So she kept on like a good girl, drinking the tea and slathering on cream. She ignored the pain and tried with minimal success to keep her irritation to herself. A new mason jar of it would appear every other day, and Cleo suspected Ian’s handiwork there. She’d always been alone, but now the loneliness cut deep. Cleo suspected even her chefs were avoiding her business calls. She didn’t blame them. They were sensitive creatures, chefs, and her tone was one of false calm and barely-concealed derision.
Cleo looked at the most recent offering - a mason jar with deep purple cream. It changed sometimes, shifting in color, texture, or smell. She wasn’t sure why it changed, and she didn’t want to ask Dante. She was already too beholden to him. He was directly responsible for her health, her ability to suppress this curse. Cleo knew there was a distinct possibility she’d piss him off and where would she be? She shuddered, and tucked the jar on her bedside table drawer, along with the other two. Looking at the small stockpile eased something in her stomach.
Cleo kept moving. She was always moving now. She knelt before her garden like a penitent. The song of the woods was dampened, but she ignored that in favor of work. They looked dark, like a haze from a recent fire floated over and through them. Cleo just didn’t have the energy to care. A part of her wanted to laugh. She’d risked so much - she’d reached out and formed a coven, she started this… dalliance with Ian, she’d invited Siobhan into her home. Actually, it was more like Siobhan refused to leave, but the point remained.
She’d risked triggering the curse over and over again, and it had gotten better, right? She had this tea for now. She had this salve for now.
Maybe she could be with Ian for now.
She paused in that thought, her hand ripping out the satisfyingly long root system of a lily of the valley that had started to creep into some shrubbery surrounding her yard. The roots were buried deep but were the purest white. The dirt slid off the roots, leaving them shiny and clean. They were laced together in an ingenious pattern. They were named well, although Cleo privately called them ‘lily of the whole damn valley,’ given how much they spread.
Cleo looked at the dangling roots in her hand and thought of Ian’s easy smile and intent eyes. She’d needed a break, but that was normal, right? They’d started to make a connection she’d never had before. Maybe he could help her with talking to Dante about the questions she had. Maybe she didn’t need to excise him entirely from her life. She winced as the thorns dug in, just slightly, like the warning flex of a cat’s sharp claws.
Cleo knew Ian was in his workshop - the light was on. It was quiet, but he spent a hilariously long period of time in his work looking thoughtfully at various pieces of wood. He’d tilt his head, mutter, and measure the same piece of wood once, then twice. She liked that about him, that look of fierce concentration, the quiet way he liked to get things done correctly the first time. She squared her shoulders and walked over.
Cleo rapped on the door and walked in. Ian’s shop was a mess. Usually it was tidy, but now the air was heavy with sawdust, and the floor was coated with a thick powder of shavings. Cleo coughed.
Ian sat where she’d first met him, at the long table near the back. His eyes brightened, then turned wary. She’d done that. Cleo hated that. An assortment of little wooden boxes with hinged lids sat before him. They were lovely. They were constructed with different pieces, all stained different colors to make a harmonious whole. Some had a herringbone pattern, some were chevron, some were stacked like bricks.
“Nice,” she said approvingly.
His eyes shot back down to the box in front of him. He carefully added another thin stripe of glue, then clamped it.
“What’s up?” Ian asked. His voice was careful, too casual. Cleo knew that voice.
She’d come with a script prepared in her head. How are you? and Oh, great, thanks. I have some questions about Dante, what do you think about asking him…
“I miss you.” The words flew out of her mouth. She hadn’t meant to say that. They hung in the air, suspended like the sawdust, and burned her eyes just as much as the dust.
He sighed and fiddled with the clamp. His fingers were thick and she couldn’t help but remember how gentle they were as he threaded them through her hair and down her back.
“Miss you too,” he said. He didn’t look at her. He rested his hands on his thighs under the table.
“It’s just, you get that I can’t, right? That a normal relationship is out for me?” He needed to understand this. She rubbed her eyes and thought she should’ve rubbed some salve on before she came over.
He pursed his lips but was quiet. Ian really wasn’t making this easy for her.
“What do you want?” he asked finally.
Cleo wasn’t sure how to answer that. She wanted him, but didn’t see how it could work, not like how he wanted. He wanted so much from her, all of her, and she didn’t have that much to give. But she could give him something, right?
Cleo breathed out a frustrated breath. She was a woman, damnit, not a waffle. She made the decision.
“I want to keep… hanging out with you,” she said. “I want… adult sleepovers.” Ian sighed. Cleo continued. “I know we have mutual pants feelings -” and Ian outright laughed at that.
“Mutual pants feelings?”
“How else would you describe it?”
“Cleo, honey.” He
