Hiram’s lip twitches. “I’m disappointed it took you swimming to remember me.”

  “Had I seen your arrogance on display that night, I might have remembered you sooner. I know an asshole when I see one.”

  “Touché. I asked Peter about you, but he told me you were with someone.”

  “Ah, Tobias.”

  “Terrible name.”

  “Terrible partner.”

  They look at each other and dissolve into laughter, sobering only when Antaris returns with a handful of dandelions for Veda. She accepts them and tucks them into her bag.

  “I’ll show your dad how to make dandelion tea,” she promises.

  Encouraged, Antaris runs off again, eager to collect more. Hiram spots a white flower nearby and offers it to Veda when she looks his way. She raises an eyebrow. “You do know that’s poisonous, right?”

  Startled, Hiram drops it, trying to appear calm until he hears Veda snickering.

  He scowls. “You’re lying.”

  Her grin fades in a flash, head turning, alert. Hiram does the same. He hears it, too. A voice.

  Antaris is still immersed in his flower hunt, touching one with careful fingers before picking it and doing the same to the next. He handles them reverently, as if he’s greeting them or thanking him, an ode of respect.

  They freeze when they hear it again.

  Barely audible, hoarse from disuse, but definitely Antaris. A rush of realization leaves Hiram torn between approaching and retreating. Veda, however, focuses intently on Antaris, who is lost in his own world. He veers off, pausing to examine moss at the base of a tree before something more colorful catches his eye. Veda approaches from behind, placing a hand on his shoulder. Antaris startles, then relaxes when he realizes it’s her. His gaze shifts to Hiram, who doesn’t know how many steps it takes to reach his son. He kneels when he’s there, with Antaris placing another bundle of dandelions in his hands.

  “Are you thanking the dandelions before picking them?” Veda asks gently.

  He looks from her to Hiram, hazel eyes bright as he nods. Shyness gives way to quiet determination. Careful as ever, Antaris steps closer.

  A single whispered word changes everything.

  “Hi.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Failure is both mentally demoralizing and physically painful.

  It’s a waste to bleed and suffer lingering aches from the consequences of magic that leads nowhere, but that’s the nature of risk versus reward. Veda holds the vial of the Liquid Curse to the light, reluctantly accepting the truth. She failed.

  “I thought the potion was supposed to be clear before the two-day incubation period,” Peter says from the doorway of the brewing room at Weston. Veda’s been here all morning, taking each step carefully, paying the quiet price of the magic it takes to brew. The first sign of trouble came quickly after she started, when some of the vials in the storage closet began to vibrate, clearly affected by the pull of magic.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Ah. Where are Hiram and Antaris?”

  “Home,” Veda replies absently, skimming the potions book. “We didn’t think it was a good idea for Antaris to watch in case something went wrong.”

  “Home? We?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Here you go.”

  Peter smiles. “I’m happy for you three.”

  Veda struggles with happiness. Like swimming in murky water, she can’t see what lurks beneath the surface and has to tread with care. “I’m trying to enjoy these moments, but it’s hard not knowing the outcome.”

  “It’s harder when you do.” They sit with the weight of what’s to come until Peter picks up the vial. “What do we need to do to try again?”

  “Change the environment. It’s easily influenced by what’s around it, so this potion needs to be brewed in virtual solitude, and I need a smaller cauldron.”

  “That’s easy,” Peter says smugly. “The cottage. Before you moved in, our brewing instructor used it for complex potions with the older Mages. If something goes wrong, the cottage won’t explode or implode. That’s why I gave it to you. Why don’t you take a break and—”

  “There’s no time. I need to brew this correctly as soon as possible.” Veda touches her nose, scowling at the blood, and grabs a nearby towel. “I wonder how Ariadne got her hands on the Liquid Curse for Marlene; it’s damn near impossible to buy, and she can’t brew as a Seer.”

