Herb Of Grace

It was nearly dark when Ruta Lupin returned to St. Mary Green. She came from the fields, past Mrs. Ogilvie’s little house, and saw the blueish light of the old lady’s TV flicker behind the closed curtains. The windows of Stephen’s cottage were dark, and Ruta abruptly stopped in front of the garden wall, staring at the door. Was he at home? And would he open the door if she actually got up the nerve to ring the bell?

With a sinking heart she realized that she simply didn’t have the courage to face him now. She turned away, fighting the irrational urge to pull the big hood of her cloak deeper over her head, to protect herself against hostile eyes. The old buildings along Mill Walk seemed to lean in menacingly, their shingled roofs towering above her like distrustful guards.

As she reached the bend to Tulip Close and neared home, her steps slowed down. The garden walls to her left and right were glittering in the light of the street lamps, glazed with a thin layer of frost. November had come nearly unnoticed, throwing a veil of early winter over the village. She could see her own breath like an icy cloud around her head.

The cottage would be as cold as this night-shrouded street. When she’d left Andromeda’s house a few hours ago, it had been crowded with people. Ginny, Hermione, Harry… She remembered the small, limp figure of Teddy, hanging over the table… Vicky’s face, white and hateful, before Ginny’s spell turned her to a crumpled heap on the floor.

Now Ruta stood in front of her own garden gate, her hand on the latch. If only there was a way to let the memory fade… the memory of their frightened eyes when she finally escaped the tempting fire of the change, trembling with shock about the dreadful magnitude of her rage.

This was what Fenrir Greyback had turned her into. She would never be able to bear the fear of those she loved, the danger she meant for anyone getting into her way.

She could brew herself a sleeping draught; it might not be as effective as the one Stephen had sent through Winky only five days ago, but it would probably be enough to provide her with a few hours of oblivion. And as she stood on her own threshold, she was suddenly overwhelmed by the dark, disturbingly strong desire to choose herbs that would do much more… that would let her sink into a slumber deep enough that she would never return to wakefulness and a hopeless, new day.

The mere thought chilled her to the bones. It was nearly enough to make her turn away and run into the darkness again… but with a huge effort she managed to turn the key and enter the vestibule. For a moment she hesitated in the darkness, shivering and frightened, but then she saw a thin, golden band of light from the direction of the parlor. She moved forward, pushing the door open… and stood still.

The room was warm and bright, lit by a blaze in the fireplace. A carafe with red wine and two glasses stood on the table, the curtains were closed… and in the chair beside the window sat Stephen, a book in his hands; she immediately identified her herbiary.

He looked up and gave her a short, noncommittal nod. Ruta stared at him in disbelief; she opened her mouth to say something, but words failed her. He was the one who spoke first, and he took her completely by surprise.

“Ruta graveolens,” he said, oviously quoting from the book. “Did you know that Muggle Healers in the Middle Age used it against the Plague?”

It was neither the voice of the friend nor that of the lover; this was the teacher speaking, and some well-trained instinct deep in Ruta’s mind made her obediently respond to this tone as she had done for seven long years at Hogwarts.

“Yes,” she replied, “because the rats didn’t like the smell.” She gave him a laborious, lopsided smile. “Did you know that the monks took it to curb their baleful lust for women? There was even a Roman poet who recommended a cure with rue against the woes of a love gone amiss, and in France it was called `L’herbe à la belle fille’, because women used it to get rid of unwanted children.”

“Muggle herblore,” Stephen remarked, his mouth quirking in cool disdain. “Properly used, ruta graveolens is an ingredient in no less than half a dozen potions, and a vital antidote against several life-threatening venoms. It is also commonly used for eye illnesses.” He sighed. “I am surprised that you have seemingly forgotten so much. The inquisitive student who wrote an essay about the use of mandragora vernalis twenty years ago would have thought of the magical uses first.”

