what if shedoes? What if she sees a Charm and wants me to perform some minor miracle for her? What if she wants to simper and stare, like my mother’s aristocratic friends?
Or maybe she’ll be likehim. Maybe she’ll be entirely sane and want me to sacrifice my luck to save her nephew.
A sour chuckle coils in my throat. Fortuna, what I wouldn’t give to do exactly that.
If only he would let me.
Soft footfalls approach, making my nerves tangle. When the door swings open, I find myself face-to-face with a woman who looks remarkably like Weston—the same golden hair, the same angular features, the same piercing, tawny gaze. She’s older, but age has honed her beauty to a fine edge.
I can see now why he asked me not to visit. I would’ve known. Right away.
“Oh,” she says. Her voice is low and melodic. “It’s you. The Charm.”
“Hi. Yes. I’m Bria. I hope it’s okay that I came over here to introduce myself.” I wonder if I should extend a hand, then end up standing there, probably looking like I abandoned my manners on the roadside right around the same time Weston kidnapped me.
“Of course it is. You saved my life.” Her keen eyes meet mine, and there’s something in hers I like. A straightforwardness,maybe. A clarity that, while every bit as forceful as Weston’s, lacks the sting his does.
She doesn’tlooklike she houses a lit furnace inside her, one so overburdened and yet simultaneously neglected that it verges on exploding.
“How’re you feeling?” I say.
“Better. Much, actually.”
A tentative smile curves my lips. This isn’t so bad. “I’m glad to hear it.”
She nods. “Thank you. For sticking close. For sharing your luck with me.”
I pause. It’s something people almost never say to me, I realize.Thank you. Such a simple sentiment, and yet I can’t remember Brendan or my parents ever voicing it, even once.
Then again, they probably shouldn’t have to. It’s not like I’ve gone to any effort to help them. I don’t have the ability to turn my luck on and off. It just...is.
A smile crinkles the corners of the woman’s eyes. “I’m Helena. Would you like to come in?”
I ponder, but I don’t care anymore whether Weston would like it. “Sure.”
She props the door open, and I squeeze past. Her side of the cabin proves to be a mirrored twin of mine, right down to the kitchenette and hand-crafted table by the window. Even a replica of my bookcase is in residence, though the literary selection differs significantly on this side. I spy texts on woodworking and joinery, and another on fireplace mechanics. One on digging wells.
This is Weston’s half, then, and the realization makes me frown. Why build a home with two unconnected rooms,clearly intended to house two entirely separate people? Does he have more family I’m not aware of?