  “I assume she convinced someone to make it. A few drops goes a long way. I called around, no one’s selling it. Either they don’t have all the ingredients in usable states, or the brewing and transport time make it impractical. If we pack the ingredients now, we can grab a new cauldron and stirring rod from the potions store on the way to the cottage. I’ll sanitize the room and air with a spell. It’ll need to sit for a bit, but that’ll work well for what I’m leading to.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Khadijah found help for our ninth curse-extraction attempt.”

  Lucky number nine. “When?”

  “Gabriel agreed to take Antaris for a sleepover. He said he’d call Hiram once we got off the phone. I figured we could start when they leave.”

  “Okay.” Veda packs the ingredient vials carefully into the transport bag Peter offers, and they leave in his car. Purchasing the cauldron and clearing out the back room of her cottage takes time, but once they’re finished, she steps outside while Peter casts a sanitizing charm. Blue mist spreads through the room as he shuts the door behind him.

  “Ready?”

  Even if she isn’t, she has to be.

  When they arrive at Hiram’s house around noon, he’s packing a sleepover bag. An excited Antaris hands her the unfortunate stuffed rabbit, entrusting his most prized possession to her while he’s gone. She covers his hands when he gives her the black bow tie that’s been absent since he decided to wear other colors. “I’ll protect everything, okay?”

  “Thank you,” Antaris whispers, leaning against her leg. She rubs his back, still in awe at hearing his little voice. Hiram appears in the doorway with the cat carrier. Inside, the cat looks like he’s pleading for freedom.

  “He’s going?” Veda asks.

  “Yeah. Gabriel’s thinking about getting a pet. This is a trial run.”

  “Oh my Cosmos.” All she can think about is the exponential potential for chaos.

  “Exactly.”

  Antaris doesn’t bat an eye when Veda hugs him extra tight before loading him and the cat carrier into the car. Wearing soccer cleats, August is impatiently waiting in his seat.

  “I didn’t know he had a game today.”

  “He does.” Gabriel looks back. “We’ll do pizza with the group, maybe paintball.”

  Antaris glances down at his white shirt and fiddles with his orange knitted bow tie, eyes widening in horror. Hiram’s reaction is, to her amusement, similar.

  “There will be covers for your clothes,” Veda says.

  Antaris’s relief is loud. Gabriel stifles a chuckle.

  August says absently, “I don’t like the covers.”

  “Of course you don’t,” Hiram grumbles.

  Veda clasps her hands. “Okay, we’ll see you later.”

  Stepping back as Gabriel pulls away, Hiram glances at Veda. “Peter filled me in on what happened with the Liquid Curse. I have an idea, depending on how this goes.”

  A last-minute decision leads to Veda sitting on a large blanket by the lake. The afternoon is overcast but breezy; the sun sneaks through the clouds. They’re by the edge when Hiram checks on her for a third time. Veda nods at Khadijah and Healer Michaels, deep in conversation out of earshot.

  Veda nods over at the two. “What’s happening there?”

  “They’re debating which potion to use . . . and it looks like Khadijah is backing down.”

  “Impressive. We need to learn his secrets.”

  Expecting Hiram to joke, instead she finds him scooting closer to her. Hovering. He presses his lips to her forehead, toying with the end of her braid.

  “Don’t get maudlin now.” She notices something in his hand. “What’s that?”

  “Antidote for foxglove poisoning.”

  “I could have—”

  “Made one? There’s no time.” He glances back at the healers, then pockets the vial. “If this doesn’t work, then . . .”

  “We try the foxgloves. Alone.”

  “Khadijah is—”

  “Going to be pissed. But we don’t have much to lose.”

  “Only your life.”

  “Ariadne is coming for that anyway.” At Hiram’s wince, Veda adds, “You don’t have to stay for this.”

  “Thanks for the out, but I’m not taking it.” The double meaning is not lost on her.

  Hiram stays with her when they wade into the lake. Water is the best conduit of magic, according to Healer Michaels, who casts spells to shield them from view and monitor her vitals. He hands Veda the vial of Heartbeat Hollow’s essence. “Drink and count back from ten. You may be aware, you may hear things, but you shouldn’t feel anything.”

