The house was restless, expectant when Augusta came in Monday the next week, a quiet energy stalking through the empty rooms. Silk flowers quivered in their vases, the barren hearths yawned, hungry. How had she never realized how alive the house was, how it pulsed and clenched and waited, waited, waited? All of the bravado and determination Augusta had felt while seated in the safety of the coffee shop next to Leo faded as she sat down at her desk, a pensive aura wrapping itself around her.
With her spreadsheet of object catalog numbers open before her, Augusta eventually fell into the rhythm of updating the objects that needed to be assessed for conservation. Usually the monotonous task was the last thing she wanted to tackle on her to-do list, but today it was a license to let her mind wander all the familiar, well-worn paths: Leo, her mother and their fights, and, of course, Margaret.
Was Margaret some kind of guardian angel? If she really had come to Augusta’s rescue and knocked the painting off the wall, then she must be. It was still hard to wrap her head around the fact that she was now someone who apparently believed in ghosts, but if she understood her episodes for what they were—visions of the past—maybe accepting the existence of ghosts was the next logical step.
The fact that she had been anticipating it made it no less frightening when the columns of numbers began to blur and fade. Closing her eyes, she let herself fall into the vision, no less scared than she had been the first time. But she was here now, and there were answers, if only she could find them.
It was the air that changed first, a clean sharpness with the faint scent of lemons and grass, spreading and swirling like milk poured into coffee.
Forcing herself to get up from her seat, Augusta moved as if in a trance through the now-familiar shadowed halls of the house. She found herself outside, a mild autumn breeze lifting the curls at her neck, coal smoke hanging in the air. The distant murmur of the ocean carried to the rocky garden—gulls crying, boats alerting one another of their presence with baritone horns. But there was another sound, closer, softer. The sound of human breath and footsteps.
Aside from the dream of Margaret in the mirror, she had never seen another person in her episodes before. Would they be able to see her? Would they speak to her? The idea was both thrilling and terrifying. If she was truly in the past and it wasn’t just a hallucination, could her interaction change the course of the present? Watching the past unfold as if a movie was one thing, and it was strange enough, but being a player in it was another thing altogether.
As the figure loomed closer, her heart began to hammer against her ribs, her hands clammy and cold. This was it. She felt as if she was staring down Death himself.
But the face that came into view wasn’t that of Death, or even that of a stranger. It was a pleasant face, with dark eyes and hair that was greased and parted. It was a face she had seen before, she was sure of it, but she couldn’t place him. The man looked as if he had walked off a movie set, dressed in a single-breasted coat with striped trousers and a loosened ascot. Every pore, every bristle along his jawline was sharp and hyper-focused. Swallowing, she waited for him to either walk through her or to demand to know who she was. Instead, he stopped short, peering at her. “Maggie, are you all right? You look like you saw the devil himself.”
“George,” Augusta said in a breath. It was Margaret’s brother. He looked just like the portrait of him in the sitting room, and a younger version of the photographs Augusta had seen of him as an old man in the 1920s.
“The one and only. You always know how to make a fellow feel wanted. Come, sit with me a moment.”
Before she could do anything, he was taking her hand in his, and leading her to a wrought iron bench overlooking the terraced garden.
Full skirts swished around her ankles, and the tight laces of her boned corset molded to her ribs. Her full hips swayed, her posture fluid and easy despite the constraints of her dress. It was Augusta’s body, but Margaret’s movements, Margaret’s confidence. Why didn’t he realize that she was not his sister, but a stranger from another time?
“I know how you like this spot,” he said, pulling her down with him so that she was practically in his lap. “Remember when you were little and you used to sit out here, throwing apples down the terraces? Our old nurse—what was her name?—she used to have a fit trying to gather them all up again.”
Augusta didn’t know what he was talking about, but felt herself nodding.
“Now,” he said, taking her hand in his and gently rubbing her wrist with his thumb, “will you tell your favorite brother what is troubling you?”
She could feel the feather-soft touch of his finger on her skin, his dark eyes gentle and warm as they searched her face. What were they seeing? Someone unsure of her place, of her own body? Or a beautiful woman who moved with the rhythm of cresting waves and spoke like the moonlight shafting through pine needles?
Augusta opened her mouth to tell him that there was something wrong, that this was all a mistake, but the words that came out were not hers. They were soft and husky, musical. “Oh, George, if only all men were half so good as you.”
