Max found his wife standing on the back porch of Wildrose, arms folded, surveying the grass.
She wore one of her simplest day dresses, meant to be a working dress. Basic linen, embroidered designs, with straight arms that cut off at her elbow and a gathered waistline. Deep pockets lay on either side in hidden rectangles beneath the surface.
“Merry meet.”
She didn’t startle, but folded her arms across her middle.
“Merry meet.”
He approached tentatively. Her tense jaw, pulled-back shoulders, provoked caution. Though they’d been living together, in the South and then here, for over four months now, he still hadn’t learned exactly how to read her.
When her hands unfolded to prop on her hips, and her squared jaw opened, he braced himself.
“Where is headquarters?” she cried.
He cursed under his breath. Swallowing a rise of annoyance—who had gotten to her now?—Max paused where he stood. Several paces separated them, which felt wisest.
“To the right, along the side of the house.”
Isadora marched over.
He followed.
Snow crunched under their feet as she crossed the paved stones and stepped onto the lawn, dingy and yellow under pockets of snow. A gray sky threatened to burst in a storm that would blanket everything again. Cool drafts blew from the west, heralding the squall.
She paused a few paces away from the edge of the house.
“Here?”
“Yes.”
“Not a sign.”
“No, there wouldn’t be.”
The skin between her eyebrows wrinkled.
Max stuck his hands in his pockets and hazarded a guess. “Lucey?”
Isadora turned to face him. “Yes, Lucey told me.” Slightly reddened, swollen eyes meant she’d been crying at some point. The thought wrenched his gut. The good gods, but what was he supposed to do when she cried?
Had he caused this?
“Are you all right?” he asked. The tone came out far crisper than he intended. To her credit, she offered no platitudes.
“I’m not sure. I think I’m upset with you, but . . . it doesn’t seem quite fair to be angry, either.”
“What have I done?”
She eyed him ruefully. “Nothing, I suppose. At least . . . I don’t know.” She threw her hands in the air. “How many secrets do you have, Max? What else will I discover in the course of our handfasting? The headquarters for the Advocacy was in the basement all this time, and I had no idea. Faye didn’t even tell me!”
He sighed, deadened at the question. How many secrets do you have? Were the truths he held secrets? Not really. More . . . untold facts. Things that they hadn’t quite got around to yet because why overwhelm her?
He attempted to soften his stiff tone, but failed spectacularly. “I don’t intend to hide information from you, Isadora, believe it or not.”
“When were you going to tell me?”
“Should that have come during the night you saw Wildrose for the first time, our trip to the dressmakers to obtain you proper clothes, or when you discovered the woman I once courted? Work has been so easy to escape from to give you a tour, hasn’t it?”
Sheer willpower kept his tone under control, though a caustic edge riddled it. Isadora clenched, held her breath, then let it all out in one blow.
“You’re right.”
Astonished, he could only stare.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You’re right.” She swung a hand over the grass. “I’m not being fair. Lucey sort of . . . put me in my place today. Reminded me that I have to let witches move at their own speed. I’m upset, but I realize it’s because . . . well . . . I don’t like being in the dark. I’m unfairly expecting you to tell me everything at once, but I think I’d hate that too.”
Her gaze lifted, met his. Hints of sheepish apology lined their depths. “Sorry, Max. I came on strong today. I suppose it’s a result of us just . . . figuring out where we stand. I’m trying to be open and fair.”
He blinked, utterly perplexed. One moment frustrated, the next contrite. She turned away. A protracted silence began, allowing him to sort through the whirlwind of the last few minutes.
Would their life forever be like this?
Swept up in the windstorm of Isadora one moment, then dropped onto firm ground again the next. He held the thought, arrested by it.
He certainly hoped so. Livened up the boredom that once plagued his evenings.
“Isadora, I know you don’t trust me. I understand that what I said in the Southern Network hurt you. And I know that you want me . . . to say the words that will help you feel safe in our handfasting. I’m working on it. But please give me the benefit of the doubt? I’m not your enemy. I didn’t ask you into this handfasting to hurt you. On the contrary . . . ”
I love you.
The words wouldn’t come. They solidified like rock in his throat, clunky and awkward. He wanted to say them, but deeper fears stirred his chest. Haunting terrors, borne of a darker childhood he hadn’t yet escaped.
Saying I love you meant so much more.
After a held breath, she nodded.
“Thank you, Max.”
He held out a hand. “Shall we go inside together? I received an invitation to a little soiree tonight, if you’re interested in meeting more witches. I think it would be wise to be seen in more political circles before the gossip columns take off. Later, I’ll give you a full tour of the basement and an explanation of how the Advocacy used it, I promise.”
Isadora turned, slipped her fingers into his. Electricity crackled up the length of his arm, infusing his bones. She nodded.
“Yes, I’d like that.”
“It’s not too short of notice?”
“No, I don’t mind.”
“Impressive,” he muttered. He loathed social events on a whim. The eagerness in her smile told him she felt otherwise.
How different could they be?
He pulled her close, arm tucked under his, and led her to the back door.
“Then allow me to preface some of what you’ll be walking into tonight. The good gods know that political soirees are rarely a fun time . . .”