“It’s like being in a souvenir postcard,” Rhys said. “‘Greetings from Halloweentown.’”
Vivienne chuckled at that, crossing her arms. “No arguments there.”
“I see why you like it here.”
“It’s definitely a good place to be a witch. Even a secret one.”
“Technically we’re all secret witches,” Rhys said, “but I understand your point.”
The night had gone cool around them, but the sweet, soft sort of cool that comes on perfect autumn nights as opposed to the unnatural cold of the library. Wales got these nights, too, but earlier in the season and not usually quite this mild.
Still, as he wandered the cobblestone streets with Vivienne, Rhys felt an odd longing for home settle into his bones. Vivienne belonged in this setting, fitting as perfectly as a jewel.
Where did he belong?
Not wanting to follow that particularly maudlin train of thought, Rhys nudged Vivienne with his elbow and said, “So how exactly does it work here? The secret witch thing. Especially with the college. You can spot other witches, right?”
Shrugging, Vivienne tucked a stray lock of hair behind one ear. “Usually. And honestly, it’s not as hard to keep a secret from people as you’d think. Lots of people dabble in witchcraft now, so it’s not exactly weird to have an interest in that kind of thing.”
“Or run a shop,” Rhys said, and she nodded.
“Or that.”
“But the other students at the college still don’t know they’re going to school with witches, right?”
“Right,” Vivienne confirmed as they came to the coffee shop. Like every store or restaurant along this strip of main street, it was decorated for Halloween, little pumpkins stuck to the front window, and a garland of lights that looked like tiny cauldrons draping the door.
As they stepped inside, Rhys held the door open for a family with a baby swaddled up in a stroller, smiling down at the babbling infant as they passed, and when he looked back up, Vivienne was watching him with a strange look on her face.
“What?” he asked, but she only shook her head and gestured toward the counter.
“Tea?”
“Tea,” he confirmed.
Once they had ordered—basic English breakfast for Rhys, something with honey and lavender for Vivienne—they made their way to a booth near the back, and Rhys was suddenly very aware of how cozy this setting was, how . . . intimate.
“So.”
“So.”
They sat there with their steaming mugs of tea on the table, but neither of them made a move to drink. Instead, Rhys looked at Vivienne, and Vivienne looked everywhere but at him, her fingers twisting the fingerless gloves she was wearing nervously, pulling at the edges until Rhys was afraid they might unravel.
He reached out and covered one of her hands with his own, and dammit all, even through the wool of her gloves, even with his palm only barely touching the bare skin of her knuckles, he felt the touch all the way down to the soles of his feet, his skin lighting up with awareness of her.
“I think we need to talk about the library.”
She was already shaking her head, golden hair spilling over her shoulders. “No. No, no, no, no. We don’t. That’s a thing that in no way needs talking about.”
“Vivienne.”
“It was stupid, and it was just a kiss,” she went on.
He raised his eyebrows. “Just a kiss? Really?”
A flush crept up Vivienne’s neck, but she drew her hand out from underneath his and repeated, “Just a kiss.”