“Bowen Penhallow,” Sir Madoc boomed as Tamsyn slipped her hand into Bowen’s, “may I introduce . . .” The older man frowned, his vaguely purple face darkening a bit. “Sorry, love, what was your name again?”
“Anna Ripley,” Tamsyn said smoothly, still shaking Bowen’s hand. Her palm was ice-cold against his, and Bowen wondered if that was from nerves or if it was just that the Merediths clearly thought things like “heating” were for lesser mortals.
“Anna,” Bowen echoed slowly as he studied her face.
Tamsyn’s brown hair was concealed beneath a bright blond bob, and while her eyes were just as warm and as dark as ever, they were now behind a pair of large glasses with bright red frames. Her shoes were red, too, bloodred, the heels so high and so thin that he wondered that she hadn’t already pitched face-first onto the stone floor. They made her tall enough to almost look him dead in the eye, and as Bowen watched her now, he thought her gaze was communicating something like Please don’t cock this up for me, mate.
Only . . . more American, obviously.
“Excellent, excellent,” Sir Madoc blustered, gesturing for both of them to continue down the hallway to a small kitchen.
This was clearly the older part of the house, the wood-beamed ceiling low, the brick around the fireplace charred with centuries of soot, but it was cozy in its way. A fire crackled in the hearth, and there was a steaming pot of tea on the rough wooden table in the center of the room along with a few mismatched china cups.
Sir Madoc walked over to them now, pouring two cups before producing a flask from his jacket and adding a healthy dollop to each. He went to cap the flask, then paused, and as Bowen and Tamsyn stood there just inside the doorway, Sir Madoc tilted the entire container up and drained it.
“Ah,” he said, placing the empty flask back in his jacket. “That’s more like it. Now, if you two will excuse me, much to do, much to do, but please, enjoy your tea. Cocktails will be served in the library at seven, followed by dinner at eight. Miss Ripley, I’ll have your things sent to the Blue Room, I think. No. No, Yellow. Yes, Yellow Room, much nicer views, closer to the gardens.”
Walking back toward them, Sir Madoc gave both Tamsyn and Bowen hearty claps on the shoulder, and then he was gone, the gloom of the hallway seeming to swallow him up.
Leaving Tamsyn and Bowen alone.
For a moment, they both just stood there, the only sounds the shifting of the logs in the fireplace and the wind whistling through the eaves.
Tamsyn broke first, sighing as she walked over to the table in those high, high heels, each step clicking loudly in the quiet room.
“I need to be fortified to have this conversation,” she said, picking up the cup and sitting down on one of the stools circling the table.
Bowen sat as well, the fragile cup warm in his hand as he took a sip. The splash of whisky Sir Madoc had poured in started a pleasant simmer in his veins. Tamsyn was watching him warily, but Bowen let the silence spool out a bit before finally saying, “You look . . . different.”
Tamsyn turned her head so sharply that the edges of that very geometrical haircut swung like pendulums over her shoulders.
“That’s it?” she said, raising her eyebrows beneath the platinum bangs. “You find me here, obviously on a job, and all you have to say is ‘you look different’?”
“Not all I have to say, just the first thing,” Bowen countered. “The second is pretty obvious, I’d think.”
“What am I doing here?” she guessed, propping her cheek on her hand, and Bowen reminded himself that he was annoyed with her and that was not bloody fucking adorable.
“Pretty much, yeah.”
She heaved another sigh, ruffling her bangs. “Do you want the short version or the long version?”
“The true one. Be honest with me,” he said, lowering his head to look into her eyes.
Tamsyn seemed to deflate, slightly, her fist sliding away from her cheek. “It’s very uncool that you do that,” she told him. “The whole . . . earnest thing. With the eyes and the voice and the . . .” She waved a hand over her face. Bowen had no idea what she meant by that, but ignored it as she said, “I’m here on behalf of a client, obviously.”
“I’m your only client now,” he replied.
She was too good and too quick to give away much, but Bowen saw it, the brief flash of guilt in her eyes, the lower lip caught between her teeth for an instant.
“Tam—” he began, and she rolled her eyes, throwing up her hands with a clatter of gold bangles.
“You are my only client in the sense that I only currently work for you, but I worked with a lot of people before I met you, Bowen, and sometimes a girl likes to flex her skills a bit, is all. I was on the site that I use to find artifacts—”
“There’s a website for that?”
She held up one hand, and for the first time Bowen noticed her nails were the same scarlet as her outfit. “There’s a website for everything. Unfortunately. Anyway, I saw something interesting. I decided that since you didn’t need me in December, I might as well take a little freelance work, and said freelance work involves this walking nightmare of a place.”
Bowen grunted and drained the rest of his tea.
As he sat the empty cup back on the table, he reminded himself that feeling angry was normal. What Tamsyn did, acquiring magical artifacts for the highest bidder, was dangerous. It made things harder for all witches, and he was a witch, right?
So yes, perfectly fine to feel irritated. Frustrated.
Natural to be curious, too. What on earth might be in this house that someone would pay Tamsyn’s prices to get it?
And he was curious, just like he was angry and frustrated.
But the worst part, the thing that bothered him the most, was the feeling underneath those other, perfectly rational ones.
He was hurt.
Why hadn’t she told him she was going to take another job? No, she didn’t owe it to him as a coworker, maybe, but as a friend—
Bowen slammed the door shut on that line of thinking.
Not helpful right now.
“So you went back on our deal,” he said, folding his arms over his chest. “Unless ‘exclusive’ means something else to non-witches?”
