“And my uncle deserves peace,” Vincent finally murmured. “I don’t want to be the reason he and Philip are separated in the end either.”
Anne wondered if he was trying to deceive her somehow, pretending that he had conceded with the intention of turning the cards in his favor. But then she noticed the shadows and fine wrinkles around his eyes, telltale signs that he’d had too little sleep. And in those lines, Anne read the signs of regret.They were the same as the ones that she’d seen reflected in her mirror that morning when she thought of the harsh words they’d spoken the day before.
“You trust me, then?” Anne asked.
Though Anne tried to tell herself that it didn’t matter what Vincent said, she couldn’t help but notice that a knot seemed to be building beneath her breastbone as she waited for him to answer.
“I do,” Vincent said with a nod. “I’ve seen your selflessness, Anne. Even when it came to embracing your own power, you never lost sight of your purpose. If you say that everything will come together as it needs to, then I believe you.”
Anne felt the tension in her chest ease, replaced by a warm sensation she couldn’t quite place. It made the tips of her toes tingle, but she quickly pushed the feeling aside, hoping that she could snuff it out before a blush rose to her cheeks.
“Well, then,” she finally managed to murmur as she pretended to brush aside crumbs from the pristine tabletop.
“You concede to nothing, do you?” Vincent said as a ghost of a smile began to work its way into the corners of his mouth. “Even when it comes to a compliment.”
“Not often,” Anne admitted with a cautious grin. “I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I have quite the stubborn streak.”
“The same has been said of me,” Vincent replied, his words instantly rekindling the notunpleasant prickling feeling in her toes.
“It’s ready now,” Anne said as she focused on pouring the tea into their cups, releasing a rich, smoky aroma that infused the kitchen as the steam spilled from the spout.
“What is it?” he asked, obviously drawn to the fragrance and curious about what it would taste like.
“It’s not a common blend,” Anne explained. “Dark oolong mixed with assam and puerh. It has a bold, smoky taste that can’t be balanced out, no matter how many spoonfuls of sugar you pour into the cup. The flavor is too strong for some.”
“Is it unpleasant for you as well?” Vincent asked.
In response, Anne lifted her own cup and took a sip.
“It took some time,” Anne replied. “But I’ve found that the flavor has grown on me.”
The house felt something shift between them then. It was a subtle change that reminded it of the way the nails in the wainscoting sometimes loosened during the height of summer, when the heat forced the boards to give way.
Vincent’s hand moved forward, and Anne expected him to reach for his tea so that he could taste the notes that she’d just described. But instead of grasping the handle and drawing it to his mouth, his fingers laced through Anne’s, pulling her closer until his lips were brushing against hers.
It felt just as if she’d fallen into a memory again, one filled with heat and life and longing, but this time, another kind of spell was threading its way between them.
And for once, Anne was more than willing to let go and see where the enchantment carried her.
CHAPTER 34
A Raven
Symbolizes foresight, prophecy, and connection with the spirits.
Before the house had lit the fire in the grate or heard Vincent grasp the handle of the garden gate, Beatrix was sitting in the bookshop with her finger perched on the topright corner of a novel.
There was only one page left in the story, and once she pulled it back to reveal the final lines, everything would be brought to a close.
Though she had a strong sense of how the book would end, Beatrix lingered with her thumb along the back cover, in slight disbelief that she’d have to say goodbye to the characters, who had become more alive with each paragraph.
Leaning her head against the smooth velvet of the wingback chair, she closed her eyes and imagined how the last words of the story were going to make her feel. Would they cause her chest to rumble with quiet laughter? Her hands to grip the binding a bit tighter? A tear that she hadn’t realized was building to slip downher cheek? There was a wealth of possibility in just a few short sentences, but she knew every scenario would leave her feeling more at home in her soul than she had before her eyes met the first line.
Just as the tip of her finger started to dip beneath the corner of the page, though, Beatrix heard something—the gentle creaking of the front door.
Startled, she gazed over the top of her book and watched as an elderly woman bundled in layers of heavy black wool and satin stepped into the shop, her shoulders hunched against the merciless whip of the early evening winds.
As she pulled back the hood of her cloak and began to peer about the shop, Beatrix couldn’t help but think that she looked lost, her eyes unfocused and slowly shifting from one corner of the room to the next. But then, something else entirely began to settle into her expression. It was the same look that had crossed over Beatrix’s own face the moment she’d returned to the Crescent Moon, an almost childlike wonder that she’d somehow managed to trick time and slip so thoroughly back into a cherished memory.