“I simply think you should have chosen a better example,” Ruta gave back, her voice tired and sharp. Suddenly she felt her knees giving way beneath her, and she sank into the chair beside the table, to keep him from witnessing a rather undignified breakdown.

“Rue is poisonous,” she muttered bitterly. “Touch it with your bare fingers, and you’ll end up with countless blisters on your hands.” Sheer self-loathing burned in her throat and made her voice waver.

Stephen closed the book and got up from the chair. Ruta felt her body grow tense; what if he came over and touched her? Right now she was unable to accept his embrace… not even the smallest hint of a caress. She had lost every right for comfort.

“Excuse me,” he said, voice and face calm and unperturbed. “I shan't be long.”

She saw him vanish in the direction of the kitchen and leaned back into the chair while the warmth of the room slowly trickled into her exhausted limbs. It was almost a relief to be alone, with nothing bearing her company but the regular ticking of the clock on the wall, the organ chords of the wind in the chimney and the occasional sound of crackling wood from the fireplace.

Stephen returned, carrying a tray. Ruta caught a whiff of something fresh and delicious… appetizing enough to make her mouth water, very much to her amazement.

“Winky prepared this for you,” Stephen said, setting the tray down in front of her, “and she would be terribly disappointed if you didn’t eat it.”

Thick sandwiches, made of fresh, warm rye toast with ham and cheddar, lovingly decorated with chives and roasted onion rings; a crisp green salad, with goat cheese and a creamy dressing. Ruta wondered where Winky had got the salad from… and with a surge of pain and shame she remembered the glass house at Fionnula’s in Berwick.

“It's not my fault that werewolves contaminate everything they touch.“ Fionnula’s voice, spitting venom and disgust.

And she was right... more than she’d ever know.

Suddenly Ruta had to swallow around a heavy lump in her throat. She pushed the plate back without thinking, raised her head… and met Stephen’s eyes.

“The salad is from the glass house in your own back garden,” he said. His tone was even and dispassionate. “Winky decided that she didn’t wish to increase the sales of your former employer any longer.”

“I’m…” She cleared her throat, struggling for composure. “I’m still not sure if I’m hungry.”

“I know you had breakfast with me this morning,” he placidly remarked, “which was certainly luscious, but your only meal today. Judging from your state when you left four hours ago – and your usual need for exercise when you’re upset - you must have made at least fifteen miles today. Believe me, you are hungry.”

And so Ruta ate, slowly and deliberately working her way through half of the salad and at least one of the two huge sandwiches. When she pushed the plate back for the second time, he didn’t object. She took a sip of the wine and looked at him; he had returned to the chair and to his lecture, long fingers slowly turning the pages of her herbiary. His expression was almost peaceful, but she had spent too much time studying and unriddling the mysteries of his face to miss the fine deep lines around his mouth, betraying his inner tension.

“Stephen?”

He answered without raising his eyes from the text. “Yes?”

“What are you doing here?”

He closed the book and put it back on the small shelf beside the window. “It wouldn’t have been a good idea to let you return into an empty house.” A short pause. “Your knowledge of poisons is a bit too… profound for my peace of mind.”

It was a staggering echo of her own thoughts before she’d opened the door to the parlor, only half an hour ago.

“It would be the easiest solution, wouldn’t it?” she retorted, her voice soft and brittle. “For all of us.”

“Indeed?” He rose from the chair; all of a sudden his face was stern and angry, and for a second he actually looked old. “After all your friends had to witness this afternoon, after that nightmare of confronting the vengeful cow who betrayed your entire family to a monster, and who did not even shy away from poisoning a child? Do you really wish to add a craven suicide to their shock and misery?” He gave her a hard glare. “I would never have thought you to be that selfish.”

Ruta sat with gritted teeth, gazing down at her hands. His anger was like an ice-cold gush of water, unnerving… and at the same time galvanizing to the core.

