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Mara thought about her Aunt Mira and Aunt Suzanna, who used to be able to wield magic with their braids and store spells in woven bracelets of red thread.
"Your magic got tangled in with it when you tried to close it. I've seen it happen. My Aunt Mira died horribly when one of her weavings backfired on her because her magic got tangled with the energy of the tank she was trying to stop."
Augustus shook his head. "Another story you'll have to tell me about. It's not magic I'm familiar with, so I never even considered it. I keep finding your teashop because Melbourne wants its miracle."
Mara knew of that deep well of grief and guilt that she'd felt the first time he'd touched her skin. "Maybe you need one too."
"I'll have to think about it. I don't like…sharing," he admitted.
"I don't particularly like sorcerers, and here I am."
"You don't understand. They aren't pleasant stories that are going to make me look good."
"Why should that matter? All grief is messy, and you've got nothing I haven't seen before," Mara replied, the alcohol in her making it sound far more suggestive than she intended.
"I like to think I have a few tricks you haven't seen before. Still doesn't make me want to tell you all my deep dark secrets, even if some of them are spectacular."
Augustus grinned, and heat flared low in her stomach. Saint Anea save her, he was a handsome man when he smiled, and it made her hate him a little bit more. Mara passed him back her empty glass.
"Then don't. It's not like the hole in Melbourne's magic is my problem anyway. I should be going. Athanasius will be worrying where I am." She was down the stairs and pulling on her boots when he caught up to her.
"It's dark. I should walk you back," he said.
"No, thank you. I know the way." Mara put on her coat and did up the buttons.
"Why are you running away?" The question jolted her.
"I'm not. You wanted to show me what was happening, and you have. I believe the rest is up to you to figure out. Thank you for the drink," Mara said. Augustus's expression was unreadable as his eyes flickered from green to dark gray. He opened the door.
"Take my umbrella at least," he said, handing it to her. "Feel free to hit anyone with it who looks threatening."
Mara looked at the pelting rain and took it, but the only threatening person she could see was him. He seemed to read it on her face and managed a half-laugh. "You're more frightening than me, saint."
Mara smiled as she opened the umbrella. "Good night…Augustus."
The Second Cup
The sweeter the memory, the deeper the sorrow
Six
"Never meddle withthe magic of hearts because it is the most violent and volatile of all powers." — Sorcery in the Age of Reason.
In the days that followed Mara's visit, Augustus took the time to go over what she had said about the flow of magic and check for a third time that the hole was now smaller.
It rankled his professional pride that she'd taken one glance at his eternal problem and had proposed a valid hypothesis and solution within minutes.
And she has been under your nose for the last eighty fucking years.
"The house smells like a woman," Flynn said, startling Augustus as he made toast.
"Christ! Give a man some warning next time you decide to drop in," he complained.
"Who has been here? It smells like holy things, funeral incense, laughter, and new wine." Flynn shook his head as if trying to dislodge the scent from his too-sensitive sprite nose.
Augustus poured himself a coffee before sitting down at the kitchen table. He was craving tea but couldn't handle looking at it.
Flynn's green eyes narrowed. "The saint was here, wasn't she? Did you get a chance to worship her?"
