Page 58 of The Hopeless Romantic’s Guide to Enchantment

Verda removed the tongue; the light from the crystal quartz in its eyes and chest flickered out.

Then she turned around and found Lin beaming up at her with pride, the way no one in her life ever had before. Heat suffused her cheeks, perhaps could have outdone the heat of Mount Elhas’ ancient eruption. But all she could say was, “Don’t you ever do that again.”

“As you wish.” Lin bowed, still grinning, as she descended the stepstool. “Now, don’t you have a presentation to prepare for?”

“Hmph,” Verda answered as she alighted from the last step. “All you care about is filling your stomach for free.”

Lin looked thunderstruck. “‘For free’? How have you not yet deduced that I was trying to get you on a date?”

* * *

The last of Verda’s proposed spells, an illusory recreation of the time and place where a text was found or created, was completed four nights before the successorship test. Lin handed it over in the usual Reading Room on the seventh floor. She was satisfied, though more than a bit sad that these regular meetings would now come to an end.

Verda stretched her arms over her head. “The timeframe is a little tight, but my report needs only a few tweaks here and there.”

Lin unexpectedly held up another folded piece of paper. “Would you like to take this?”

In answer to her quizzical look, he said, “I was playing around with the spell for reading carbonized text the other night, and I accidentally made a new one. It’s sort of a rewind spell, in that it remakes the destroyed fragment of a text. You’d make better use of—”

Verda answered him with the hungriest kiss she’d ever given him. She launched herself off her chair, almost knocking him out of his. They’d started with her on his lap; soon, he’d pushed their things aside and was laying her gently on the table.

“Do you want to explore a little further tonight?” Lin murmured into the hollow of her throat. The skin there tingled – from a previous kiss, from the feel of his stubble, from anticipation.

“Here?” Verda’s brows knitted in apprehension, but her eyelids fluttered closed as she savored the sensation.

Lin’s mouth moved up her neck to the shell of her ear, his voice vibrating on her skin. “Why not? This room’s reserved just for us. No one’s coming to check, either – as long as you keep it down, anyway.”

Verda uttered a strangled noise of exasperation – and impatience. “Aren’t you confident?”

“I am,” Lin answered simply as he nibbled her earlobe. “After all, I’ve been studying you these last few weeks. So, what do you say?”

“Mm-hmm,” Verda whimpered between increasingly ragged breaths. One of Lin’s hands had slipped beneath the hem of her robe and was slowly tracing lazy circles up her inner thigh. Was he putting a spell on her? Oh, gods.

“What was that?” Lin asked mockingly into the spot where her neck met her ear. “You’ll have to enunciate, Snowflake, didn’t quite catch that.”

You brat. “Yes, you wretched tease, yes!” Verda gasped.

She felt him grin into her neck, right before his mouth trailed kisses downward and his fingers caressed her farther upward. “As you wish.”

THE MOONLIT PATHWAY

By

JULIET MARILLIER

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Back in 2006 I wrote Wildwood Dancing, a re-imagining of The Twelve Dancing Princesses set in Transylvania. There followed a sequel, Cybele’s Secret, set mostly in Turkey. Over the years since then, readers have kept asking for more, and I’ve explained that I didn’t plan to continue the story of the sisters (five of them, not twelve). But then came the opportunity to contribute to this anthology, and I thought, why not revisit the setting many generations later and find out whether the magic still exists? Note: this story is for adult readers.

The guy hardly speaks a word between Sydney and Doha, and it’s a long flight. He has the aisle seat; mine’s the window. He keeps his headphones on all the time, not watching a movie, just listening to something. When I need to get to the loo, it doesn’t occur to him to stand up and let me out, even though his long legs block my way. When, inevitably, we make contact, he shrinks back, startled.

It’s not that I want a talkative neighbour when I’m stuck on a plane. I always bring work to do, and if I get too tired to concentrate, I read a lightweight book or try to sleep. But the man could at least have said hi before settling down for the long haul.

The silent guy is, in fact, exceptionally handsome. Dark curly hair, longish. Olive skin. Strong features that don’t fit with the twitchy body language. The flight attendant tries to engage him in conversation while delivering the meal, which is unusually good. Thanks to the scholarship, I’m in a better class of seat and might actually get to sleep for a bit. But there’s another flight after this one, and then a bus ride from Bucharest to my final destination. I’ll be a bleary-eyed wreck by the time we get there. Not good. When you’re going somewhere as a scholarly researcher, you need a clear head.

The flight attendant comes back to collect the plates. “Would you care for some dessert, Mr Matheson? We have a raspberry meringue with cream, stewed apples with vanilla custard, or a salted caramel ice cream.” Silence. She bends a little closer. “The salted caramel is really nice.”

“No, thank you.”