Page 56 of Song of the Hell Witch

“We have been living off stale sweetcoils and braceberry tea, so. Understandable.” She took a quick glance around at the Ladies, all pointedly trying not to look in their direction. “But maybe use the fork for the potatoes.”

“Good idea.”

She held her breath, waiting for him to say something, anything about the confession she’d made earlier.

But it was as if he’d forgotten—or worse, that it didn’t matter.

He made small talk with her, sure. They shared a few jokes.

But never once did he mention what she’d said. Never once did he ask Can we talk?

She thought maybe she should tell him how handsome he looked, that it might tip them closer to the subject.

Arcadie, thinking ahead, had apparently packed a few extra outfits for him, aware that the Ladies wouldn’t have any clothes to offer him.

In a midnight-blue frock, a light-gray shirt, and charcoal trousers, he looked more like a Silk gentleman than a street thief.

His hair was a bit tamer, his curls rolling back from his face rather than hanging in front of it.

Just say it, Pru, she told herself. Or ask him what he thought. Don’t wait for him to come to you.

“Prudence, dear,” Arcadie said, and she was grateful to climb out of the spiral. “Would you be so kind as to pass the honey rolls? Or are you too deep in your feelings to pay your new friend any attention?”

She scoffed and grabbed the silver basket in front of Puck, putting a bit of force behind the handover. Arcadie opened their mouth, surprised. “Haughty.”

“Things are awkward enough as it is; why do you have be over here causing chaos?”

“Things are about to get worse.”

“What do you—”

From the end of the table, Naomi stood up, clanging her spoon against the side of her glass. She was a vision in a black velvet gown, the sleeves coming to points over the backs of her palms. “If I can have everyone’s attention?”

Cressida, seated straight across from Pru, snorted in what was either disgust or sarcasm. “There’s seven of us here.”

Naomi gave her a tight smile. “As always, we’re so happy to have you here with us, Cressida. You really do brighten up whatever room you’re in. I merely wanted to welcome Puck, Pru, and Arcadie to our lovely home.”

“Always a pleasure, Ni.” Arcadie raised their glass, and for the first time, Pru caught sight of their outfit: a pleated burgundy skirt and a black tailcoat, complete with leather boots covered in silver buckles.

They were perhaps the most stylish person she’d ever met—and she envied how at ease they always seemed, prepared for every social occasion or situation.

“And, if I could, I would like to invite Eleanor and Villanelle Tempest, two of the sisters from our hamlet, in to get our evening started.”

As if on cue, two blond women who looked like they might be Pru and Puck’s age stepped into the hall, each armed with a viola. Mari clapped her hands together, no doubt excited to hear two musicians bring some of Leora’s folk songs to life.

“If you all are finished with your meal, do join us out on the floor for a few dances,” Naomi continued. “Doesn’t have to be long, but we want you to know that all of you”—her gaze flicked toward Puck—“are welcome here.”

Pru’s heart warmed at the thought of dancing with Puck, resting her head against his chest as they swayed back and forth. She turned toward him—and found his seat empty. Out on the floor, he was already twirling Bea under his arm as the sisters struck up a jig.

At first, she thought the tugging in her gut was jealousy, and she almost cursed herself for it. How could she be jealous of a man dancing with his daughter, basking in her presence when he was so certain a few days ago she might die?

But then she slowly realized it wasn’t jealousy at all.

It was regret. Regret for leaving him so many years ago.

Regret that regardless of what she felt for him now, he would never be able to feel the same for her.

Because he was a person split in two, and most of him would always belong to this girl—to Jocelyn, too, for having her.

That was her fault, and try as she might to win him back, the Puck Reed she’d loved was gone.

And what if the Puck that’s left can’t love me the way he used to?

Two hands descended on her shoulders, and she jumped, startled. When she turned, Arcadie was beaming at her, extending a hand. “Care for a spin?”

Distraction. Intrigue. A bit of fun. It all sparked in the hotelier’s eyes, and she accepted their invitation without a second thought.

“Ask her.”

Bea’s voice cut through the dull hum in Puck’s ears. He blamed the hunger, both literal and metaphorical, eating away at his core. “Ask who what?”

“Dad.” His daughter pranced around him, keeping time with the jig. She could probably see the red flushing up and down his neck, how he kept stealing glances at Pru in that ridiculous gown. “Ask. Pru. To. Dance.”

