Bring Me Your Midnight(46)

“Who will paint your portrait?” I ask.

“Mine?” He pauses, as if he’s genuinely surprised by the question. “I suppose I haven’t given it much thought.”

“Well then, perhaps I will learn how to paint.”

He looks at me, tilting his head to the side as if he doesn’t understand the words that I spoke. Something unrecognizable passes in his eyes, and I’m certain there is not an artist alive who could capture the brilliance of this man.

I’m certain I would want to try.

I’m staring, so I look down and change the subject. I tell him about my parents’ shop and my love of swimming and that I used to talk to the wildflowers I picked for our perfumes, a habit I am still not entirely rid of. Wolfe smiles when I say that, and I laugh because I know it’s absurd, yet it spreads warmth through my body.

I follow Wolfe to the field where we met, and he picks several blades of grass before we head back to the beach. I grab four large rocks, and we sit on the shore as stars twinkle high above us.

“Okay, first we need to bruise the materials we’ve gathered,” I say. I demonstrate by putting the petals of the wildflowers on one of the rocks, then grinding them down with the other. Wolfe does the same, and soon we’ve gone through everything.

“What do you want the base notes to be? These will be the foundation of the perfume.”

“I suppose the grasses, since that’s where I met you.” He says it casually, but it still makes my heart pick up speed. I set aside enough material for the base notes, and then we move on to the middle and top notes. Once he’s made his selections, I measure everything out and bundle it all together.

“Now it’s time to spell it,” I say. “Is there anything in particular you’d like?”

“You decide,” he says.

I place the bundle between us and decide on peace. I didn’t understand until tonight that it’s something he’s missing, something he can’t have because he lives in terror of his way of life being destroyed. And while a perfume can’t fix that, it can give him moments of respite.

I close my eyes and pour my magic into the flowers, but Wolfe stops me. I look at him.

“Speak it out loud,” he says. “I want to hear you.”

I swallow hard, his words affecting me in a way I can’t name. I can feel it, though, moving through my body, slow and warm, blooming from my center, and I have to look down, scared that he’ll see what I’m feeling.

“Okay,” I say quietly. I close my eyes and start again. “Worries cease and tensions ease, when he smells this fragrance, surround him with peace.” I whisper the words as magic drenches the bundle, infusing it with the spell. Then Wolfe’s voice joins mine, and we say the words together, his magic softening, molding itself to the rules of my world. I’m shocked when my eyes begin to burn, and I keep them squeezed shut, pushing down my emotion so Wolfe doesn’t see it.

We speak the words many more times than necessary, but I don’t want to give it up, this moment that has somehow imprinted itself on the deepest part of me. I know it must end, though, and I go through the words one final time before falling silent.

Wolfe is watching me when I open my eyes. His back is to the shore, and with the moon high above the sea, it’s hard to make out his features. But he almost looks overcome, moved by the experience in the same way I am.

“Why did you choose peace?” he asks me.

“Because you deserve it.”

He nods, and I pull from my pocket a linen handkerchief that my mother insists I carry around for emergencies. I doubt this qualifies, but I carefully wrap the bundle of flowers and herbs, leaves and grasses with the cloth before handing it to Wolfe. He takes it from me and gently places it in the pocket of his jacket.

“I should go,” I say, standing. “When you get home, put that bundle in oil and let it sit for a week or two. Then pour it into a bottle, add some alcohol, and spray it whenever you need. Instant peace.”

I think he’ll roll his eyes at that last part, but he doesn’t. “I will.” He says it in a way that makes me believe he’ll follow each instruction perfectly.

“Good.” I begin my walk up to the road, but something stops me. I turn. Wolfe is still standing where I left him, watching me. “I’ll keep your secret,” I say. “You have my word.” Because as much as it hurts him to be kept a secret, hidden away from the eyes of the mainland, he knows that it’s necessary to his survival. To the survival of his coven.

“I believe you.”

I nod and try to make myself walk again, but it feels so hard, as if I’m standing in quicksand and can’t get out. But I have to. I force myself to move, and when I get to the road, I fight the urge to turn back and see him one more time.

I keep my face forward and make my way home, but I can feel his eyes following me, watching until the road bends and the connection is finally lost.





twenty





I’m exhausted when I wake up the next morning, my head throbbing. Another night of magic no one can ever know about, and I justify it by telling myself we only practiced low magic. But even as I think it, I know it is beyond justification. We were still practicing at night, and Wolfe is still a member of the old coven.

Nothing will change that, not even making something as harmless as a perfume.