Page 82 of Maggie and Arthur's Magic Moment

“Well, I, for one, am very glad she isn’t,” he said, tugging her ear into his mouth and sucking.

“It’s good we have someone to keep you humble,” Maggie said, twisting her hips beneath his touch. She ran her fingers through Arthur’s hair as his tongue trailed a path down her cleavage.

When he pulled away, she gasped, but he kept his fingers working inside her, his other hand gripping her hip and pinning her down. His voice was low when he asked, “So you’re telling me this isn’t one of my many, many talents?”

“I didn’t say that,” she gasped.

“I can stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He rose up on his knees and leaned over her, the friction of his fingers curling inside her and his palm against her clit bringing her to the edge. When he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “Come for me so we aren’t late,” she clenched around him and cried out. She kicked off her tights the rest of the way and gently pushed Arthur back on the floor, dragging his pants and underwear down until his erection was exposed. She slid him inside her slowly, and began to rock back and forth. He gasped, his hips bucking up into her.

“Make this quick,” she said, already working herself toward a second orgasm. His hands had returned to her hips, grindingher against him until she was coming again, and then it was only one, two quick thrusts before he groaned, filling her. They lay on the floor of Maggie’s apartment, spent, for just a moment.

“What if we stayed inside tonight instead?” Arthur asked, his mask on the floor next to him, lost as they’d chased their pleasure. He traced languid circles on Maggie’s hip.

“Absolutely not,” she said. “I’ve been waiting for this day for months. Months!”

He laughed. “Anything for you, love.” And he handed her the mask she’d lost, too.

They put their masks back on, cleaned up, adjusted their clothing, and started walking downtown to Rodrigo’s, which was decorated with large fluffy spiders and webs, stacked jack-o’-lanterns made of pumpkins and turnips glittering with heatless faefire, and a cool fog that swirled around the building on a loop. Inside, Rory and Dahlia were already at the bar with Jim, all decked out in costume.

“The mystery man,” Rodrigo said as they walked in, and Arthur gave him a shy smile. He held out a small yellow note card across the bar to Arthur.

“Rodrigo! That better not be what I think it is,” she cried, trying to reach for it, but Arthur held it over her head.

Rodrigo slid an old-fashioned across the bar in apology. “It absolutely is, sorry. This one’s on the house!” He left before she could scold him, returning to the end of the bar to offer Jim another drink.

“ ‘Calls himself TK…thirty-five’…” Arthur read. “You looked for me?”

Her cheeks turned rosy. “Well, Dahlia did.”

“I’ve been rooting for you all along,” Dahlia shouted across the bar.

He tucked the note in his pocket. It turned out, Arthur Taliesin was a sentimental fool. He’d probably pin it on the corkboard in his childhood bedroom at Barry’s house, right next to the spot where he’d kept the mask all this time. And she loved him for it.

He swept her into an easy kiss before pulling her into a hug, cradling her against him, his hand against the small of her back. She could hear his heartbeat beneath the fabric of his jacket and knew, with absolute certainty, that this was where she was supposed to be.

An excerpt from the epic Diadhan poemBranagh’s Aubade, translated by Dr. Magnolia Linden

[stanza 32]

Hand in hand, walking through eastern fields of gilded yarrow,

the near to autumn sun anoints your brow in shining crown.

Furrowed there in deep grooves like wounds, are tomorrow’s sorrows.

Bury my body, love, my bones. Hand in hand, lay me down.

I die neither brave nor willing as my blood salts the ground.

Your love burns bright, warm. A flickering fire, for me to find

beneath the yew, evergreen. Glory, glory for the crowned.

Bury my body, love, my bones. Hand in hand, intertwined.

My sword rusts, my flesh rots, but the yarrow grows on come morn,

the shade of the yew, remains, everlasting. Time forgets

but the soil remembers, each passing hour a root, a thorn.

Bury my body, love, my bones. Hand in hand, let me rest.