Page 48 of Enchanted Village

After depositing Bernie in the window, Margaret braced herself and walked to the door. For a stomach-churning moment, she thought she heard silence, thought that perhaps her regulars had already abandoned her, but no. There was the sound of deep, heavy voices, of boots shuffling just outside. And when she flung open the door, there was her usual crowd.

“Took you long enough!” shouted Old Man Weatherby, at the front of the pack. “And after I lent you my ladder.”

She started to say something about how she hadn’t borrowed his ladder, but then she realized Silas probably had. And then the rest of them were filing in, finding their usual places. She noted that Imogen and her friends were back; apparently, a dragon wrecking the pub could only keep them away for so long. Imogen led them over to their same spot as before, and they immediately fell into their twittering conversation.

Margaret looked around. Every chair that was usually filled at five o’clock was filled. She glanced out the window at Fox Bar, which loomed across the way. She only had a few days to convince her regulars that here was the place to be, so she’d best get started.

Margaret walked through the pub, eyes sweeping over every chair and guest. She recognized at least five regulars who started with the same drink every night, so she knew she could get started on those. She also recognized at least two witches and one wizard who would try to be difficult. She’d get to them second. The girls would probably just want to sip spelled nonalcoholic sherries or her latest Christmas mocktail all night, so she’d find out which it would be and get that to them as quickly as she could.

And then, Margaret returned to the back of the bar, where she found things just flowed.

It wasn’t only that Margaret was good at mixing or pouring a drink. If Liza looked at ease with her wand, Margaret looked as if she moved without thinking when she was behind the bar. Her hands found their way to the bottles without the need to read the labels. She knew by a slight groove in the glass which one she needed. She knew more than recipes by heart; she knew the way one flavor could offset another. If someone ordered cranberry juice with a splash of starlight, she knew they also needed a dash of cinnamon to offset the bitterness of a too-bright star. If someone asked for a hot toddy while nursing a broken heart, she knew just how ripe the tindleflower needed to be to bring the sweetness necessary to gift them a calm mind.

The girls, for example, were entirely too fevered. Two of them were talking animatedly about a boy at school they liked, one who they found to be “morally gray” but “incredibly fuckable,” while Imogen watched this conversation with barely concealed disgust. When Margaret bustled over with their carafe and glasses—it had been mulled wine—and tossed in a handful of gindlelimes to the concoction at the last minute, it was Imogen who noticed and sat up.

“What’re those?” she demanded suspiciously.

“They’ll balance the flavor,” Margaret said, turning to pour a refill of brandy for a gentleman down the bar.

Imogen did not look convinced, however. She even had the nerve to wrinkle her nose.

“Oooh, Imogen,” said the smaller, flightier bird—Margaret thought she remembered her name was Elaine. “It smells delicious.”

“Tastes delicious,” said the other one. “Like a warm night by the fire.”

“A drink can’t taste like fire,” Imogen snapped, but Margaret saw her take a sip anyway. She hovered nearby, waiting for the girl’s assessment, when she saw the girl stare at the glass with wide eyes.

Margaret didn’t have time to linger for a full review, though, for three people had just stepped through the door who made her heart thunder. Well, just one of them was responsible for the thundering. The other two . . . well, one was Liza. The other was a boy who Margaret didn’t recognize. Maybe one of his students? The kid looked like a well-placed breeze could knock him over.

“Mags!” Liza said, hurrying over. “Oh, Mags, what a wonderful day we’ve been having.”

“Oh?” Margaret asked, eyebrows raising.

“Wyatt is Silas’s student,” Liza explained. “He needed a place to study, and I knew you were busy, so they came to the bookstore. I’ve been helping Silas find some supplementary materials for next semester. And I—oh, Mags, are you wearing lipstick?”

Margaret blushed. “Maybe.”

Then, Margaret’s eyes saw Silas. Or, saw him looking at her. At no one but her, with darkened eyes that pinned her in place where she stood. She felt something like a hook in her stomach, pulling her toward him.

“Um,” Wyatt said, looking from Silas to Margaret. “I should probably be getting back to school before curfew.”

This snapped Silas out of it, though he truly did look like someone coming out of a trance. It took him a moment to shake it off, then he looked from Margaret to Wyatt before laughing slightly too loud. This made several patrons look over at him, including Imogen. Though Margaret noticed that Imogen didn’t look irritated to have been made aware of Silas’s presence. If anything, she seemed to be drinking him in.

“Right,” Silas said, coughing to clear his throat. “Until tomorrow.”

The boy turned and exited as quickly as he’d arrived, leaving Margaret standing in front of Silas. She drifted toward him, feeling like he was the anchor pulling her closer. It didn’t seem to matter that every person’s eyes were on her.

“Good evening, Margaret,” he said. “You look—”

But he did not get to finish the sentence, because at that moment, there was a ceramic crash that made Margaret whip around. Silas heard the scamper of claws just before he felt something against his leg.

Something small but decidedly scaly with a tail that flicked in the air as amber eyes peered up at Silas.

Bernie, against his leg.

The dragon, doing what Silas could only describe as . . . nuzzling him.

“Oh,” said Silas, thoroughly deprived of any other word. “Oh.”