“Has some blackguard trifled with you?” George’s eyes darkened, his jaw tightening, and for the first time Augusta realized that this was a man who might look gentle and kind, but could be capable of violence. A man like Chris.
Augusta waited for her own answer, as if she were waiting on a cue for the next line in a play. The source of her words were somewhere just beyond her grasp, like a vague memory. But no sooner had she opened her mouth then it all vanished again: the cold bench beneath her, sweet-smelling apple trees and George’s hand on hers. She was sitting in the parking area behind the backyard, the buildings of Main Street just visible through the thinned trees.
She blinked rapidly, trying to regain her bearings. She hadn’t just witnessed the past, she had been Margaret, seen the world through her eyes, felt an unspoken understanding between herself and George. Had anyone witnessed her strange journey from her office to the parking area? She must have looked like a sleepwalker, moving through the house without paying any heed to her surroundings.
For a long while she just sat with the lingering memory of George beside her, the sharp, salty air curling between them. If she waited long enough, would it all come back? Did she want it to all come back? There was only one thing that was certain, and that was her hallucinations were becoming more intense, more vivid and all-encompassing, building to something. But what?
“So, where should we start?”
Augusta looked up from her work, half expecting to find George lounging in the doorway instead of Leo. Her mind was still sticky, full of cobwebs, like she still had one foot in the past.
“Where should we start what?”
“Looking for Margaret.” He came in and sat in her extra chair. “You didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”
“Right,” she said. She hadn’t thought he’d forget, but she hadn’t really been certain if he was serious or not. “I was just doing some data entry.”
“Must be some serious data entry. I think I was standing there for about a full minute before you noticed. Not,” he added, a tad sheepishly, “in a creepy way.”
Part of her wanted to tell him about the hallucination, but the tender moment between her and George had been so private, and she couldn’t bring herself to share it with him. “I might have been thinking about Margaret, too,” she said, in an attempt to at least partially tell him the truth.
Leo didn’t press the matter, and she turned her mind toward the search, tapping her pen against her desk as she thought. There were plenty of places where Augusta knew to look for Margaret, but she and Leo couldn’t very well interrogate her dreams or penetrate her hallucinations. “Hmm... Office of Vital Records?” she suggested, although she wasn’t holding out hope. If there was any record of Margaret there, someone would have probably found it long before now. But she was looking forward to spending the hour with Leo, and maybe she would turn something up for her exhibit.
“Sounds good to me.” Leo waited while she saved her work and gathered up her notebook and water bottle. “So,” he said, “everything going okay since last week?”
It took her a moment to realize he was talking about Chris, her nasty encounter with him. At first blush Leo looked casual and unworried as he leaned against the doorframe, waiting for her. But then she noticed his hand at his side, curling and uncurling into a fist, and the tightness in his jaw. She wasn’t used to seeing him look anything other than laid-back, and while she was flattered that he was upset on her behalf, she didn’t want him to think of her as a victim.
“Yep, everything is great,” she said in a tone that didn’t invite further comment. She didn’t want to think about Chris; it was bad enough that the fight played over and over in her head—the feel of his hands digging into her shoulders, her back slamming into the wall.
“He hasn’t come around anymore?”
“Nope.”
Leo seemed to get the message, and when she had all her stuff together, they left, making small talk until they reached the town hall a block away.
The binders of yellowing paper were almost as ancient as the clerk who pulled them and set them down on a rickety table for them. “No phones, no pens and keep your voices down,” she instructed Augusta and Leo before returning to her desk and picking up her knitting needles.
“So, what are we looking for exactly?” Leo asked in a whisper.
Augusta let her gaze roam the overwhelming collection of binders in front of them. She had no idea what they were even looking for, let alone where to start. “Wasn’t this your idea?”
He raised his brows. “Yeah, but you’re the expert.”
“I’m hardly an expert,” she said. “But maybe we should check all the family names first, like Harlowe and Foster, just to make sure that there’s nothing obvious we’re missing.” It was a long shot, but it was possible that Margaret was hiding somewhere in these binders, perhaps with a different last name. Or maybe there was a record of a marriage that had previously been overlooked.
“See, you say you’re not an expert, yet you always come up with these great ideas.” Already pulling the first binder toward him and scouring the pages, Leo added, “I think it’s time to admit to yourself that you’re kind of amazing.”
“Voices down!” the clerk called from her desk before Augusta could fully process what he had just said.
“Busted,” Leo whispered.