“Perhaps you have misjudged my character all along,” she whispered. “Perhaps I’m no better than Greyback. If not for you, I would have torn the people I love most limb from limb today.”

“If not for me?” He gave a snort of denial. “I had nothing to do with it, Ruta.”

She bit her lip. “It was you who called me back before I could succumb to the change.”

“Ruta.”

Stephen came over to the table and bent down in front of her until they were at eye level. Two hands cupped her cheeks, holding her head in a gentle, firm grip; she was unable to turn away.

“I called you, that much is true,” he said. “But if you hadn’t already decided against the madness of the curse, nothing and no one could have kept you from changing. You had made most of the way back to sanity on your own… not because of what you are but who you are. I merely provided you assistance with the last, few steps.”

She blinked unwillingly against the unflinching absolution in his eyes. How could she accept his forgiveness without at the same time accepting what she had become?

“Don’t you understand that I am a constant danger to anyone who cares for me?” she said accusingly. “Don’t you understand that I’m afraid of myself?”

“Of course I do.”

His hands were still around her face, and though a part of her wanted to push him away, she instinctively leaned into his touch. She felt his thumbs, following a tender line along her jaw, and she could have wept; her feelings were a wild mixture of longing and helpless despair.

“Of course I do,” he repeated, his voice rough. “Don’t forget who I once was. It is not necessary to be a werewolf to hate what you see in the mirror each morning.”

“But I’m a monster!” she snapped.

“No, you’re not.” There was not even a hint of brusqueness or sarcasm in his voice; the small part of her mind that wasn’t mired in self-contempt marveled at his quiet patience. “Fenrir Greyback was a monster, and not because of the curse but because of his own cruelty and blood thirst. You are completely different; you used your strength and the full force of your will to fight against the danger in your blood.”

“And what will happen the next time someone threatens me or those I love… and if even the last shred of my will does not suffice?” She leaned back in the chair, breaking the contact. “Do you really think you know me that well?”

“Well enough.” Stephen got up from the floor. “And the Wolfsbane Potion will take care of the times when the moon is full.” He paused, looking down at her. “It is an interesting question, however. I wonder if you really have to change at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Ruta.” She saw the sudden gleam of scientific curiosity in his eyes. “If Fenrir Greyback was able to change whenever he wanted, the phases of the moon notwithstanding - an ability you seem to have "inherited" from him - it might be entirely possible that the same thing applies the other way round… that he was – and you are – able to resist the power of the moon when it is full.”

“But why… why did I change in London, then? And why did I change again, only a few days ago?”

“Perhaps only because you thought you must.” He gave her a crooked smile. “I admit that my argument is standing on shaky ground. To prove it would mean to wait for the next full moon and meet it without the Potion, just to see what happens, and for the sake of science… and I doubt that you shall want to take that risk on so thin a supposition.“

“Very true.” Ruta gave a sigh of exhaustion, and for a few minutes they were silent. She was tired… incredibly tired. The climb upstairs to her bed seemed much too far, and she realized that she was just about to fall asleep where she was, her head on the table. Suddenly she remembered something.

“Where is Vicky now?”

“In London,” Stephen said slowly, more than a hint of regret in his voice. “I would have preferred Apparating with her to Azkaban myself, to drop her into the murkiest hole available, but that would have raised too many questions. Potter and I thought it better to change her memory thoroughly enough to forget ever meeting Fenrir Greyback in person. She thinks he died in the Second Battle, and she never found out about his personal vendetta against the Lupin family. And - first and foremost – she’s never been to St. Mary Green.”

“And if she had killed Teddy?” Ruta gave back, struggling to master a short, white-hot flare of anger. “Would you have let her forget that easily, too?”

“No.” It was a soft growl. “As I said, I would have dropped her into the murkiest hole available.”

“But not in Azkaban.” She eyed him sharply.

