The Witches of Cambridge (10 page)

“Thanks.” George grins and reaches for his wallet. “Oh, bugger,” he says. “I’ve left my cash behind, just give me a sec.”

And, before Cosima can protest, or wonder what’s going on anymore, he runs out the door.

—

Parles. Me parler.

Héloïse shakes her head. She’s sitting in her favorite armchair, it having migrated across the living room overnight. An extra umbrella, cream with gold edges, has sprouted in the hat stand. “I shouldn’t,
mon amour
,” she says. “I will never let you go if I keep acting as though you are still alive.”

Ne me laisse pas partir
.
So, don’t let me go.

Héloïse is silent.

You let me go once,
he protests.
Twice is too cruel.

Héloïse feels her heart contract and momentarily stop her breath. She’s having a hard enough time forgiving herself without having him remind her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers. “You know how sorry I am.”

She feels his hand on her cheek, his lips on her lips. She sighs. For a moment she sits, breathing him in, then she stands.

“I must go.”

Où?

“Just out,” Héloïse says softly. “I just need to go out.”

When she steps outside, holding the gold-edged umbrella, her high-heeled feet hitting the pavement, Héloïse doesn’t know where she’s going. She turns randomly down streets and walks across them, without any purpose or direction. Almost an hour later, having taken an extravagant detour through town, Héloïse finds herself outside the gates of the Botanic Garden.

Despite herself, she smiles. “Even my feet can’t forget you.”

It’s a cool day, the sun sneaking off behind thick layers of cloud. But as she stands on the pavement, wondering in which direction to turn next, the clouds slip away and Héloïse feels the warmth on her skin. It is, perhaps, a perfect day to walk in the park.

Once inside the gardens, Héloïse quickly crosses the lawn and skirts the lake. She won’t sit on their bench today. A few minutes later she’s hurrying over a small stone bridge stretching over a stream. On the other side, she finds herself in a hidden cave of willow trees. Around the edge is a dirt path of dry woodchips. Héloïse follows the path, slowly at first, gazing up at the trees, at the leaves blown by the breeze. Then she begins to walk a little faster, and faster, frustration pushing her on, and soon she’s too hot.

Héloïse stops and pulls her black cashmere sweater over her head, leaving only a silk camisole. She feels rather exposed, having not flashed this much skin in public in more than a decade. But the path is empty, Héloïse is alone, so what does it matter? She bends down, pulls off her high heels, and settles her bare feet on the path. The woodchips are dry but the soil is wet beneath her skin and soon Héloïse finds that she rather likes the sensation. As a girl she never went barefoot. Indeed, she never went anywhere without silk socks and satin shoes. Elegance was always something Héloïse cherished and never thought to question, yet now she feels that perhaps being swathed in silk and cashmere all her life cut her off from experiences that were even more sensual.

Two swans waddle toward Héloïse on the path and she slows to pass them. She remembers reading that swans, along with penguins and wolves, mate for life. She can almost hear François’s whisper on the breeze, his laughter rustling the leaves high above her head. She takes a deep breath and starts striding along the path again, using the gold-edged umbrella as an elegant walking stick.

Two hours later Héloïse is red-faced, sweating, and feeling more alive than she has in a very, very long time. Her heart hits her chest hard, her limbs throb, her muscles ache, and she’s never been so aware of her body and quite how incredible it is. And, for the first time in nearly two years, she’s spent hours without thinking of, or hearing, her beloved François. Her mind has been completely empty. All thoughts of him, indeed all her thoughts, have dissipated. For almost two hours he hasn’t been sitting inside her head. And, instead of feeling bone-achingly lonely, as she’d been terrified she would, Héloïse only feels free.

—

Cosima is standing behind the counter serving another customer when she glances out the window and sees George on the other side of the road, about to cross. He’s standing on the pavement, waiting for a gap between the cars, next to two women chatting, one of them holding the hand of a small boy. The boy looks up and says something to George, who grins. And then, before Cosima can blink, the boy lets go of his mother’s hand and runs into the road. Just as she’s about to scream, George reaches out and snatches the boy back to safety, folding him tightly in his arms for a few seconds, then passing him to his startled, grateful mother.

