Read Online Magic and the Modern Girl by Mindy Klasky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mindy Klasky
Ads: Link
patient waiting for a diagnosis from her trusted doctor.
David’s lips twisted into a tight smile. “I doubt that anyone would ever say you’re a matron, in any romance whatsoever.”
I tugged at the skirt of my dress, suddenly aware of the heat outside, of the wood chips that dusted the front of David’s shirt, of the dampness at his temples that darkened the familiar silver glints. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“And I wasn’t biting a lure.” He set his glass down on the polished granite counter. “Jane, you’re feeling the strength of your magic. I keep telling you, but you don’t listen to me. You have a lot of power. A lot of magical energy. You can bottle it up, contain it, but if you start to let it seep out—like you’ve been doing to recharge your collection—you’re going to feel the pressure. There’s nothing that you’ve felt in the past week that was wrong or bad or dangerous.”
“How can you be sure?” Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. He was my warder. He could feel my witchy powers. He knew when I used them. He felt everything I did with my magic.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was something incredibly intimate about my realization. It was as if he’d found my high-school diary, read about the silly crushes I’d had on utterly unattainable football quarterbacks. No. This was more than that. It was as if he’d read about the silly crushes I’d had on him .
I looked around the kitchen, at the precise placement of every last detail. I saw the dish towel, folded into perfect thirds over the handle on the oven door. I saw the morning newspaper, squared up, reassembled into its hot-off-the-presses precision, even though I was willing to bet my best prefogged rhodosite crystal that he’d completed the crossword puzzle inside. In ink.
I glanced out the window at the chopping block, and I imagined the countless hours that he’d spent splitting wood. The controlled physical grace of the maneuver. The inevitable bodily exhaustion.
“David—” I started to explain that I had never meant to hurt him. I’d never meant to alienate him. I’d never meant to cut him out of my life, when I left my witchcraft sitting by the side of the road.
“Jane,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Don’t go there.”
And for once, my warder refused to meet my eyes.
I was so accustomed to his challenging stare, to the unforgiving truth of his chocolate-brown gaze. But David had suddenly become fascinated with the rim of his glass, with the melded ice cubes that clanked against the sides. Before I could say anything, before I could try to find the path back to what was right and normal between us, he said, “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have come out here. Let me take a quick shower, and I’ll drive you home.”
“I can drive myself home.”
“I’m your warder. Chauffeuring is part of the job.” He smiled tightly. “I’ll only be a minute.” He walked past me to get to the hallway, to the stairs that led to the farmhouse’s second floor. I stepped to the left, and he matched my movement, then we both shifted to the right. I laughed nervously as he shook his head and edged past me. “Make yourself at home,” he said from the foot of the stairs.
I listened to the steps creak, and then I heard the water begin to run above my head.
He was my warder. He knew everything about me. He certainly should have known better than to leave me free to explore his house. “Stay,” I said to Spot, as I hurried out the kitchen door. I wasn’t about to pass up what might be my only chance to see how David Montrose truly lived.
The stairs seemed louder under my feet than when David had trod on them. At the top landing, I could see one closed door—clearly the master bedroom suite. Another room was laid out as a guestroom, queen-sized bed covered by a simple navy comforter, a white dresser left bare, except for a simple arrangement of crimson blown-glass
David’s lips twisted into a tight smile. “I doubt that anyone would ever say you’re a matron, in any romance whatsoever.”
I tugged at the skirt of my dress, suddenly aware of the heat outside, of the wood chips that dusted the front of David’s shirt, of the dampness at his temples that darkened the familiar silver glints. “I wasn’t fishing for compliments.”
“And I wasn’t biting a lure.” He set his glass down on the polished granite counter. “Jane, you’re feeling the strength of your magic. I keep telling you, but you don’t listen to me. You have a lot of power. A lot of magical energy. You can bottle it up, contain it, but if you start to let it seep out—like you’ve been doing to recharge your collection—you’re going to feel the pressure. There’s nothing that you’ve felt in the past week that was wrong or bad or dangerous.”
“How can you be sure?” Even as I asked the question, I knew the answer. He was my warder. He could feel my witchy powers. He knew when I used them. He felt everything I did with my magic.
I couldn’t meet his eyes. There was something incredibly intimate about my realization. It was as if he’d found my high-school diary, read about the silly crushes I’d had on utterly unattainable football quarterbacks. No. This was more than that. It was as if he’d read about the silly crushes I’d had on him .
I looked around the kitchen, at the precise placement of every last detail. I saw the dish towel, folded into perfect thirds over the handle on the oven door. I saw the morning newspaper, squared up, reassembled into its hot-off-the-presses precision, even though I was willing to bet my best prefogged rhodosite crystal that he’d completed the crossword puzzle inside. In ink.
I glanced out the window at the chopping block, and I imagined the countless hours that he’d spent splitting wood. The controlled physical grace of the maneuver. The inevitable bodily exhaustion.
“David—” I started to explain that I had never meant to hurt him. I’d never meant to alienate him. I’d never meant to cut him out of my life, when I left my witchcraft sitting by the side of the road.
“Jane,” he interrupted, shaking his head. “Don’t go there.”
And for once, my warder refused to meet my eyes.
I was so accustomed to his challenging stare, to the unforgiving truth of his chocolate-brown gaze. But David had suddenly become fascinated with the rim of his glass, with the melded ice cubes that clanked against the sides. Before I could say anything, before I could try to find the path back to what was right and normal between us, he said, “This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have come out here. Let me take a quick shower, and I’ll drive you home.”
“I can drive myself home.”
“I’m your warder. Chauffeuring is part of the job.” He smiled tightly. “I’ll only be a minute.” He walked past me to get to the hallway, to the stairs that led to the farmhouse’s second floor. I stepped to the left, and he matched my movement, then we both shifted to the right. I laughed nervously as he shook his head and edged past me. “Make yourself at home,” he said from the foot of the stairs.
I listened to the steps creak, and then I heard the water begin to run above my head.
He was my warder. He knew everything about me. He certainly should have known better than to leave me free to explore his house. “Stay,” I said to Spot, as I hurried out the kitchen door. I wasn’t about to pass up what might be my only chance to see how David Montrose truly lived.
The stairs seemed louder under my feet than when David had trod on them. At the top landing, I could see one closed door—clearly the master bedroom suite. Another room was laid out as a guestroom, queen-sized bed covered by a simple navy comforter, a white dresser left bare, except for a simple arrangement of crimson blown-glass
Similar Books
