Dark Witch (The Cousins O'Dwyer Trilogy #1)(41)

No more cheerful maids to tidy her room and bring her tea and biscuits. No more dazzling breakfast buffets. No more snuggling in at night, listening to the wind or the rain or both and imagining herself in the thirteenth century.

But she was trading all that for family. A much better deal.

She’d done most of the packing the night before, but rose now to finish, to calculate the tip for housekeeping. To take her last castle shower.

With a half hour to spare before Connor—at his insistence—picked her up, she practiced her craft.

The feathers seemed safest, considering. Branna had refused to teach her anything new until she’d mastered the four elements. And mastered them to Branna’s high watermark.

No amount of wheedling, bribery, cajoling had moved her cousin one inch.

So master them, she would.

At least she’d progressed to a small pile of feathers rather than a single one.

In the dim light she quieted her mind, reached down for the power. Reaching out her hands, she thought of air lifting, warm gentle breeze, a stir, a whisper.

Fluttering, the white feathers rose, separated, swayed, and turned in the air. She sent them higher, little climbs, gentle tumbles. Easy, easy, she told herself. A light touch.

She held her arms high, circled herself, watched them circle with her. And joyful, quickened just a bit.

A turn, a twirl, pretty white feathers mirroring her moves. Up, down, lazy swirls, perfect rings, then a slim white tower.

“I feel it,” she murmured. “I do. And it’s lovely.”

On a laugh, she spun, again, again. Spread her arms so feathers followed each one, formed two whirling circles. Serpentine, figure eights, then again into one downy cloud.

“A plus. Even Branna has to give me the mastery check mark on this one.”

At the hard and rapid knock on the door, she let out a yelp. The feathers fell, tumbling over her.

“Damn it!”

She brushed them off her shoulders. Blew them out of her face as she walked to the door.

“You broke my hold,” she began. “I was just— Oh. Boyle.”

“There’s feathers everywhere. Did you rip the pillow?”

“No. They’re my feathers. What are you doing here?” Irritation cleared into worry. “Is something wrong? Is someone hurt?”

“Nothing’s wrong. No one’s hurt. Connor got called in to the falconry school. A plumbing thing, and he’s the handy one. I’m drafted to fetch you. Are you packed?”

“Yes. I’m sorry. I could’ve gotten someone from the hotel to take me.”

“I’m here, so let’s get your things.”

“All right. Thanks. I’ve just got to clean this up. The feathers.”

“Hmm.” He reached out, surprising her with the skim of his fingers over her hair. “Here’s a couple more,” he said, and handed them to her.

“Oh. Okay.” She got on her hands and knees, started scooping feathers.

“Are they valuable feathers you have scattered everywhere?”

“They’re just feathers.”

“Well then, leave them. The housekeeper will deal with them. It’ll take you an hour to pluck them off the floor.”

“I’m not leaving this mess for Sinead.” She plucked a few more, then sat back on her heels. “I’m an idiot.”

“I’ll not comment on that.”

“Wait. Just wait.” She got to her feet, took a breath. Quiet the mind first, she reminded herself.

And floated the feathers up. On a pleased little laugh, she gathered them, then cupped her hands, let them fall into her palms.

“Did you see that?” Glowing, she held her cupped hands out. “Did you see?”

“I’ve eyes, don’t I?”

“It’s just so wonderful. It’s feels so right. Watch this.”

She threw her hands up, sent the feathers flying, sent them swirling again, dipping, rising, then once again cupped her hands to gather them.

“It’s so pretty. I’ve been practicing for days, and I’ve finally got it. Really got it.”

Still beaming, she looked up at him. Stopped. Everything stopped.

He looked at her, in that straight way he had—dead eye to eye. It wasn’t wonder she saw there, or amusement, or irritation.

It was heat.

“Oh.” She sighed it, and following her heart, leaned toward him.

He stepped back, a quick and complete evasion. “You’ve got your feathers.” Moving past her, he dragged the two suitcases off the bed. “Grab something. If there’s more, I’ll come back for it.”

“Just my jacket, and my laptop. I’ll get them. I’m sorry.” Mortified, she dumped the feathers in their bag, secured it. “I guess I was caught up, and I misread. I thought you . . . but obviously not.”

“Get a move on, will you?” The words snapped out of him; she felt them like hard finger flicks on her cheeks. “We’ve all of us got work.”

He carried the cases as if they weighed nothing, and breezed right by her.

“Fine. Fine! I get it. And again, I’m an idiot. You’re not attracted to me, message received. But you don’t have to be rude about it.”

She shoved the bag of feathers in her laptop case. “I’ve been rejected before, and somehow I survived. Believe me, I’m not planning on jumping you, so you don’t have to add the slap and kick. I’m a big girl,” she added, snatching up her jacket and scarf. “And I’m responsible for my own—”