She’d meant it when she said they couldn’t stay here. Everything seemed quiescent this morning — maybe the Gibsons or the Van Horns or whoever had been skulking around liked working under the cover of darkness — but she knew the current peace and quiet couldn’t last forever. Even when he’d been at full strength, Malachi couldn’t have held back the force of an entire witch clan, let alone two, and he was far from full strength.
If they hadn’t been interrupted…if he’d been allowed to convalesce without having to pour more of himself back into those damn wards…then maybe in another few weeks he could have been up to eighty or even ninety percent.
As things stood, though….
A rustle at the doorway made her look away from the kettle she was filling. Malachi stood there, still too thin, still too pale, and yet she could practically see the contentment glowing around him.
It had been a different kind of healing, but healing nonetheless.
She set the kettle on the stovetop as he went over to the window and pushed the curtain out of the way so he could look out into the yard. Why, she wasn’t sure — he could sense any changes in the wards and know whether someone was testing their defenses without having to see them — but she supposed a visual confirmation of the quiet might help to reassure him.
“The sun looks like it might want to come out,” she ventured, and his mouth gave that small quirk she’d begun to look for.
“The sun does that here,” he replied. “I’m afraid it’s a liar.”
Roslyn couldn’t really argue with that comment. Lately, she’d found herself craving the clear, sapphire skies of Northern Arizona the way a junkie might crave their latest fix. She knew that seasonal affective disorder was a real thing, even though she’d never experienced it herself, but she thought it might be a factor if she stayed here for too much longer.
And that brought her thoughts back full circle, to the uncomfortable reality that they couldn’t stay in this house but also had nowhere to go. Even if they’d had all the time in the world, how in the world was Malachi supposed to pack up all those artifacts and take them somewhere else? It wasn’t as if they could just pull up a U-haul truck, load them in, and head for greener pastures.
“Darjeeling or oolong?” she asked, and was glad she sounded almost normal.
“Darjeeling,” he said. “I’ll get it. Did you want the same?”
“Sure,” she replied. That seemed to be their pattern most days — Darjeeling in the morning and oolong at night. Early on, she’d realized that Malachi didn’t have any kind of alcohol in the house, not a single bottle of wine, not even some brandy in a decanter for a sip on a cold winter night.
It was probably just as well, because his weakened state didn’t need him to also be dealing with the effects of alcohol on his system, but she’d wondered at the absence. Did he not trust himself to drink alone, or would even the smallest bit of alcohol affect his ability to maintain the home’s wards?
She didn’t know. While she wouldn’t count herself a big drinker, she liked to have a glass of wine at night to unwind at least a few days a week, sometimes a little more if she was at a family gathering or out with friends for a birthday or some other kind of celebration.
Well, she thought, if we get out of this somehow, then I’m going to have Malachi try some Arizona wine and see what he thinks.
Of course, that assumed they’d be going to the Verde Valley after this, which again seemed like a stretch at best. She sort of doubted the McAllister clan would welcome the Collector with open arms, no matter what she had to say about his true nature.
He went over to the kitchen table with two mugs, a little brown teapot, and a tea ball, and she came to join him, pouring hot water into the teapot and its waiting ball of Darjeeling.
“Eggs?” she asked. It felt like such a luxury to have things like eggs and cheese and fresh vegetables and fruit after subsisting on canned goods for so long.
“Yes,” he said. He glanced over at her, and although he was quiet, the glint in those deep, dark eyes made a little pulse of heat go through her.
Maybe they should delay breakfast and head upstairs….
But she reminded herself that he was still healing, even if he’d been enthusiastic the night before, and the tea was already steeping.
“I can do omelets with tomatoes and peppers,” she offered, and he nodded.
“That would be good…and a welcome change from chicken noodle soup.”
She lifted a brow. “I never fed you chicken noodle soup at breakfast.”
“I suppose you’re right. Although there was that one time with the minestrone….”
Roslyn caught the glint in his eyes and realized he was teasing her. Just a little, and very gently, but it still was a reminder of how far their relationship had progressed in just the past twenty-four hours.
“That’s because we were almost out of everything,” she replied. “That’s why I had to go to the store.”
At the mention of her trip to get provisions, the glint in his eyes abruptly disappeared, and she wished she’d held her tongue. The last thing she wanted was to have reminded him of the way she’d been confronted by those Gibson witches while she was in town.
However, all he said was, “I suppose that’s true.”
