Page 79 of Weave Your Magic

‘Abel, Abel. Please.’

She couldn’t bear any distance between them: she needed to see him over her, now. Abel was up on his arms, his biceps working, coming back to her, stopping only to tug off his boxers. Temperance could feel how hard and hot he was, against her stomach. The surge of almost egotistical pleasure rang through her whole being, as if at last she could truly believe that he wanted her as much as she wanted him.

His voice was only just there, broken and gravelly. ‘I’m not sure I can wait any longer.’

‘I can’t either.’ And somehow she knew he didn’t just mean today: he meant all the lonely years that were behind them now, put to rest.

As Abel pushed inside her, in one certain, easy movement, Temperance felt herself open up like never before. A burst of warmth began in her hips but quickly filled her entire body, pulsing right down into her tingling fingertips and behind her eyes, her vision filled with a wash of royal blue that changed into bright white, like the very centre of a flame. ‘Holy shit,’ she gasped. She could feel him everywhere.

Abel didn’t move for a moment, his weight on his elbows, his thumb along her cheekbone, his voice in her ear. ‘Is that . . . Tee? What – I’ve never felt – fuck.’

‘Me too,’ she whispered back.

And if she didn’t know better – if she didn’t know she’d given up her powers in a trade off with a much bigger force – she would have said the feeling was pure magic.

Epilogue

Two weeks later

‘Oh my god, you are too cute.’ Susie watched Temperance run through the quickest closing-up routine of her life, shoving all the papers and receipts on the cash desk in a rough, teetering pile and shutting down the till in a flash.

‘What?’

‘You can’t wait to see your boyfriend,’ Susie teased.

Temperance rolled her eyes. ‘We’re just going for a meal and I need a bit of time to . . . get ready first.’

‘Meaning you haven’t shaved your legs for a couple of days.’

‘It’s actually scary how well you know me.’ But even as she laughed, she felt the thrill of anticipation for tonight: her and Abel, having dinner at a pub three villages over, totally alone. No local gossips eyeing them when they can’t keep their hands to themselves over a basket of bread rolls. Then back to hers. Hopefully nice and early, ready to exhaust each other. There were still some scenarios from those wedding dress dreams that Temperance hadn’t gotten around to showing Abel yet . . .

A jiggling noise came from the front door. Temperance could see a colourful silhouette behind the glass. ‘Sorry! We’re closed now! Come back tomorrow if you like.’ Her voice dropped so just that Susie would hear. ‘These bloody grockles expect everything to be open seven days a week. Why can’t they just chill out?’

The door handle rattled again, more vigorously. And then the silhouette stepped away.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ Temperance muttered, catching the stapler as it tried to dive-bomb off her mountain of stuff.

But a loud bang had her whipping around, as the shop door flew open and clattered against the wall.

‘Oopsie! Sorry about that.’

‘That was locked,’ Susie whispered, the hackles rising on the back of her neck.

As the woman walked confidently across the shopfloor towards them, Temperance knew she was a stranger. A stranger that had her mum’s face, save for one extra beauty mark by the corner of her mouth and that her grey hair was cut into an asymmetric bob. She wore a creamy-gold coloured linen suit that was impossibly wrinkle free. And over her shoulder she seemed to be carrying . . . a quilt. Complex, multicoloured, beautifully stitched.

‘In the very flesh! My girls,’ the woman crooned.

‘Um, can we help you?’ Susie asked gently, but from the way her eyes were blinking on repeat, Temperance could tell she was just as freaked out by the similarity to Lee.

The woman lowered one tastefully plucked eyebrow. ‘Temperance, Susie: is a hug too much to ask? Or should we be very British,’ she wrinkled her nose, ‘and just shake hands for now?’

Susie blinked again. ‘I’m sorry – who are you?!’

With a tsk, the woman pulled a crisp, white hanky from the breast pocket of her jacket. As she whipped it open they could see a large embroidered letter F.

‘It’s me,’ her eyes sparkled, ‘Auntie Fiona!’

The three Molland women swapped looks, but only Fiona grinned madly.

The front door of Try Again squeaked on its hinges, a lightening-shaped crack running right through the glass.

‘Well, run and pop the kettle on then,’ Fiona said. ‘We’ve so much to talk about.’