They worked quietly, but it was hard to concentrate when she could hear Leo’s soft breathing next to her, see his rolled sleeves and open collar from the corner of her eye. As she suspected there were no Margaret Harlowes, so she flipped to the Ms on the off chance that Margaret might show up with her first name listed as her last. It was a long shot, but they were here and there was nothing else to do. Tracing her finger down the names, she stopped as one jumped out at her.
Montrose, Louisa. b. 1829 d.185?
She racked her brain trying to remember where she’d come across the last name. She could see it in her mind, printed neatly on cream-colored paper. Then it came to her. It had been on her family tree, on her mother’s side. It was probably a fairly common name, but she made a mental note to check her family tree again when she got home and see if the name and dates were a match. She was about to tell Leo when he leaned over and said, “Jill just texted me—she and Reggie are going to The Sea Dog for drinks after they close up and asked if we wanted to meet them there.”
Demoralized by their fruitless search as well as not really wanting to return home to a night of TV reruns on the couch, she said, “Yeah, I’d be up for that. Should we go over and meet them now?”
“Oh,” he said, as if just remembering something, “shoot. I actually have dinner plans with Lisa tonight.”
Of course he had dinner plans. He had a whole other life outside of work and she wasn’t part of it. She didn’t know who Lisa was, and she was pretty sure she didn’t want to know. “Next time,” she said with a weak smile.
As Augusta walked through the darkening town to the bar a few blocks away she thought of Margaret’s portrait, her knowing green eyes, the challenging tilt of her chin. Something told her that Margaret hadn’t been one to wait around for a man, or anyone else for that matter. Margaret would have taken what she wanted and to hell with the consequences. How freeing that must have been, how intoxicating. For just one night, Augusta wished she could know what it would be like to be someone like Margaret.
The next morning, head throbbing from a hangover, Augusta gingerly set her stuff down in the staff kitchen and plugged in the electric kettle to make some tea. Despite Leo not coming—or perhaps because of Leo not coming—she’d let go the night before and enjoyed herself to the fullest. It had been freeing to forget everything from her unrequited crush, to Chris, to Margaret, even, but now she was paying for it. Every time she thought she might be on the verge of a hallucination, it turned out to just be the effects from a night of too much drinking. So as she climbed the narrow steps to the third floor of Harlowe House, she was half holding her breath, wondering if she was once again going to slip into the past, or vomit all over a historic carpet.
She rarely came up here—there was little reason to—but she needed to check the insect traps. Kneeling down, she fished the glue trap out from behind an empty bookshelf. She recorded the assortment of feckless moths and unlucky spiders and put out a fresh trap. But as she was walking her hands back to stand up, the floorboard wobbled under her. Frowning, she leaned closer to inspect it. If there was something wrong with the floorboard, Reggie would need to know so that he could address it.
Since she had her condition reports with her, she took a quick picture and jotted down a note. It was getting hot up there, but something made her kneel back down and test the edge of the plank again. To her surprise, it came up in her hands. There were probably dead rodents and decades’ worth of dust, but she couldn’t help leaning down and peering in.
The flashlight on her cell phone illuminated something that didn’t look like it belonged under a floor. She drew in her breath, leaning closer. Two books, wrapped in brittle fabric, were nestled in the cavity.
She sat there, motionless. If she had thought that taking the letters out of the desk was borderline unethical, these books would be like lifting the Holy Grail from its resting place. It didn’t even matter what lay between the covers—though she couldn’t help the wild speculations that raced through her mind—just the fact that someone had hidden books in the attic was hugely significant. Opening and inspecting them was a job for a curator or an archivist, someone who could take them to a sterile environment and do it properly. But everything she knew and respected about museum protocol seemed to fly out the window as she gently lifted the first book and thumbed it open.
It was bound in soft leather, a simple gilded embellishment on the spine. The first page was titled in cursive “My Common Book” and underneath was the inscription:
To Louisa Montrose, from her mother, Catharine.
Her mouth went suddenly dry. Montrose. That name again. This was the third time she’d seen it: first, on her family tree, and the most recently just the previous day in the vital records. Again, Montrose wasn’t an uncommon name, but something inside her jumped in recognition, and she knew that whoever this Louisa Montrose was, they had to be related in some way.
