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As if sensing her mood, Willoughby head-butted her palm, once, twice, before she laid it on his soft head and kept petting him as they settled down for the night in comfortable silence. No, she had no one to fear. Only a certain someone to regret.
15
OF DANGEROUS UNDERCURRENTS & SOY MILK
She ended up sleeping, but perhaps she’d have been better off staying awake. The dreams that chased her were full of Sam and hot embraces and hotter kisses. Magdalene could swear she woke up with Sam’s taste on her lips again.
She stretched, contemplating her predicament as Willoughby rose from what Magdalene now referred to as ‘his’ spot—the pillow next to the bed—and carefully, as if not to hurt her by putting his entire bulk on something too sensitive, jumped on the mattress and trotted towards her hands. He made biscuits before laying down, and when her fingers dove into his fur, the purring started immediately.
The Vacheron, ticking softly from her bedside table, showed 6:00AM. She’d come to learn that Sam would be on her way to her morning run, probably doing her customary warmup just to the left of the main quad. Magdalene wasn’t entirely sure why she kept watching her do it almost every day as she geared up for her own yoga hour, but she did.
Standing at the window, shadowed by her curtains like some brooding Bronte character, she would take in the stretch of the long, lanky limbs and the feet, shod in old running shoes take off in the direction of the lighthouse, pounding the pavement with grace and poise that belied the usual clumsiness. The only other place outside of the running track where Sam exhibited similar command was in bed, and Magdalene shivered at the thought.
She shivered a second time, and that one, sadly, had nothing to do with Sam. This time she was cold, the school still without power, and the chill and the wet of the maritime climate settling into the old stones fast, despite it being summertime. The electrician she had summoned last night had promised to come early this morning to fix the wiring issue and give her a full report on what exactly had happened. In the meantime, they would have to make do with hot water bottles and the ancient chimneys.
But Magdalene did not get up to watch this morning. Last night had given her not just steamy dreams. It gave her a steamier reality to face. The kiss… She wanted to say she had no idea how it happened. But Magdalene Nox tended to be completely honest with herself, if not with many others if she could help it. And she knew exactly how it came to pass. She was keenly aware of each stroke of lips and tongue. They’d been circling each other for a month now. Anger, resentment, fear, mistrust, and lust, all setting them up for quite an explosive reconnection.
And explosive it was. One kiss did more for Magdalene than years of one-night stands with nameless, faceless women had.
She scratched behind Willoughby’s ear, and his eyes closed in ecstasy, while the purring grew louder. Well, she certainly knew how he felt. She had wanted to purr yesterday too, just having Sam’s hands on her.
However, her fear was greater. Fear of being betrayed, of being set up, and that old dread… The one that never quite left her after being at Rodante… Of being watched, of being hunted. Her skin felt clammy as the air grew heavy, and she pulled the covers tighter around herself. Willoughby gave out a displeased meow and snuggled closer to her, his warmth soothing her in ways she’d never expected it to.
The ‘gifts’ of rats and dead flowers brought back that feeling, no matter how much therapy she’d done. Not even the esteemed and venerated Dr. Helena Moore—who’d sadly given up her East Coast practice prior to moving to Los Angeles—could help her. It flattered Magdalene just a touch that one of the most famous psychologists in the country had called her an enigma and ‘perhaps my most difficult case,to date,’ but none of it had helped her condition. Paranoia didn’t run in her family, and she knew there were instances, like now, when she felt herself slip into that fear.
She tsked and looked at Willoughby, now lounging on his back, paws in the air, exposing his belly to her fingers. He, at least, was supremely unbothered by all the disturbing occurrences around him.
“At least someone is killing critters on these grounds, Sir Willoughby.” He moved his ears to the sound of her voice and screeched out a weak more-squeak-than-meow in response.
“Yes, I thought you’d say that.” Magdalene smiled, then bit her lip, realizing she had been talking to a cat. But it made that something that caused her to break into cold sweat dissipate, and she booped his nose in delight before getting up.
Under the raucous protest from her feline companion, who plainly resented the hell out of Magdalene’s need to start her day, she took a very quick, lukewarm shower—the school’s infrastructure almost useless with no power—and dressed carefully.
The pinstriped skirt fit like a second skin, and she thanked Armani for his eye for a gorgeous cut. As she snapped on her garters and stepped into the four-inch Louboutins, her disposition improved. As if she had been cast in armor.
Magdalene spent half an hour with the electrician, who hemmed and hawed his way through the most unexpected of explanations for the events of last night. She handed him a check, and he promised to have the written account of the incident on her desk by nightfall. Some things needed to be documented, she decided. And some things needed to be avoided at all cost, if she wanted her mood to remain intact.
Orla Fenway was one of those things. No, satin and lace and red soles would not make her bulletproof, but when she rounded the corner and saw the previous headmistress waiting by the Mess Hall staring daggers at her, Magdalene felt decidedly good about herself.
It may have been a petty observation, but Orla was clearly dressed in the clothes she’d slept in, her makeup all but smudged, and her generally disheveled appearance spoke volumes about her state of mind. By contrast, Magdalene was well aware that she looked fresh as a daisy and made up like a rose. She threw her shoulders back just a little and walked towards her predecessor.
“I know what you’re doing and it won’t work, Nox!”
“Dr. Nox, Headmistress, honestly even Magdalene would do at this early hour, Professor.” She waved a dismissive hand in Fenway’s direction, but the older woman persisted.
“Do not play dead with me, Nox!”
A quality in the tone, in its ugly and dangerous undercurrents, provoked something in Magdalene. She turned sharply, only to witness Orla’s eyes narrow in such an expression of hatred, it took all her strength not to recoil.
There was no reason for such visceral emotion, no reason at all. Yet the loathing glared at her from the glacier blue eyes, as if possessing this frail, unkempt body–like it was placed there by some demonic hand, to embody it and spew poison on Magdalene every time they crossed paths.
Perhaps intuiting her thoughts, or maybe sensing the malice emanating from Fenway, Willoughby meowed and took a rather sudden swipe at Orla’s ankle. She managed to sidestep him, but Magdalene had to pick him up since he was clearly out for blood. He wiggled in her arms before she gave him a squeeze, then he growled at Orla, letting her know with the dirtiest of feline stares what he thought of her.
Magdalene shifted his bulk in her arms, making a mental note to get a lint roller for her office, since her entire left side was now covered in cat hair.
“I think you should choose your words carefully, Professor Fenway. After all, last night was traumatic enough for us all. And death was not entirely out of the question, despite the report from the village electrician.”
“I am here precisely because of that. When will you stop involving the townies in our affairs? I will not allow all this outside interference in school business. You’re bringing in all those lowlife types here, to traipse around the girls and endanger them!”
