“Are you well, Ms. Frost?” he murmurs.
“Mm-hmm.”
He cracks open an eye at me. “Your breathing says otherwise.”
“Just nervous. About the solstice. And the outhouse. It seems hungry, if that makes sense? It keeps groaning.”Rambling liar.
“Sleep, then. You might need the energy to fight a ravenous latrine tomorrow.”
“You enjoy telling me to rest, don’t you?”
“If I didn’t, you wouldn’t.”
I hate that he’s probably right. “I’m going to read for little bit longer. She’s got so many books, I don’t want to miss anything.”
Next to me, he throws one arm over his eyes against the firelight. The other is nudged up against me, his shoulder at my hip. Comfortable. Like we’re an old married couple nestled together on a chilly night like we have in countless previous lives. I don’t hate the idea.
“Good night, Ms. Frost,” he whispers, unable to fight his fatigue.
His breathing slows as I flip through another of the Witch’s grimoires.
The fire crackles, the house creaks. It’s deceptively peaceful. I’m not sure how long I focus, a few minutes or an hour, but I start reading the same pages over and over, my eyes crossing. Research is impossible with this man burrowed against me. If he would just snore or something, break the moment, shatter my body’s constant awareness of him and this absurd urge to curl into him…
That’s it, I give up. Unable to keep my eyes off him, I track the rise and fall of his chest, the lines of his collarbone where his shirt has edged lower. He shifts in his sleep, burrowing even closer into my side. The movement sends a shiver right through my core but I don’t feel chilled at all. Quite the opposite.
I could wake him up. We only have so many nights together before the solstice…
But his shifting reveals something that catches my eye.
The book he’s been referencing since we’ve arrived is tucked beside his bedroll.
Careful not to wake him, I snatch it up, greedy for something that will take my thoughts off him pressed against me. Can’t hurt to peek. It’s not like he’s been hiding it.
I’m not quite prepared for what I find.
The plants, I’m expecting: black-and-white sketches, colored-pencil drawings, green watercolors. It’s definitely his own field journal of flora.
What I don’t expect is that everything is done by hand. The pieces are more aesthetic than textbook, capturing beauty, not just herbal ormedicinal function. Detailed handwritten notes line the margins. This isn’t a guide he purchased. It’s one he’s created over years, researching and gardening, learning by doing. His own grimoire.
A formidable Warlock, a green thumb, and a talented artist. I guess when you spend decades alone, you pick up some hobbies. I take my time flipping through the pages, his art and notes meditative.
But when I reach the last page, my spine stiffens.
Tucked at the very back of his journal, hidden but protected, is a loose piece of paper that’s way too familiar. Only a few words dot the page.
Butter
Coffee
Good olive oil
Tea for Z
Buttermilk
In my handwriting. Except for one last item—Goldfish, scrawled in the shaky, horror-film font belonging to someone under ten. Lazlo.
It’s one of my grocery lists. But not just any list. It’s the note I left him to get his attention right before the tornado, when I wasn’t sure who was avoiding whom.
