Bell, Book and Scandal (Bedknobs and Broomsticks #3) - Josh Lanyon Page 0,39
bounced along the woman’s fingertips. She reached toward the house. Her fingertips went blue, and she staggered back.
“What’s she doing?” Jinx peered over my shoulder. “What does she want?”
“She’s trying to get past the protective wards.” After Friday’s break-in, I had renewed and strengthened all the spells and wards guarding the house.
“Can she do it?”
“I…don’t think so.” I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, because the fact that she had shown up here at all should have been impossible.
I could feel Jinx’s gaze. “You know her?”
I nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
The light was poor, but the shawl, the long white braid, the stooped, frail figure were all a giveaway. It didn’t make sense, though. Maman had sent Ambrose a whole chest of potions and tinctures, any one of which should have knocked GramMa down for the count.
Yet here she was, knock-knock-knocking at my door.
In uneasy silence, we watched GramMa creep up to the loggia entrance once more and then a few seconds later stumble back again.
Jinx said softly, worriedly, “We can’t just leave her out there. What if John comes home and she attacks him?”
She had a point. Not so much about John. John had been as immune to Phelon’s spell as he had been to Ciara’s as he had been to mine. It seemed my beloved consort really was immune to magic. But regardless of John, we had a problem. Presumably GramMa would wear herself out eventually, but then what? I wasn’t sure she could find her way home, and what if she ran into someone who was not immune to magic—which would be most people—and attacked them?
I would have to contact Ambrose, who was probably scouring the city for her even now. I had been so sure we had found a solution to his problem, but if anything, it seemed we had made matters worse.
This is the problem with magic. It’s not an exact science.
I opened my mouth to try to reassure Jinx that everything was under control, when a tall, thin figure in black came running down the steep driveway. White tennis shoes flashed in the darkness, but otherwise the figure was indistinct. It was traveling so fast, it nearly tripped twice, but caught its balance and reached the bottom safely. The figure went straight to the old woman.
“Oh my God,” Jinx said as the motion detector lights in front of the townhouse illuminated the newcomer’s face. “Is that Ambrose?”
I nodded.
“You mean, that’s Ambrose’s grandma?”
“Yes.”
Jinx shuddered. “Poor Ambrose.”
Maybe that sounded heartless, but there was something very wrong with the old lady, and it was more apparent now than it had been seeing her in her usual setting. In some ways, she reminded me of a zombie, yet she was still human. Her emotions were unfocused but still burning bright. Was she suffering from dementia, or was the cause of her decline inorganic? Was she under a spell? Had the strain of trying to balance her gifts with ingrained religious superstition driven her to some kind of breakdown?
Neither of us said anything else as we watched Ambrose speak to his grandmother, watched the old woman seem to crumple in on herself, watched him lead her away.
As they started up the driveway, Ambrose glanced back at the townhouse and, though I doubted he could see us in the upstairs window, his expression was anguished.
“Oh, Cos,” Jinx murmured. “What are you going to do?”
I shook my head.
Proof of how exhausted John really was, he slept through the alarm the next morning.
He was still sleeping when I got out of the shower.
I hated to wake him, but John did not approve of tardiness, especially in himself, so I leaned down to kiss him awake—and realized he was having a nightmare.
I drew back, watching his fingers twitch, his lips compress instinctively against any sound, his eyes moving back and forth beneath his flickering eyelashes. His sleeping face was pale and expressionless, but beneath that mask there was a terrible struggle going on.
It was painful to watch. Especially painful because I knew he wouldn’t want me to see even this much of what he was suffering.
It wasn’t the first time either.
Once or twice a month, John had these nightmares. The first couple of times, I had asked him what he dreamed. He always said he didn’t remember. That he didn’t ever recall his dreams. I knew that was a lie, but I also knew—believed—that I couldn’t force him to confide in me.
After all, hadn’t I just done the same thing to him the night before?