  Hesitation lingers, even with the vial in hand, uncorked and ready for consumption. Veda has a hundred things she wants to say to Hiram, but drinks before she can speak her mind. Counting down from ten, she floats on her back and watches the sky. The breeze is warm, the air is crisp. The gentle lap of waves on the shore is so quiet, she can hear the occasional splash of jumping fish.

  A hand in hers is the last thing she feels before darkness overtakes her.

  Time loses shape and meaning, passing through Veda’s fingers like smoke. She falls deeper and deeper into the contradiction of tumultuous peace.

  “Hiram, hold her.”

  “It’s working . . .”

  “Oh my Cosmos . . .”

  “No . . .”

  Veda does not know when the darkness loosens its grip, but her eyes flutter open.

  Blue is the first thing she registers—eyes so familiar, yet the man behind them looks like he’s aged five years in seconds.

  She doesn’t need to ask. She can still feel it.

  “It . . . it failed.”

  Strike two for the day, and unlucky nine overall.

  Veda wakes late that afternoon, reflecting on the day’s failures until Hiram drags her outside for tea on the dock. They watch the sun sink below the waterline and have a quiet dinner. It’s peaceful despite the looming heaviness. Veda hardly thinks about the fact that they’re truly alone for the first time, and by the time she does, Hiram says, “I think I should brew this with you.”

  “Aren’t you—”

  “It’s not my best skill, but brewing involves more preparation than actual work. You’re not alone, remember?”

  She stares at him for a long moment. “Ready when you are.”

  The silent ride to her cottage is tense, but his hand on her knee stops her mind from flying everywhere. Veda stands in the middle of the living room, rocking back on her heels.

  Hiram takes the lead. “What do you want me to do first?”

  “Wash your hands. We both should.”

  Afterward, Hiram dries his hands and rolls up his sleeves one at a time. Veda watches with interest she doesn’t have to deny. His brow lifts, smirk sharpening like glass when he catches her. She turns away too fast, bumps into the table, and curses under her breath. “I should finish preparing.”

  His chuckle follows her.

  For the next fifteen minutes, Hiram observes her every moment like he’s the meticulous brewer, but she ignores it, slipping into routine as easily as putting one foot before the other. Veda checks whether Peter’s sterilizing spell worked. The small cauldron is dry, the cutting boards clean. She rebalances the scale, wipes the knives, and ensures the mortar and pestle are spotless. The vents are open and the windows are properly cracked. Nothing escapes her scrutiny. Not even him. Veda gives Hiram a brewing apron and puts on the other one.

  “To avoid contamination,” she murmurs as he lets her tie his.

  Hiram doesn’t let her go without tying hers in return, securing it snugly. Gloves on, they approach the table. Together, they move like cogs in a well-oiled clock. Veda only has to give instructions once. He starts mincing the moss first while she brings distilled river water to a boil.

  “Do you know why Seers can’t brew?” she asks, hushed. “Their power is like using a blowtorch to light a candle. They put out too much magic when potions only take a light touch. Costs nothing but a twitch.”

  She realizes Hiram’s Sensitivity should make it easier to feel magic’s slow ascent, to smell the precise moment she needs to begin. Maybe that’s why she needs him. More than a sous-chef, he’s a partner.

  “Do you want to take the lead?”

  He pauses while cutting the fresh ivy, a stabilizing agent. “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll walk you through it, but I need you to cast while I add the ingredients.”

  “You trust me?”

  Veda hesitates only because the truth is so willing to break free. “I do.”

  When he casts the first spell, his amulet ring flashes blue. In perfect tune, the cauldron hums. They follow the potion book step-by-step. He casts as she adds each ingredient, maintaining the rhythm while watching him for any sign of strain.

  “What’s it like to smell magic?” Veda asks after watching his reaction to the ingredients blending.

  “Hard to say. I don’t know anything else.”