“In Azkaban.” His gaze was very direct, an open, cool challenge. "I cannot say the temptation to do otherwise would not have been there -- I am used to protecting my wards. But one thing remains true: in the end Vindictia Stone is too poor an enemy to deserve drastic measures. From either of us.”

She had learned too much this afternoon not to know with brutal clarity what he was talking about.

“I have no idea how to face them ever again,” she murmured.

“Whom?”

“My friends. Harry, Ginny… and Hermione, too. They've seen things they never should have had to see.”

“They have already seen enough before to keep the shock at a tolerable level, I’d say.” Stephen poured himself a glass of wine and refilled hers. “Harry Potter has seen too much about the nature of evil to shrink away from your righteous anger. And Hermione has been fighting side by side with him for seven years.”

He took a long sip.

“Ginny? She is a veteran of the Battle at the Ministry, and the Second Battle at Hogwarts. She is a powerful witch and a fierce warrior. You saved the life of a child she loves – not only once but twice. Don’t forget, she has been possessed by Voldemort’s diary, and her brother bears the memory of Greyback on his face… she’s probably the one who can identify most with what you are going through. Do you really think she would deny you friendship because of this?”

“I don’t know what to think,” Ruta said, closing her eyes. “I fear I can’t think clearly at all.”

“Most understandable.” He put his glass on the table. “Go to sleep; a few hours of rest are the best cure you can get right now.”

She pushed the chair back and got up with some effort. For a dizzying moment the room spun around her; Stephen reached out quickly and closed his hand around her arm. She looked at him, frowning.

“You’d best go home now,” she whispered.

“Spare your breath,“ he answered, equally soft. “Do you really think I would go and leave you to your chimeras of remorse?”

“Perhaps you should.” She turned her face away. “I’ve put you through enough as it is.”

To her surprise he laughed.

“Leave the decision about how much I’m able to abide to me.” He guided her towards the door. “You should already know that I’m rather persistent.”

“Stubborn, you mean,” she gave back, pausing at the bottom of the stairs.

“At least as stubborn as you are, Ruta Lupin.”

Ruta shook her head, defeated and at the same time shamefully relieved. She slowly walked up the steps, feeling him behind her like a silent, guardian shadow.

*****

Stephen Seeker was glad he had thought to light a fire in the bedroom; now it was pleasantly warm and he saw Ruta's shoulders relax as she went inside.

She would never know how incredibly difficult it had been to hold back, to carefully guide her away from the excruciating turmoil of her panic and self-loathing, without ever once betraying his own anger about what had happened to her. It had taken all his skills as a Legilimens and an Occlumens to find out where her greatest fear threatened to do the worst damage, to steer the conversation in a way to keep her desolation at bay, while at the same time shielding himself against the sheer force of her bottomless fright. He had felt it like a bleeding wound in his mind, the closeness and connection between them strong enough to reawaken his own oldest fears.

“You’d best go home now.”

As if it were that easy.

She had patiently worked her way through his defenses long before that disastrous night in August turned her life upside down; he had learned to cherish their growing friendship, had found himself secretly waiting for the warm sound of her voice and the sight of her face when she gave him the confident smile that was so much a part of her. And he knew that even the whole burden of bitter experiences from a lost life couldn’t keep him from caring for her… caring in a way he’d never known before, so different from the memory of his tragic, obsessive love for Lily Evans that he had not thought to compare the two until it was far too late.

Now he watched her standing in the middle of the old carpet with its faded browns and greens. Without looking at him, she began to undress, slipping out of skirt and blouse and sitting down on the chair beside the fireplace to strip down her long, woolen tights. He noticed that her movements were much smoother and easier than they had been before; perhaps her wounds would never fully heal, but they had at least improved.

He stood in the shadows beside the door unmoving, his gaze fixed on her neck and arms; in the light of the flames her skin had the soft shade of old ivory. Finally she was naked; without bothering to look for her nightgown - and still without looking at him - she went over to the bed and disappeared under the coverlet.

