Page 54 of Deals & Dream Spells (The Charmed Leaf Legacy #2)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Evryn tucked his riding cap and gloves into Cobalt’s saddlebag, then ran a hand through his hair, attempting to restore some semblance of artful disarray.

His boots crunched softly over the ground as he made his way past the quiet remains of Dreamland toward Windsong Cottage, telling himself how silly it was to be here at all.

Dreamland’s lumyrite structure was intact now.

There wasn’t anything left that required his particular abilities.

It was her. He knew it. Some undeniable magnetic pull toward Mariselle Brightcrest had drawn him here tonight, like a dusk sprite to a flame.

The previous evening at the tea house had left him …

unsettled. He’d found himself gravitating toward her as the night progressed, leaning closer during conversation, seeking excuses to touch her hand or brush against her shoulder, until his mother had begun directing pointed glances of disapproval his way.

Even after returning home, sleep had eluded him entirely.

He’d tossed restlessly among his bedsheets, mind filled with her laugh, her quick wit, the subtle vanilla scent that clung to her hair.

Some small, foolish part of him had hoped he might find himself in her dreamscape again, but dawn had arrived without any such encounter.

He’d risen from bed with the disquieting realization that he missed her—that in the span of mere weeks, Mariselle Brightcrest had somehow become the axis around which his thoughts revolved.

Now, hours later, he walked past the remains of the outer Dreamland ruins, where luminous moss clung stubbornly to the stone.

While the essential lumyrite structure that powered Dreamland had been completely restored, the site’s exterior still showed signs of decay—crumbling columns and half-fallen archways.

He reached the path that traced through the cottage garden and followed it until he stood before the front door. He pushed it open, stepped through, and was immediately hit with the sound of laughter—bright, breathless, and utterly unrestrained.

Mariselle.

The sound spilled from the sitting area like sunlight through an open window, and for a moment, Evryn could do nothing but stand still and listen, the sound weaving through him like a spell, disarming and golden.

He closed the door, taking in the scene before him.

Mariselle and Petunia were sprawled comfortably on the floor, surrounded by books and papers in various states of disarray, with the dream core sitting to one side.

Petunia held a plate of half-eaten jam tarts, while Mariselle sat cross-legged, hugging a cushion to her chest, her skirts arranged with a complete disregard for propriety that would have scandalized half of Bloomhaven.

Her hair was still blue, Evryn noted, and she was bent forward over the cushion, gasping with laughter.

She looked up, cheeks flushed, eyes dancing. “Oh, Evryn! Petunia loves your idea about adding narrative experiences to Dreamland. She has some additions.” She immediately dissolved into laughter again, barely managing to get out, “Tell him, Tunia.”

Evryn did not miss the fact that she’d called him Evryn and not Rowanwood , possibly for the first time ever in the waking world, but he did his best to focus on her cousin.

Petunia appeared composed as ever, but there was a dangerous sparkle in her eye. “Right,” she said crisply. “So we begin with a historical romp involving scandalous laundry thefts.”

Evryn blinked. “Pardon?”

“Visitors must infiltrate a floating manor staffed entirely by ghostly footmen in cravats made of cobwebs,” she explained.

“Their mission is to recover a set of monogrammed petticoats that once belonged to the Grand Duchess of Silkenwhim, who, incidentally, haunts the laundry room and sings aggressively off-key opera when provoked.”

Mariselle was doubled over now, shoulders shaking with laughter.

“And,” Petunia continued, entirely unbothered, “the escape route involves leaping from a window onto a floating picnic blanket made of bubbles, flown by a flamingo in a waistcoat.”

“Of course it does,” Evryn said.

“Oh, and then,” Petunia said with a businesslike nod, “we pivot to interpretive kettle dancing.”

“I’m afraid to ask.”

“As you should be. Guests are assigned an enchanted kettle that whistles a different tune according to the color of their clothing. They must perform a synchronized dance routine in the Valley of Echoes, where each misstep is punished by a gust of floral confetti and very judgmental squirrels. The glittery pink sort.”

“Highly judgmental,” Mariselle wheezed. “They wag their tiny paws.”

“And finally,” Petunia concluded, “the grand finale: guests must outwit a sentient wig.”

Evryn raised both eyebrows.

