Page 23 of Beyond the Cottage (After the Fairytale #1)

Chapter 23

A s Ansel and Isobel put away dishes, Gretta sat on the counter furthest from them, half-heartedly skimming her notes.

Dinner had been uneventful. The conversation topics had ranged from the market value of anti-aging charms to the ethics of using love potions. Gretta had stayed quiet through it all. Her curiosity was piqued when Isobel diverted to Seven and Jonas, but Ansel had dodged the more gossipy questions.

He kept his word about the conditions Gretta had given him. He’d tasted all her food and sat between her and Isobel while they ate. So far, the witch had pretty much minded her manners, though overbearing didn’t begin to describe her.

She doted on Ansel like a mother duck, foisting more food on him than Gretta could eat in a day. And he devoured it, the food and affection alike. He’d brushed Isobel off when she praised his invention, but Gretta could tell he was pleased. Whenever Isobel patted him, he subtly leaned into it.

Gretta had thought him touch-starved before, but now she realized it was a gross understatement. He’d been an especially affectionate child, and she couldn’t help wondering if he’d found an outlet for it after the cottage. It certainly wouldn’t have come from his family.

She didn’t care if he was lonely, of course. But she understood neglect’s damage. It had taken her years to accept, and eventually embrace, solitude. She wasn’t sure Ansel had that same capacity.

He approached with a green bottle, and she returned her eyes to her notes.

“Do you want some?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Dandelion wine,” Isobel chimed. “Finest in six parishes.”

Ansel filled a teacup. “I promise it isn’t poisoned. Izz would rather drink turtle piss than taint good booze.”

He verified it by taking a sip and handed her the cup. After pouring a small splash for himself, he returned to the table and hauled a sleeping raccoon off his chair. He settled it on his lap.

“I’m beginning to worry about fleas more than poison,” Gretta muttered. “Raccoons are an interesting choice for house pets.”

“Pets, ha.” Isobel opened a drawer and pulled out cards, paper, and a pencil. “They occasionally show up to mooch off me, and now they think they own the place.”

Gretta swirled her drink, sniffing it. It probably wasn’t smart to indulge while in a witch’s cottage, and she’d promised Brand she’d ease up. Still, she craved a warm glow to smooth out her nerves. She could hold her liquor, never mind wine, and maybe a glass or two would relax her.

She drank, wincing as the syrupy liquid went down. It tasted bitter and sweet, like flower petals soaked in honey, and it was stiffer than regular wine. Gretta usually preferred the brown stuff, but she’d been served worse.

“Gretta, love,” Isobel said, turning up a lantern. “What games do you play?”

“I’m not playing cards with you.”

“Pity. I’m weary of trouncing Ansel and was hoping for fresh blood.”

“I’m sure you were.”

A raccoon waddled out of the sitting room and toyed with Gretta’s boot laces. She hopped down to scratch the pudgy beast behind the ears. As Ansel and Isobel began some game, Gretta slouched against the counter.

Soon, the wine did its job warming her stomach and relaxing the tension in her muscles. After pouring herself a second glass, she topped off Ansel when he held his cup out, and she took the opportunity to spy on his cards.

Gretta immediately recognized the game. Ansel laid a pair of threes on the table, and she snorted.

“Stop looking at my hand,” he said. “It’s impolite to poke your nose in a game you lack the mettle to play yourself.”

“Clever tactic, but you don’t want to play cards with me. I’d embarrass you.”

He drew a queen and a seven. “Boasting generally signifies a low mastery of said activity. Maybe it’s better if you don’t join us, after all.”

A competitive spark combined with the alcohol in Gretta’s belly, lighting a fire in her. His comments were a cheap ploy to get her to play, but she suddenly couldn’t think of an excuse why she shouldn’t back up her bluster.

She took her seat. “Deal me in next round.”

Ansel smirked behind his cup, and she made a face at him.

“We’ll start a fresh one,” Isobel said, swiping cards into a pile. “Our boy here was about to get clobbered.”

“You’re competitive to a fault, Izz. I let you win to preserve your fragile ego.”

“I’ll just bet you do. Let’s see it, then. I’m sure Gretta’s got more sense than to love a man who’s incompetent at cards.”

“Isobel!” he barked.

Gretta felt her cheeks go up in flames. The witch likely pushed their buttons out of strategy, but her comment sucked the oxygen from the room.

Maybe Gretta had drunk too much wine. Or not enough.

She took a sip and crossed her legs, feigning nonchalance. “You aren’t going to throw us off our game, witch. Deal.”

Grinning, Isobel tossed cards at them.

They played several rounds, and Ansel proved a more capable player than the last game suggested, staying neck and neck with Gretta for second place. Isobel maintained the lead, cheerfully announcing the score at every opportunity.

Ansel dealt a new hand. Gretta jostled her leg. On her fourth turn, she fanned a trio of sixes on the table.

Isobel played three jacks.

“You know,” the witch said, “we can play something else, if you like. I think I have an Old Maid deck laying around.”

Gretta nearly snapped the handle off her teacup. She’d begun to wonder if the cards were enchanted, but they radiated no magic. For some reason, the witch’s skill was more annoying than a tampered deck. Even Ansel’s lips thinned when Isobel commented on a man’s card play reflecting his talents in bed.

Once again, Gretta drew shitty cards and almost crushed them in her fist. Then something brushed her knee.

While pretending to study his hand, Ansel offered her a king under the table. Usually, Gretta would rather lose than cheat, but fuck Isobel. She took the card and gave him one in return.

They continued their sleight of hand, peeking at what each other had and offering what each other needed. Eventually, Gretta took the lead, and Ansel closed in on second.

Isobel side-eyed them. “My. It seems lady luck finally smiled on you two.”

“Seems so.” Gretta slapped three queens down, winning the hand.

After that, some unlucky deals left her with hopeless cards, and when all was said and done, Ansel took first. While Isobel huffed her displeasure, he grinned at Gretta.

She glanced away with a flush and stretched her arms over her head. “I’m turning in. Where can I get cleaned up?”

“Washroom’s over there,” Isobel said, pointing at a narrow door. “I’m going to bed, too. Sweet dreams, honey.”

Gretta closed herself in the tiny room and did her best with the water Ansel had brought in before dinner. After the swamps, she’d never take indoor plumbing for granted again.

She scrubbed her teeth with a clean rag and washed off as much sweat as she could. When she came out, Isobel and the raccoons were gone, and Ansel claimed the washroom.

Gretta unbound her hair before removing her belt, tunic, and mud-crusted boots—the abused leather would need a serious polish when she got back to civilization. She spread a crocheted blanket over the couch and sat with her back propped against the armrest. It was going to be a long night keeping vigil.

Ansel came out barefoot, absently lifting his shirt hem. When he saw her, he hesitated. He let the shirt fall back in place.

“Light on or off?” he asked.

“Off.”

He collected a throw pillow from a chair and doused the lantern. Bright light from the moon and swamp came in from the windows, casting blue-green shadows throughout the room.

Ansel reclined on the rug with his arm folded under his head. His white shirt pulled taught across his chest, exposing an inch of stomach, and fluttery nerves rolled through Gretta.

Which made perfect sense. She was in a witch’s hovel. Of course she was nervous.

“Goodnight,” he said.

“Night.”

Gretta shifted on the couch, wishing she’d brought Lady Lovecock on the trip.