Page 51 of Enchanted Village

Silas, however, was stuck on the words that witch of yours. It had stirred something in him, a primal possessiveness. He wasn’t proud of it, but he also couldn’t deny it was there.

“Birchwood?” Patrick said, drawing Silas back to the present. “Did you hear me?”

Silas shook his head. “Sorry. What did you say?”

Patrick chuckled. “Never mind. I only meant that Margaret’s got quite a following.”

Silas could only smile. “She’s certainly made her mark on this place.”

“Well, that I won’t deny,” Patrick said. “And I admire that. But I hope you won’t hate me too much for trying to make my mark as well.”

He looked meaningfully at Silas. Silas only shrugged.

“I won’t pretend I’m not biased here,” Silas said. “Margaret’s, well . . .”

Patrick nodded. “I understand. I promise I’m not asking you for her secrets. But I hope you’ll respect that I, too, am trying to do something special here.”

Silas nodded. “I’m sure there’s room for everyone,” he said. “Right?”

Patrick’s smile stretched, but something about it seemed suddenly forced. As if Silas had said the wrong thing.

“I’m not a man who loses,” Patrick continued, tapping the newspaper. “At business or anything else.”

Silas blinked, unsure how to respond to that.

“I only say this,” Patrick said, “because you may want to try to talk some sense into Margaret. Lower her expectations a bit. Because I’m telling you now, Birchwood. I won’t let Fox Bar fail. I’ll do what it takes to win.”

Suddenly, Silas no longer felt so friendly toward Patrick. Because this? This was a threat, no matter if it came wrapped in Patrick’s friendly charm.

“We’ll see,” he said. “I have a feeling Margaret’s going to be just fine. In fact . . .”

Silas let the words hang for a moment before standing up, meeting Patrick’s eyes as he spoke again.

“In fact, I’m going to make sure that she’s fine.”

Patrick’s mouth thinned into a line. Then, Silas gathered his things, picked up the last of his pastry, popped it into his mouth, and left, determined more than ever to make sure Margaret emerged victorious in this particular battle.

Chapter Twenty-Four

There was a knock on the pub at exactly eleven o’clock, and when Margaret unlocked and opened it, she found Silas and Wyatt standing on the threshold. Silas was wearing non-magical attire again, those same jeans and a creamy knit sweater that he looked infuriatingly good in.

“Mind if we find a place to study?” Silas asked, coughing and bringing her back to life. Oh god. Had she been staring?

“Sit wherever you like,” Margaret said, stepping aside and gesturing to the open room. The fire was crackling and the tables were polished, but unlike at night, you could see the dust swirling in the light from the windows, light caught occasionally by the bottles behind the bar and tossed out as rainbows on the floor. She’d also turned on her grandmother’s old, bewitched record player, which was playing soft jazz music but would automatically switch to whatever the general consensus of the guests in the room was.

Wyatt took a seat in Margaret’s favorite armchair and pulled out his notebook and textbook. He looked at Silas, who nodded at him.

“Miss Nettle and I have some work to do ourselves, so we’ll be over there,” Silas said, pointing. “Let me know if you need help.”

Wyatt said, “Okay,” and then pulled out his wand, which he tapped in the air around his head, forming what Margaret recognized as a silencing charm. Magical students using this blocked out the rest of the world. Sometimes, they’d add music inside their bubbles or even tap their books and charm them to be read inside the bubble. Either way, with his chair turned to the fire and the charm around his head, Wyatt might as well have been in a different world.

Margaret watched the boy for a moment, wanting to ask Silas why he didn’t feel safe at school, but she knew how she’d felt as a child when adults talked about her as if she wasn’t there. Even if Wyatt had the charm on, she wouldn’t risk him thinking she thought of him that way, as someone whose distress could be turned into gossip.

So, when she sat Silas down at the bar, she chose to focus on the business at hand while Wyatt carried on independently nearby. While Silas got settled in one of the stools—one with a back, as Margaret did not abide backless stools—Margaret worked on making the three of them hot chocolates. She saw snow had started coming down outside, and it seemed only right.

“So,” Silas said. “I had a run-in with our friend.”

Margaret arched an eyebrow as she began to stir the chocolate and the milk over a red ceramic pot on the burner. The way Silas said “friend” seemed to suggest it wasn’t exactly Liza he was talking about.