“She’s still eating.” But when he looked over, she wasn’t eating at all. She was talking with Arcadie. And then she was standing with Arcadie, making her way out onto the dance floor along with Florence, Mari, and Rita. “Oh.”

The hotelier, who had far more skill and style than Puck ever would, swung her out before pulling her in close.

Pru’s head tilted back in a laugh, and together they struck up a Thrill—at least Puck thought it was a Thrill.

He’d never studied Leoran or Belacans or Visagois dances before, because why would he?

He only knew the name of the Thrill because of the Provincial Ball, and only because Mari had whispered it in his ear in case he needed to know it.

“See?” Bea flicked him in the belly button. “You should ask her!”

“Well, now she’s dancing with someone else.” He shrugged. “What, are you not enjoying dancing with your dear old dad?”

“Is it ’cause of what she said?” Bea asked, her little palms sweaty in his hands. “About seeing you and Mommy in the market?”

Puck shook his head—though it was, in part, because of that. “No. It’s just … there’s a lot that would change. And fast. I’m not sure if I can take more change right now. I’m not sure she can either.”

Bea tilted her head to one side. He both loved and hated it whenever she did that, because it usually meant she was about to say something far too wise for her age. Something that would needle at him for days. “So you’re just gonna let her get away again?”

“I didn’t let her …” He wasn’t sure why it was suddenly so hot inside the coat, why the space between his shoulders ached so much.

He stretched his neck to one side, working out a sudden crick, and while the pain eased, the heat remained.

“She left me, Bumble, okay? Didn’t say goodbye. Didn’t say a goddamn thing. Just left.”

“Oh, so this is ’cause you’re mad?” She shrugged. “Well, that’s stupid.”

“I …”

But he thought about the night he and Pru had spent together, how he’d kissed her and it felt like the world stitching itself back together. Like everything finally settling into how it should be. That night, he’d thought it was the pain holding him back—and his need to impress her.

But maybe it was fear.

Fear that if he opened himself up, she’d crush him all over again. And if that happened at the same time that Bea found a new family in this coven of magnificent women, he wasn’t sure how he’d get through it.

Based on how he’d been feeling the last few days, madness was all but a guarantee.

Since when has fear ever held Puck Reed back? It was the first time he’d heard Jocelyn’s voice in days—and while he didn’t need it, it felt a bit like her blessing.

Bea beamed up at him. “You’re gonna do it, aren’t you?”

He beamed back. “Not before I do this.”

Forgetting the wound in his shoulder, forgetting everything but his daughter and her smile, he swept her off her feet and swung her around and around, grateful forever and always that she was his, his heart bursting at every hiccupped laugh that came between entirely unserious commands of “Put me down! Put me down!”

Pru was caught in a dance circle with Rita, Florence, and Mari when a hand settled on the small of her back. Mari’s eyes lit up, and that was how she knew. She twirled, and Puck caught her in his arms and fell immediately in step, guiding her seamlessly across the floor.

“You’re feeling better.” She wasn’t sure what to say. All she knew was that she needed to keep the conversation neutral, at least long enough that her heart could slow down.

His head ticked side to side. “The pain’s less. Something’s still strange, but I think I’m on the mend.”

“Good.” Breathe, Pru. Breathe. “And look! A week on the road, and suddenly you’re a dance master.”

It was rather disarming, how swiftly and elegantly he moved.

He gave her a playful smirk. “Or maybe I wasn’t giving you my best the night of the Provincial Ball.”

“Did Jocelyn give you lessons?”

“Some.” He pushed against her hip, and she fluttered away from him before he tugged her back.

Her toes moved a bit too eagerly, and she crashed into him, her hand coming to rest on his good shoulder.

All she’d have to do was tilt her chin up and her lips would brush his.

She could pull him into a kiss, show him she’d meant everything she’d said that morning.

Not here. Not in front of all these people.

His hand found the sway of her back again, and he led her into a series of spins. “Some of it I learned from you. You probably just don’t remember.”

“Our dance lessons in the Plantagenet?” She chuckled. “How could I forget?”

They’d been all of ten or eleven, and she’d wanted to re-create the romantic ballroom scenes from the novels Standish kept for the River Rats who could read. “I was a pretty piss-poor instructor, if I recall. Spent most of the time spreading my wings and lifting you up into the air.”

“Dropped me once too.”

“Punishment for all the times you took credit for my takes.”