  She hums quietly, then it’s time to brew in earnest. No stops. No pauses. Hiram’s ring glows with each turning point as he recites the incantation. Everything flows. The work is almost silent, broken only by his recitation and bits of quiet conversation that dwindle as their concentration deepens. By the time they finish, it’s nearly four in the morning. Veda uses a dropper to sample the clear liquid, smiling before sealing it into the vial.

  “Is that good?” Hiram asks.

  “Tentatively, yes. But the next two days will confirm.”

  He leaves first while Veda stays to stir the potion until it cools. When she joins him in the solarium, only dim solar lights glow in the room. The sun will be rising soon, but the world is still cloaked in darkness. He hands her the glass of water on the table.

  “How did you know I’d want water?”

  “I pay attention.” Hiram looks at her. The softness provided by the dim light shifts, casting part of his face in shadow. “I’m observant of everything in my line of sight.” He says it so easily, and it should ease the tension, but it does the opposite.

  “Is that so?”

  “I’m not complicated. I’m just particular about where I invest my time and energy. I prefer quality over quantity, and I won’t entertain anything that isn’t real.”

  Tonight, his words hold more depth. Fascinated, Veda rises to her feet. Her voice is soft but pointed. “You think this is real.”

  “I know it is.” His eyes don’t leave hers. “I told you before. I’ve figured out what you don’t think you can say, which is why I’m patient. You’ll come to me in your own time.”

  “Like some obedient animal—”

  “No. Like someone who knows what they want, which you do.” Hiram steps back. “But I’m not going to chase you or trick you. As if I even could. I said I’d show you who I am, and I have. Everything else is up to you.”

  She stares at him, voice low. “Why bother? I’m cursed and difficult, and—”

  “I haven’t changed my mind.” There’s no sarcasm, only sincerity. “I won’t. We’re walking through hell, remember?”

  Veda forces herself to look away. That certain feeling rises again. She feels it most of the time, but nothing like right now. It’s the space between close and too close. Never enough. “You’re free to walk away at any point if this gets too hard.”

  “I’ll remember that.” He sounds playful, but his voice is much too low. Personal. “And you’re free to tell me what’s got you feeling like this tonight.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Lies. You’ve been in survival mode since I met you. Possibly longer. It sounds exhausting.”

  He’s too close to the truth. It feels like dragging a boulder through a marathon she didn’t choose, constantly pushing herself to a finish line she’ll never reach. Veda folds her arms across her chest. Hiram isn’t a threat to her, only the life she’s grown used to. She wants to give in. It’s hard to ignore what he’s offering, harder not to want the sanctuary he’s been building for her.

  “The cracks are there. Something is bound to get through.” The truth slips out with her next breath. “Like you did.”

  Hiram’s steady eyes are an invitation. He’s waiting for her. He’s been waiting.

  Veda looks him up and down before lowering her guard a fraction, moving into his space. There are a thousand reasons not to do this, and only a few reasons why she should.

  “Take off your shirt.” She leans in.

  Hiram’s brow rises. “Now?”

  “Yeah.” Veda’s lips brush against his. “I’m tired of only allowing myself the bare minimum when I want so much more.”

  “We can start there.” He steals a kiss. Then another. “We’ll figure out the rest.”

  When his mouth meets hers fully, the thrill shocks Veda to life before it sinks into her skin, invades her bones, and bleeds into every nerve. Hiram is right there chasing her lips, drawing her closer, framing her face. The pressure of his kiss expresses everything he’s been saying. He fills her awareness to the brim with him—only him.

  When he pulls away, she’s momentarily adrift until Hiram takes her hand and leads her toward her bedroom. The short walk is torture, air thick with unspoken desire, brushing hands, tension cresting in a thunderclap of motion as soon as they pass through the doorway. Frenetic kisses and moans, whispered directions and touches, untucked and unbuttoned clothes. They speed along until a lone discussion point stops Hiram.

  “I didn’t bring anything.”

  “I’m cursed. I can’t—”

  Hiram swallows the rest of her words with a kiss, only breaking to murmur directions as he takes his time undressing her.

  Veda remembers what lies beneath too late. “I—”