He stepped closer, half determined to bid her good night and to sleep on the couch in the parlor. The only thing he could see of her was a bare shoulder and the back of her head. But he didn’t need to use Legilimency to sense the utter hopelessness radiating from her silent form; to leave now would be a rejection of everything she had still to offer. He tried to find the right words to say and finally decided to say nothing at all.

He rid himself of his own clothing and lay down beside Ruta. The bed was wide and the coverlet generous enough to allow them a certain distance. He could feel the warmth of her body, but he didn’t touch her; they lay side by side while the fire burned down on the grate and the room grew dim.

Suddenly there was a small movement beside him; he was dozing off in spite of the strain and nearly missed it, but then it came again. He reached out, and his fingertips grazed her arm. It was trembling, but when she felt his hand, she froze and lay completely still. A moment later the tiny wave ran through her limbs once more; his fingers moved up over her shoulder and found a wet cheek.

He wanted to kill Fenrir Greyback all over again. He wanted to turn back time, to be able to protect her from being bitten before the wolf had even the chance to touch her. He wanted to yell at her for her obstinate refusal to seek for the comfort he was – at last! - willing and able to offer. He wanted to make love to her until all fear died under the hungry onslaught of his mouth and hands, and until his own, desperate anger melted into the heat of a mindless release.

But instead he gently caressed her shoulder, stroking down to her wrist until he had found her icy fingers and closed his hand around hers; suddenly she turned to him and buried her face against his chest. Now she wept in earnest – unchecked, convulsive sobs and laborious gasps for air while she clung to him, unable to hold back the tide any longer. Her body was shaking like a leaf in autumn, and he held her close, rocking her like a child, his voice a soft, low solace.

After long minutes the flood slowly subsided. Ruta made a weak attempt to disengage from his firm embrace and raised her head, showing a tear-streaked, pale face with red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice uneven and thin. “I shouldn’t have… Stephen, I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” he replied, carefully stroking damp strands back from where they clung to her cheeks. “For admitting that you’re human? For being afraid?”

“For everything.” She gave a last, hiccupping sob. “For dragging you into… into this madness.”

He shook his head.

“Never mind,” he whispered. “I have no complaints, my Herb of Grace. And I shan’t leave.”

He pressed a kiss into the tousled hair beneath his chin and closed his eyes.

*****

When Stephen Seeker opened his eyes come morning, the November chill had crept into the room, and the bed beside him was empty. For a moment he struggled against the irrational assumption that Ruta might have fled her home to heaven knew where; he got up, gathered his clothes and dressed quickly. He stepped over to the window, drawing back the thick curtains.

The sun had barely risen above the horizon. The light was pale but almost unnaturally clear, outlining the bare branches of the trees and the shingles on the house roofs like winter sculptures; every inch was covered with a thin layer of hoarfrost. Stephen turned around and left the room; pleasant warmth and the equally pleasant flavors of rose-scented bathing water and freshly brewed coffee greeted him in the corridor.

When he came down into the parlor, Ruta sat in her favorite chair by the fire, hands wrapped around a big, steaming mug. She gave him a small, embarrassed smile.

“Good morning,” she said. “I hope you had a good night, my dramatic display notwithstanding.”

“I slept very well,” he answered. “And you look much better than you did yesterday.”

“Oh, come on!” Now she actually laughed. “I had no idea that you were near-sighted. And besides, there’s a mirror in my bathroom.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,” he retorted dryly. “By the way… did Winky think of brewing some Assam tea?”

Before Ruta could answer, the door to the kitchen opened and the house-elf swept in, carrying a tray with a silver teapot, a crystal jug with cream and a small bowl with rock sugar.

“Good morning, Master!” she squeaked, surveying the rather homely scene with an air of deep satisfaction. She placed the tray on the table and was about to reach for the pot when Ruta shook her head.

“No, Winky,” she said. “Let me do this.”

