“Whatever I mute for you, Your Highness, it won’t last,” Luisa explains, “Touchmage magic fades, unless I were to perform it repeatedly.”
I cringe, remembering my mother’s treatments.
“I’m aware,” says the prince, eyes filling with a cold sadness. “A moment’s reprieve is better than none.”
“Fine.”
Luisa gets up and stands behind him, then places a delicate finger on either side of the prince’s temples. Frost climbs up her fingernails and coats her fingers as she presses down and whispers.
“Close your eyes, princeling.”
We’re positively giddy with success by the time we leave the Winter Prince’s yacht. I’m clutching a wild berry gelato, Luisa’s apology for not letting me have any of the prince’s ice cream sundae.
“What did he want from you? From your power?” I ask.
“He wanted me to ease the pain of the memories he has of a certain woman. I don’t know who she is.”
“I’m surprised he feels any pain. He’s like a giant icicle.”
Luisa’s hazel eyes hold my gaze for a moment. “Not when it comes to her.”
Oh. A rush of empathy for the Winter Prince trickles over me, thawing the cold from his yacht that I’m still struggling to shake off. Someone hurt him. Someone he would like to forget.
I can relate to that.
“You know, most people keep their true feelings really well hidden,” Luisa continues. “But not everyone is good at lying.”
She’s not wrong, I know that more than most. As I lick my bright red ice cream, I wonder what other things the Winter Prince is hiding, losing myself in a daydream of distant Dutch Fae courts and imagining what the Summer, Spring, and Autumn Courts look like.
I jump as I feel something on my cheek. Luisa is wiping away some errand gelato from my face with her thumb. The rest of her fingers brush against my chin, and I shiver.
I can’t help myself. It’s the way she’s looking at me, her light eyes as soft and round as that of a doe. I lean into her touch and before I know it, I’m edging closer. Luisa’s face is now inches from mine. Having wiped the ice cream away, she slowly puts her thumb in her mouth and licks it off. My stomach twists. What was it she said about being unable to hide your true feelings?
We stare at one another, neither of us breathing, until a small smile makes the dimple on her cheek deepen. Dear god, that dimple.
I lean closer, Luisa meeting me halfway, and with a soft sigh, her lips are on mine. Sticky wild berry and caramel lip gloss. Gently she parts my lips with her tongue, moving it over mine and deepening our kiss. Our mouths are the only things touching, yet every part of me feels alive. I close my eyes, and all I see is color and light exploding behind my lids.
She bites gently on my lower lip as I pull away.
“That… that was amazing.”
“Why, thank you,” Luisa laughs. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
I don’t pause to think before the next question slips from my lips.
“Did you use your magic on me?”
Luisa’s expression goes from sweet to furious, and I instantly regret it. Fuck! But it’s too late to take it back.
“How can you ask me that?”
“I meant the kiss was great, that’s all.”
“It was great because you like me, not because I forced you to feel any kind of joy. You can be a real asshole, Saskia. You know that?”
And with that, Luisa storms off, leaving me with a gut full of remorse and my hand covered in melted ice cream.
Chapter Nineteen
My father used to say there was nothing worse than a dull mind with a sharp tongue. That about sums my interaction with Luisa. I didn’t think, and I said something deeply hurtful as a result. And now I have to make up for it.
As I climb the stairs to the pharmacy, I recount Rafi’s words from La Boqueria, ‘Every time Luisa’s sad about something the first place she goes is her studio.’
I silently pray that he’s right.
At the top of the stairs, I roll my shoulders and brace myself. The glass bottles in my hand have gone warm, and I’m so nervous it’s a miracle they haven’t slipped right out of my sweaty grasp. They clink together as I knock. After a while, I can hear music being turned down inside the studio.
The door opens. It’s her.
“Ves a la merda,” she says, telling me to fuck off, and shutting the door in my face.
I stop it with my foot.
“Please. I bought Cacaolat.”
Luisa makes a face at my offering of two bottles of chocolate milk. These nostalgic glass bottles were my favorite drink as a Spanish kid. I got excited this morning when I saw them in the nearby deli, since I haven’t been able to find this chocolatey goodness anywhere in New York.
“That’s the best you can do?” she says, eyebrows arched.
I awkwardly place one bottle under my arm and from my purse produce a bag of xuixas — Catalan’s deep-fried, custard filled, sugar-dusted answer to croissants.
“That’s more like it,” she says, opening the door wider.
You’ve got to love Spain and their idea of upgrading a pastry to a full-blown dessert.
“I’m sorry…” I start. But she raises a hand and stops me, opening up the paper bag, and getting sugar on her paint-stained fingers.
“Salut,” she says, smashing the bottle top off on the side of a table and taking a swig. It gives her a milky brown mustache, and it takes every ounce of my strength not to wipe it off. “About last night…”
Luisa tips her head to one side. She’s not going to make this easy for me.
I wait for her to finish eating and clear my throat. “Yesterday. I liked it.”
“Which part? The kissing?” she replies. “Or the part where you insulted me?”
I step closer, taking the bottle of chocolate milk from her and placing it on the