“Oh my goodness,” Cosima says, as George enters and strolls over to the counter. “That was amazing.”

For a second he seems confused. “Oh, right, well…” He shrugs and hands Cosima a ten-pound note.

“You were so fast, it was incredible.”

George frowns slightly. “Hardly. Anyone could have done the same.”

“I doubt it,” Cosima says. She feels a sudden and unexpected flash of hope rise up in her chest. For a moment she thinks of Tommy, then suppresses the thought. “George? Do you want children?”

George’s frown and confusion deepen. “Yes, I…I always have, actually, but the opportunity hasn’t arisen.”

“It still might,” Cosima says. “You’ve got time. Men can wait as long as it takes.”

George laughs. “Maybe so, but I’d rather not be one of those ancient fathers, and anyway…”

“What?”

But George doesn’t reply, he just looks at Cosima, her long black curls tied loosely, falling down her back and framing her face, puffs of flour dusting her apron, fingers, and flushed cheeks, dark eyelashes framing her brown eyes.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Slowly, George nods.

“Are you sure?”

George opens and closes his mouth like a trout.

“Do you want a glass of water?”

Slowly, George shakes his head. “You know, a recent excavation at an archaeological site in Ireland suggests that moat water held spiritual and cosmological significance for the inhabitants of medieval castles during Anglo-Saxon times.”

“Excuse me?”

“You mentioned water and I thought perhaps…”

Cosima smiles, relieved he’s speaking again and making some sort of sense. “I wasn’t offering you moat water.”

A few people in the queue behind George snicker softly.

“Of course not,” George says. “How silly of me.”

Cosima hands George his coffee, pizza, and cannoli. He reaches out so their fingers entwine for a moment.

“Did I ever tell you, you look like Sophia Loren?” he asks.

“Sorry?”

“I can’t believe I never noticed the resemblance before.”

Cosima gives George a quizzical look. “Well, thank you.”

George shrugs. “It’s the truth.”

Cosima hands George his change but, before she can drop the coins into his hand, he shakes his head.

“Keep it,” he says, stumbling half-dazed out of the door, still shaking his head and mumbling something to himself.

Cosima watches him go, wondering what on earth is going on. And then, quick as a flash, she realizes.

“Oh, no!”

The customers in the queue regard her curiously. Cosima glances down at the little stack of enchanted vanilla and orange oil cannoli on the counter. One more is missing. She glances around the café and sees, on a table by the window, a man drinking an espresso and about to take a big bite.

“No!” Cosima screams. She dashes across the café and snatches the cannoli away before it touches his lips. The man scowls up at her.

“What the hell?”

“I’m sorry,” Cosima gasps. “Bad batch. I’ll get you five pistachio croissants, on the house. Okay?”

She scurries off, grabbing the plate of enchanted cannoli off the counter before another unfortunate soul inadvertently eats one, and tips them all into the kitchen bin. Disaster averted, Cosima thinks back to George. What had she done wrong? What mistake had she made? Had she mixed up the flowers? Had she added a little too much honeysuckle and not enough purple rose petals? What was it? What the hell had she done to make George Benett fall in love with her? And how the hell was she going to undo it?

—

Every morning for the past week Noa has hoped to see Santiago again in her favorite art gallery. She spends a full hour in there, neglecting the other one, just in case he might show up again. Such was her disappointment by Friday that she almost asked the girl behind the counter how she might accidentally bump into him again, but embarrassment stopped her at the last moment. Now, on Saturday morning, Noa stands in front of Santiago’s paintings wishing she had the money to buy one, thus giving her a perfect excuse to contact him, with the added bonus that she’d get to gaze at his work—the second-best thing to gazing at him—every single day.

Noa stops looking at the
Storm over Bahia
and focuses on another painting,
Amazonas
: swirls of turquoise, teal, and olive and a river of midnight blue snaking through the forest of green. Unable now to take her eyes off it, Noa reaches out a finger, very slowly, toward the blue.

“You didn’t call.”

Instantly, Noa drops her finger and, before turning, quickly suppresses the smile of absolute delight that spread across her face the second she heard his voice.

“Hey.” Noa steps slightly to the side of the painting, hoping to give the impression that she’s here to enjoy all the art in the little gallery and hasn’t spent the last five days staring solely at his.