She gingerly turned the pages, her eyes scanning the handwritten entries, dated from the 1840s. Who was Louisa Montrose? And why had she hidden her book in the attic beneath the floorboards where no one would ever see it? Most of the entries seemed to be recipes, little songs and some sketches, though they were difficult to make out. Placing it gently on the cloth, Augusta turned her attention to the second book. This one was bound in a much simpler paper binding, the entries written in a different hand. She didn’t need to see the name on the first page to know to whom it belonged: it was Margaret’s. It read more like an account book, people’s names listed with little shorthand entries next to them.
Alice MacKay—husband takes his hand to her when inebriated.
Hattie Mason—three miscarriages. Gave her instructions to drink a tisane of willow bark and mint. Her brother controls her finances and I do not trust him.
She flipped forward. It was all women that Margaret had apparently advised or treated in some way. Had Margaret practiced medicine of some kind? There could have been female midwives back in the 1870s, though Augusta couldn’t imagine that a wealthy family such as the Harlowes would have allowed their daughter to have a vocation. And if she had, surely there would have been some record of it somewhere else.
Downstairs, a phone ringing reminded her that she couldn’t stay up here all day. Quickly, she put both books back in the hollow space, replacing the board. She would not take them, but neither would she tell Jill or Sharon. These were hers, a secret between her and Margaret; Margaret had led her there, she was sure of it, and to lay them bare under the eye of an archivist or the public would be a breach of trust.
She was still sitting on her elbows and knees when her phone buzzed. She jumped, Leo flashed across her screen. Call? it said.
She groaned, suddenly remembering some very drunken texts she’d sent to him the night before. The books were instantly forgotten as Augusta called him back, her heart beating a little faster as she waited for him to pick up. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Not much, what’s up with you?”
Twirling a strand of hair around her finger like a high schooler, Augusta switched the phone to her other ear. “You wanted me to call just so you could tell me you’re not up to anything?”
“Maybe, would you be mad if I did?”
“I’m livid,” she said, biting her lip to keep from grinning. If she’d made a total ass out of herself the night before, then he was too gentlemanly to say anything about it.
She could hear the smile in his voice. “Yikes, okay. Then I guess I better tell you why I really called.”
Her breath hitched, and for a stupidly drawn-out moment she thought he was going to say something about how he’d been waiting to ask her out. But of course, he was dating the mysterious Lisa. “So I was talking to Lori in Boston, and she said that she was looking through the Ida Foster letters you found.”
Augusta was only disappointed for a fraction of a second. “Oh, yeah?”
“She says that they could go a long way in helping not just our interpretation of the house, but also the community in the 1800s.” He paused. “Well done, you.”
“That’s awesome, I’m glad they’ll be helpful. No Margaret sightings, though?”
“No Margaret sightings,” he confirmed. “But I was thinking of cross-referencing some of the names in the letters with documents in the archives. That’s a thing right, cross-referencing?”
He was too adorable. “Yes, that’s a thing. And it’s a really good idea,” she added.
“Lori sent me home with some photocopies and a list of the names that show up.” She could hear the rustle of papers as he started to rattle off names. “You have a better grasp of the history of Harlowe House than I do, so tell me if any of these are familiar. Let’s see...there’s a Mullins, a Montrose, a Crenshaw, a—”
Augusta sat up straighter. “Wait, go back. What was that name?”
“Which one? Crenshaw?”
“No, before that.”
“Um, let’s see. Montrose?”
Augusta’s mind whirred. It couldn’t be a coincidence. The universe was all but throwing the name at her, making certain that she understood without a doubt that she was connected in some way to the Harlowe family, to Margaret.
“Hey, you still there?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here,” she said quickly. “It’s just that name... I think I know it. Can you read me the context it appears in, in the letter?”
The rustle of papers again. “It looks like she might have been a member of the extended family? Ida references Jemima’s relatives being in town for a visit. It was her maiden name.”
Augusta’s ears buzzed, her heart beating faster. How had she missed it on the Harlowe tree? Margaret’s mother was a Montrose, which meant that Margaret was a Montrose.
“Are you okay?”
She came out of her thoughts. “Yeah, I just think that I... I think I might be related to Margaret?”
Now it was Leo’s turn to be stunned into silence. “Really? Is your family name Montrose?”
“Way, way back apparently.”
“Damn. That’s huge.” They were both digesting the significance of this when Leo suddenly spoke again. “Not to change the subject, but while I have you on the phone...” He trailed off and Augusta waited expectantly. “I—I was wondering if you were free after work next Friday? Maybe we could grab a bite to eat?”