“But, Miss…” the house-elf protested. “You shouldn’t bother with it - this is Winky’s business. And your arm is still not fully healed.”

Ruta smiled at her. “You haven’t been torturing me with your exercises for nothing, have you?” At the sight of Winky’s shocked gaze she raised a hand. “That was a joke, dear one. Your stubbornness helped me regain the strength in the torn muscles and sinews; without your adamant determination to observe my daily training, the arm would still be completely lame.”

She leaned in and her fingers closed around the handle of the teapot. Both the man and the little house-elf watched intently how she lifted the pot and cautiously filled Seeker’s cup. She placed it back on the tray and raised her head, eyes shining triumphantly. Winky clapped her hands with honest delight, and Seeker felt the spontaneous wish to do the same.

“Well done, Ruta,” he said. “And Winky… you've worked wonders. We should celebrate this with a really good breakfast.”

“I will make omelets!” Winky exclaimed, glowing with joy. “And does Master want sausages, too? Mushrooms and tomatoes? Bacon and eggs? And croissants, of course, because Miss loves Winky’s croissants, and…”

“Whatever you come up with, we will doubtlessly enjoy it enormously,” Seeker said, gently pushing her towards the kitchen. “And be careful with the mushrooms – last time you used too much garlic and not enough thyme.”

“Yes, Master!” Winky answered, nodding vigorously. “Less garlic and more thyme. And a whiff if rosemary, perhaps…”

The rest of the sentence was cut off when the door closed behind her.

“She’s priceless,” Ruta said behind Seeker, her voice gentle. “I don’t know what I would have done without her… and without you.”

He turned around, fighting an unexpected surge of impatience. Her constant gratitude suddenly felt like a wall between them… a solid obstacle he had to overcome somehow, to ultimately reach the woman hiding behind it.

But before he could say anything, something banged against the window from outside. They both turned their heads simultaneously and discovered the big screech owl, picking against the glass with all signs of anger. Seeker recognized it at once, groaning inwardly. Brillant timing indeed, Mr. Potter.

“Socrates!” Ruta said, quickly opening the window. The bird fluttered inside, settling on her arm while she removed the small roll of parchment from where it was tied to its leg. She skimmed through the message, and her full mouth instantly turned to a tense and narrow line.

“What is it?” Stephen reached out and she wordlessly dropped the parchment into his palm.

I would like to come and see you this afternoon; I plan to bring a visitor from the Ministry. Please make sure you are alone (save S., if you prefer), and keep this secret. H.

“I have no idea what to think of that,” she slowly said. “Did he perhaps… do you believe he reported my… my mishap from yesterday to Shacklebolt?”

Her voice had a sudden, sharp edge of panic, and the knuckles of her hands grew white. Gently he took the mug from her and put it on the table.

“I highly doubt that we have to expect a grim squadron from the Werewolf Capture Unit, breaking through the door any moment,” he quietly replied, getting up from his chair and stepping behind her. “If that were the case, Mr. Potter would have directed his message to me, ordering me to take you into hiding at once, lest I wished to risk the unchecked wrath of the Boy Who Lived.”

She gave a weak chuckle; he began to rub her shoulders and neck with deft fingers, and after a short moment of hesitation she leaned back into the warmth of his body.

“But what does he want? And who is the mysterious visitor from the Ministry?”

“I have no idea,” Stephen said honestly. “But since this message doesn’t appear to indicate your imprisonment – or any plan to betray my secret, second life – we should exercise ourselves in patience.”

“And do what?”

“Take a long walk.” He smiled, feeling an inexplicable, calm confidence. “But before you make the brave and inevitable attempt to entice me into scrambling up the steep hills of the Eskdale, I insist on having a proper breakfast.”

*****

They made it to Bléa Tarn in just over an hour, and though Stephen had mostly confined himself to his house during the last few months, he kept up with her rather well. The winter sun wiped away the last remnants of fog clouding the heads of the mountains while they rested at the rim of the still, deep blue water.

