“Remember, Mr. Townsend,” said Miss Templeton-Rath, twisting a piece of hair around her fingers. “You can use rhymes and indicate syllables. That is within the rules.”
He nodded, standing and giving himself a shake.
He reached into the hat and fluffed the papers around for a moment before clamping onto one and withdrawing it.
TheWitch of the Wave.
He sighed, stealing one little glance at Libba, who was just now curling her toes under the cushion and whispering something to the young heiress that made the other woman giggle. They both turned and watched him expectantly.
He frowned.
And rang the stupid, little bell.
A witch. A witch? What does a witch do?
“I detest losing,” Libba confided to Miss Templeton-Rath, who nodded sympathetically.
He narrowed his eyes at her, which she did not see, and then almost smiled to himself at how petulant she looked.
This was not Xandine. This was Liberty Lennox.
And she really did hate losing.
He held up four fingers, and then, not certain how to impart that the middle two words were less important, tucked those two in, leaving only his pinky and index fingers up.
Everyone looked appropriately baffled by this, but it was too late to turn back now. He dropped his hand, took a breath, and then held up his first finger again.
He began by miming a cauldron being stirred, but that got too many culinary guesses. He made claw hands and mimed casting spells at the people across the room.
“Conductor?” Mr. Rath suggested, blinking. “Lunging cat?”
Jasper frowned and then paused, remembering a performance Libba had put on when they’d been young, herself in the middle with Hattie and Ruby on either side, acting out the opening scene ofMacbeth.
He went back to the cauldron again but stopped to sprinkle invisible herbs in, then turned and twisted the way the girls had, back then, in a very rudimentary choreography, the genesis of the master Libba would someday become.
“Witch,” she said, very softly, blinking up at him from across the room. “He is a witch.”
He sagged, relieved, and pointed to her, initiating sounds of realization from around the room.
“Oh, ofcourse,” said Mrs. Templeton-Rath. “How did I not see that?”
He held up four fingers, quietening them back down, and began to mime the waves crashing into the shore with rolling motions of his wrists and arms.
“Snake again?” Miss Templeton-Rath said, the question breathy and uncertain.
“Potion?” suggested Miss Rath.
He sighed, dropping his arms, and straightened, lifting his arm next to him and assuming the parade wave that captains often used from the bow of military ships when being presented, a slow rotation of a cupped hand at eye level.
“Aha! Waves!” Libba cried, jumping to her feet. “Witch of the Waves!”
He grinned at her, grabbing the bell and ringing it hard. “I thought I was done for,” he admitted. “Nice one, Lib.”
There was a pause. A very, very short pause where he realized what had left his mouth, and before he could even think to apologize or cover or fix the thing, she had crossed the room, grabbed his face, and planted her lips on his.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was sudden and shockingly soft. And warm.
He could smell the jasmine on her.