She must not have heard him right because it sounded like he was asking her out. When she didn’t say anything, he hurried on. “I know that you just went through a breakup, and I totally get if you aren’t ready to go out or whatever. It can just be two friends having dinner if that’s—”
“No, I mean, yes. Yes, I would love to go.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You sound surprised. Did you think I wouldn’t want to?”
“Not surprised, just, glad.”
She almost asked who Lisa was, but thought better of it. Augusta was trying to think of what to say that wouldn’t make it sound like she’d been pining for him almost two months, when she heard Jill calling her from down the steps. “I’m glad, too,” she said. “Hey, I have to run, but see you next week?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for anything, Miss Montrose.”
When Augusta came in on Monday, she was surprised to find Leo working in the ballroom. With their date on Friday, Augusta had a new feeling of butterflies when she saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor, a nautical tattoo she had never noticed before peeking out from his shirtsleeve.
At her footsteps, he turned, his face brightening. “Hey, Jill said you were working in the carriage house today so I figured I wouldn’t see you. Lucky me,” he added with a crooked grin.
“Just needed to grab something,” she said, waving a notebook she’d forgotten the day before. “I’m heading to the carriage house now, but give a shout if you need me.” Please need me, she added to herself.
It was quiet in the carriage house with the late autumn rain pattering on the roof. Augusta set herself up to work, putting a new playlist on her phone. Most of the boxes left were uninteresting, hardware and rusted knickknacks. There were some musty old mattresses that would probably be documented and then disposed of. Augusta got into a rhythm of taking photos, jotting notes and then moving on to the next object on the shelves. She was clipping along, taking a photo of some old lawn ornaments, when her phone slipped from her hand.
She scrambled to catch it, but it clanked to the floor, skidding under the dusty shelf. Crouching, she groped to find it, only to push it farther back by accident. Damn, she would have to find a broom or something so she could fish it out. She stood up, but was hit with a wave of light-headedness. Wincing, she braced herself against a shelf, blinking against the stars in her eyes. She’d forgotten to bring her water bottle with her and was probably a little dehydrated.
She shouldn’t have been surprised when, on clearing her vision, she was met with a very different view of the carriage house than when she’d closed her eyes. She shouldn’t have been surprised when she smelled the sweet scent of hay, or the musk of old leather either. Yet as her gaze wandered over the carriages and horse tackle, she caught her breath.
What had she been looking for? Her phone? The concept of a phone itself grew fuzzy and indistinct. No, she had been looking for an herb, that’s right. Thyme. Well, she wasn’t going to find it in the carriage house. Wiping her hands off on her apron, she went out to go to the stillroom.
Molly was outside hanging linens on the line. When she saw Augusta, she scowled. “I caught that dog of yours in the root cellar,” she said, her Irish accent heavy with distaste. “Mind he doesn’t eat something that might not agree with him.”
Augusta nodded, but she had no intention of reprimanding Shadow. He was a good dog, and her truest friend. As she went to let herself into the house, she caught her reflection in the glass panes of the door and couldn’t help but admire how fine her long, dark curls looked, how her complexion glowed.
In the stillroom, she just stood for a moment, inhaling the comforting scent of herbs and dried flowers. She took no joy in the charm she was about to make, but it had to be done. Jack would pay for his falsehoods.
He had stopped coming to their meeting place the last few weeks, but if she sent for him, he would come. She was sure of it. After that, it would simply be a matter of persuading him to ingest the concoction.
When she’d ground and measured the herbs, she went off in search of a vial, but stopped short at the sight of Henry lounging against the pianoforte in the ballroom. He always seemed to be haunting the house these days, doing nothing in particular except getting underfoot. Before she could backtrack, he’d turned around, his gaze locking on her.
“Cousin,” he said, his dark eyes brightening. “You look pale. Are you well?”
For a moment Augusta couldn’t find her tongue, but then words not quite her own came out of her mouth. “What do you want, Henry?”
“Not this tired old conversation again,” he said, with a dramatic sigh. “I want you to be happy, as I always have, and I always will. I worry for you, especially in your condition.”
“Well, I am quite happy. Your concern is unwarranted.”
“Are you?” He tilted his head to the side, regarding her. “You are a most patient woman, then. Most women would not be so happy to learn that their lover was already engaged.”
She stilled, her hand resting on the pianoforte. Henry had known. He had known that Jack was already betrothed to someone else, and he had said nothing to her. She resisted the urge to slap him clean across his face, but then he gave her the most patronizing, pitying smile and she lost all restraint. Before she knew it, she had her hands on his lapels, shaking him as if her life depended on it.