“You came back to see my pictures, I’m flattered.”

Noa gives a slight shrug. “Well, yeah, of course. I mean, your paintings are beautiful, but I’m always visiting galleries and museums to see everything I can, for my studies, you know…”

“You’re a terrible liar.” Santiago smiles. His mouth is wide, his teeth perfect and white against his golden skin. “Did you know that?”

Noa sighs. “Yes, it’s the bane of my life.”

Santiago’s smile deepens. “I think it’s sweet.”

“Oh, no, not ‘sweet,’ ” Noa says. “Next you’ll say I remind you of your little sister.”

“Not at all. And my sister is far from sweet. If you reminded me of her, I’d be scared.” He takes a tiny step closer and drops his voice. “And that isn’t the way I think of you at all.”

“Oh.” Noa holds her breath then begins to feel a little faint. She sucks in a gulp of air, then begins coughing and can’t stop. Santiago reaches out his hand and lightly cups her elbow.

“Are you all right?”

Noa nods, still coughing. A flush of warmth rises up her arm and she’s overcome with a blissful, soft sense of relaxation that sinks into her skin.

“Wow,” Noa says, her voice just a puff of air. “What was that?”

“I learned some healing, back in my country.” Santiago raises an eyebrow and matches it with a slightly wicked smile. “I’ve been told I’m quite good with my hands.”

“Oh, really?” Noa attempts a slightly wicked smile of her own, but ends up scowling instead. “So, um, which country is that?”

“Brazil. I’m from Bahia.”

“Ah,” Noa says, wishing she were better at geography.

Santiago takes another step closer, so she can almost feel the heat of his skin and the breath of his words. “It’s on the east coast, on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean.”

“Right, um, right,” Noa says, wishing he would just grab her and kiss her. “I, um, bet it’s beautiful.”

“Yes,” Santiago says, “beautiful and hot. Not raining every day as it is here.”

“But,” Noa says, trying to focus, “you don’t have an accent.”

“My mother is Brazilian, my father is English,” Santiago says. “He brought us here when I was five. So I’m bilingual and quite used to the rain.”

“Are all your…paintings of your home?”

Santiago shakes his head and fixes her with that gaze again.

“Not all, no. I also paint nudes, from time to time.”

“You do?” Noa says, her tongue thick in her mouth. “Ah, okay.”

Santiago smiles, as if he knows exactly the thoughts in her head since he just put them there. “Look, I just popped in here on my way to Gustare for a coffee. Want to join me?”

Noa nods, though two cups of coffee in one morning will probably send her into a frenzy. Especially since she’s already in one. “Yes. Yes, I’d love to.”

As they walk down King’s Parade toward Bene’t Street, Noa taking two steps for every one of Santiago’s, they talk about Noa’s dream of working at the National Gallery. When they sit down at a table looking out toward the market square and old courthouse, he reaches out and touches her hand. He drops his voice to a whisper.

“You know, I can get rid of that pesky tic of yours that you hate so much,” he says with a little smile. “If you’d like me to.”

Noa’s breath catches in her throat. “What do you mean?”

Santiago’s smile deepens. “You know what I mean.”

“Gosh, well, yes, but,” Noa mumbles, “how do you…know?”

Santiago sits back in his chair and slowly sips his coffee. “There are things I just know, I can’t explain it. But then, isn’t life better that way? Faith is so much more magical than knowledge, don’t you think?”

Noa considers. “Yes, I suppose so.” She takes a gulp of coffee to fortify herself and burns her tongue. “But how can you help me to stop…doing what I do?”

Santiago sits forward, his elbows on the table and his face close to hers. “In Brazil my mother was a
macumbera
, a white witch. She taught me many things, many skills, and I believe I can help you. Perhaps you will let me try?”

Noa cradles her coffee cup, squeezing the comforting warmth into her fingers. She wonders what to make of this stunning stranger. How does he know? Can he really help her? Noa never believed in magic (she always thought there must be a rational explanation for her odd quirk, if only she could find it) but that was before she met the Cambridge University witches. And, even if he can’t, at least it’s a chance to see him again.

“Okay.” Noa nods. “Okay, why not?”