Ruta sat on a stray rock and watched him slowly walking along the water's edge, where small waves were licking the frozen grass. His face was flushed, and the cold breeze blew his hair back from his forehead. With a small pang of regret she saw that his temples showed a sheen of silver.

When I first saw him he seemed to be ageless, she thought, but now fate has tipped the scales. My fate, probably.

“What do you think?” she said aloud. “Was it worth the effort?”

“What effort?” He looked back over his shoulder, giving her a surprisingly boyish grin. “You are much more out of breath than I am.”

Ruta gave a snort.

“Do you forget that I’m wounded?”

“Your shoulder and arm are wounded, not your legs,” Stephen said, his grin deepening. “And I don’t recall you walking up this dratted hill on your hands, like some medieval jester.”

“Touché.” She grew serious again. “You know, this has always been my refuge. I have lived alone for the last twenty years, but even my house can be busy at times. Bléa Tarn has always been the place where I could sit in peace, where I could go to get away from my daily business and clear my head.”

He nodded slowly. “Maybe that is exactly what you need right now,” he said. “To get away and clear your head… even if it means going much farther than to Bléa Tarn.”

It was only too obvious what he meant, but she shook her head in denial. “Stephen…”

“Ruta.” He stood in front of her, and their eyes met. “You know you have to make plans for the future.”

“I know.” She bit her lip, clutching at the next straw available. “But as long as I don’t know what Harry’s message is about, I can’t see clearly enough to make any plans. I intend to put off any grave decisions about my life until the visit is over.”

He looked at her, his expression unreadable. “As you wish. And now you’d best get up from that rock and walk back with me. This is a lovely place, but the wind cuts like a knife.”

“Cast a warming spell,” she said, the corners of her mouth twitching. “You are astonishingly thin-blooded for a hero.”

“A hero who spent most of his time in a damp dungeon,” he retorted with a grimace. “And in some other disgusting holes. We should return home now, if we're to be back before Mr. Potter arrives… unless you want me to Apparate with you.”

“You may Apparate, if you like,” Ruta said, “but I will most certainly walk. I have… you haven’t…” She swallowed. “You never saw that room at St. Mungo’s. There was nothing more than the bed and a table, and the curtains of the only window were closed all the time. Three weeks without seeing the sky or smelling fresh grass... perhaps this is the reason why I can’t get enough of it now. Without Lottie Stanhope I would have gone mad. She refused to stay outside and leave me to my despair."

Again he stood in front of her, wordlessly reaching out. Ruta took the offered hands; she was pulled to her feet and directly into his arms. Her cheek found a natural resting place against the soft wool of his dark winter cloak, and she closed her eyes. They had spent two nights together, his body giving both jubilating pleasure and deep comfort… and still his embrace felt strangely unfamiliar. His skin under the warm layers of clothing had a soothing, unmistakable aroma, though, of herbs and a multitude of strong brews and long vaporized potions.

“I wish I had brought the Invisibility Cloak with me,” he murmured, his mouth in her hair.

“What for?”

“I would show you how to fly without a broom.” A warm hand moved under her chin, tipping her head up. Ruta studied his face.

“That is bribery, sir,” she replied. “You're trying to tempt me with something that would keep you from having to walk back.”

“Devastatingly acute, as always,” he retorted, his gaze glittering with amusement and something else that made her heartbeat stumble. Then he leaned in and she felt his mouth, a gentle touch at first… but the kiss grew quickly deeper and more demanding, and when he finally released her, the blood was singing in her ears, and she didn’t feel the cold wind any longer. She cleared her throat, and then said the first thing that came to her mind.

“This is the first time that you’ve kissed me in daylight.”

“Yes,” he replied, turning to the path that led away from the lake and down the hill; he spoke over his shoulder. “But definitely not the last time. Come, now… there’s no need to be afraid. Whatever the day brings, you won’t have to face it alone.”