“You miserable excuse for a man! You’ve known all this time and said nothing in the hopes that what... I would be your mistress? Your wife? We’re cousins, raised as siblings—it’s unnatural!” He pushed her off him, holding her at arm’s length while she beat at his chest.
“Augusta! Stop!”
Henry was looking at her with the strangest expression, but she kept hitting him, her anger boiling over. Why did he not defend himself? Why was he just standing there with his hands on her arms? “You brute!” she cried, but still he did not move.
When at last she had exhausted her fury, she let her forehead fall against his chest. But instead of the wool of his waistcoat, the fabric was soft, thin. When she looked up, it was not Henry’s pale face that was peering down at her, but a brown-skinned face etched with concern. The name Reggie floated through her mind, though she was sure she had never met a Reggie in her life.
“Jill? Leo?” he called over his shoulder, his hands still firmly locked onto her arms. She struggled against his grip, but her anger was leeching out of her, leaving her weak and exhausted.
“Augusta, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“Reggie?”
Blinking, she looked around the ballroom for the pianoforte, for Henry, but all she saw were a few folding chairs and the half-erected exhibit. A moment later Leo came jogging into the room. “Hey, what’s going on? Is everything okay?”
“I’m okay,” Augusta mumbled, though she felt as if she might throw up.
“She was shouting at someone named Henry, and then started hitting me,” she heard Reggie explain as Leo guided her to a chair. “I think she’s having some kind of manic episode or a nightmare or something.”
“Here, drink this,” Leo said gently, handing her a plastic water bottle.
She took it from him with shaking hands and lifted it to her lips. It tasted like chemicals, but it was cold, and she drank until it ran down her chin.
“Is there someone I should call?” Reggie was asking Leo. “I don’t know if she’s on some kind of medication or something or—”
Leo shook his head. “No, I think it’ll be okay. Can you go let Jill know that we need a few minutes in here? Thanks, man,” he said as Reggie nodded and left.
When they were alone, Leo took Augusta’s cold hands in his and rubbed them warm. “Was it a hallucination again?” he asked in a murmur.
She nodded. It had been a hallucination, but it had also been so much more. Just like in her last episode, she had actually been Margaret. But unlike the last time, she’d had access to Margaret’s thoughts as well—her knowledge, her feelings.
Leo was studying her face, trying to find an answer, though she already knew there wasn’t one. “Was it worse than the other ones?” he asked softly. When she nodded again, he swore under his breath.
“I... I was Margaret. I saw her brother, Henry and me—I mean, they—were having an argument about someone named Jack. I think he was her lover.” Augusta drew in a soft breath. “She was pregnant,” she whispered, that detail resurfacing in breathtaking clarity. Margaret hadn’t said anything about being pregnant, but Augusta could feel the absence of life in her stomach now, and it left her strangely empty.
Leo nodded, but she could tell that even he was having trouble believing everything she was saying. “All right,” he said soothingly. “What do you want to do? I could call your mom, have her come pick you up maybe?”
Augusta gave a vigorous shake of her head. “No, I’d rather stay here.” There was an unexplainable tug in her chest that tethered her to Harlowe House, and besides, there was no way her mother could even begin to understand what had happened. “I think I should just get back to work and try to forget it.”
Judging from his expression, Leo didn’t agree, but he gave her hands a squeeze. “Okay,” he said, “I’m going to grab my stuff and bring it in here and work, so if you start to feel woozy or anything, let me know.” He hesitated, as if trying to find the right words. “I know it’s none of my business, but I have to ask... Are you using any drugs that might—”
“No,” she said sharply, taking her hands back from him.
“Okay,” he said, not in the least bit perturbed. “Sorry, I had to ask. It’s just that...well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll be right back.”
Augusta watched him leave. She couldn’t help but be a little insulted that he thought she would lie, though if she were on some kind of drug that would at least be an explanation. They worked in silence for the rest of the day, only occasionally exchanging the barest of words when work necessitated it.
That evening, as Augusta was curled up on the couch watching game show reruns with her mother, she got a text from Leo. Hey, I hope you’re feeling better and that I didn’t cross a line with my question earlier today. Are we still on for Friday? Totally understand if you want to cancel, but I hope you’ll still want to go.
She texted back that they were still on and she was looking forward to it. But that night, when she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, it was of an intense young man, tall, with dark hair and piercing blue eyes, of whom she dreamed.