“A bewitched bouffant,” Petunia said, “crafted from starspun threads and the regrets of debutantes past. It has opinions about social hierarchy. Guests must either flatter it with elaborate compliments or duel it in the Glittering Grove using parasols and riddles.”

Mariselle collapsed backward onto the rug with a gasp. “I cannot—I’m crying , Tunia.”

Evryn watched her, an incredulous smile spreading across his face. Mariselle, completely unguarded, breathless and radiant and entirely improper. And standing in the middle of the room, he realized—utterly, quietly, undoubtedly—that he was in love with her.

Petunia looked up at him. “We’re taking Dreamland very seriously.”

“Clearly,” he said, voice a little rough. “I cannot wait to see what the wig has to say about my fashion choices.”

“Oh, it loathes your boots,” Petunia informed him. “But it might forgive you if you bow deeply enough and recite a limerick about its tragic past as a garden hedge. ”

Mariselle made a strangled noise into her sleeve. She was practically rolling on the floor now.

Evryn tore his gaze away, directing it firmly at the far wall. He cleared his throat and tugged slightly at the collar of his riding gear. Perhaps he ought to have stayed home. Mariselle’s presence was proving far more tempting than he’d anticipated.

Petunia squinted up at him as she lowered the plate of jam tarts to the floor beside her. “What brings you here, Rowanwood? Tired of being adored on all sides, were you? Did you come in search of someone to insult you properly?”

Evryn raised a brow. “Naturally. I knew I could rely on Windsong Cottage for the warmest barbs.”

“We reserve our finest scorn for our favorites.”

“I’m honored, truly.” He cast a glance at the papers, sketches, and half-empty teacups strewn across the floor. “I thought perhaps you might require help. Some charming, insightful genius to lend his talents to the cause.”

Petunia snorted. “Ah, yes, because what this operation truly lacks is ego.”

Mariselle, who had finally stopped laughing, pushed herself upright with a fond shake of her head.

“Since you’re here, Rowanwood” —ah, he was Rowanwood once again, not Evryn — “you may as well be useful. I believe we need to do some reorganization. We’ve managed to scatter papers and scrolls and diagrams and notebooks everywhere. ”

“We thrive in creative catastrophe,” Petunia said breezily, brushing crumbs from her lap. “It’s where all the best ideas live.”

“Well, I can certainly be of assistance,” Evryn said. Especially if it meant unintentionally (intentionally) brushing Mariselle’s hand with his while they accidentally (intentionally) reached for the same book.

“Oh!” Mariselle exclaimed. “We discovered something rather interesting earlier. I accidentally knocked down one of Lady Eugenia’s journals from the top shelf, and while leafing through it before replacing it, I noticed margin notes written in a hand entirely different from her own.”

“Am I supposed to know who Lady Eugenia is?” Evryn enquired.

“Yes!” Mariselle looked faintly annoyed. “I’m quite sure I told you. She was the botanist who lived here before my grandfather ended up with this cottage. But that’s beside the point. The margin notes were written by my grandmother. She signed her initials beneath all of them. ”

“Your grandmother ? Why would she be writing in a botanist’s journal?”

“It seems she took an interest in Lady Eugenia’s research. But again, Evryn, you appear to be missing the point.”

Evryn again. He was delightfully distracted by this fact. “And the point is …”

“She spent time here. Long enough to peruse the journals. Long enough to take an interest and make notes.”

Evryn frowned. “I suppose that might be considered … interesting.”

“Exactly,” Mariselle said as she turned back to the papers scattered before her and began gathering them. “I intend to ask her about it when I next see her. And the teacups with the names painted on the sides.”

After that, time passed in pleasant disorder.

They gathered and stacked books, sorted diagrams, collected the wide variety of self-inking quills that had somehow migrated to the most curious and unlikely corners of the cottage, and debated whether to do anything about the fact that the rug now bore permanent impressions from the patterns on the dream core.

And all the while, Evryn did his best to remain within a scandalously close radius of Mariselle—though her cousin, whether by accident or sheer diabolical instinct, had an exasperating knack for inserting herself directly between them at every opportunity.

Eventually, Petunia groaned and flopped back against the edge of the sofa. “Alas,” she said, “I must depart.”

Mariselle looked up from where she was sorting notebooks and documents into two separate piles: those relating to dream architecture and those that involved warding. “Already?”