He’d already lost some time. For the first twenty-four hours on the island, whatever bug he’d picked up had plagued him. He had been able to do little more than lie in bed, sweating his way through vivid and unpleasant dreams.

But he’d felt better by that afternoon. Nearly himself again.

He was still shaky, Harding told himself. There was no doubt about that. But a little food and a little exercise would help right him.

The soup had certainly soothed his system, at least until the brunette had walked in. Then the clamminess had come back. The headache, the unexplained rage. He had the strangest image of her, pointing a gun at him, shouting at him, and he’d wanted to leap up and pummel her face with his fists.

Then another, fast on its heels, where she loomed over him in a storm, her hair blowing and tipped with light, and a sword that gleamed like silver gripped in her hands.

He thanked God she was leaving, and that the strange mood was leaving with her. Still, his hand trembled as he picked up his spoon again.

Ripley brought Zack his coffee and sipped her own while he finished a phone call. As she paced she heard him reassuring someone about the storm, emergency procedures, medical aid. Had to be a new resident, Ripley thought. Probably the Carters, who’d moved on-island in September. There was no one else new enough to the Sisters to panic over a midwinter storm.

“Justine Carter,” Zack confirmed when he hung up. “Storm’s making her buggy.”

“She’ll get used to it, or head back to the mainland before next winter. Listen, I told Mac to come to our place tonight. Power’s bound to go.”

“Good idea.”

“And I asked him to hang at the bookstore until Nell leaves, to make sure she gets home okay.”

“And an even better one. Thanks. What’s up?”

“Maybe the storm’s making me buggy. I got an itch over this guy I saw at the café. Can’t pin it down. City. New boots, manicure, upper-end-department-store clothes. Late forties. Strong build, but he looked a little sickly to me. Pale, sweaty.”

“Flu runs around this time of year.”

“Yeah, well. I thought I’d go by the hotel, see if I can wheedle some information on him.”

Because he trusted Ripley’s instincts, Zack pointed to the phone. “Call them and save yourself another trip out in this mess.”

“No, I’ll get more in person. He gave me the jitters, Zack,” she admitted. “The guy was just sitting there reading his paper and eating his lunch, but he gave me the jitters. I want to check it out.”

“Okay. Let me know.”

Sixteen

P rocedures, taken in planned steps after calculations and hypotheses. The tools of his work. Science, even that still considered out of the mainstream. These were all familiar to him. They were, had always been to Mac, a kind of comfort as well as a path to discovery.

For the first time since he’d started on that path, he was uneasy.

He’d never worried overmuch about taking risks, as nothing worthwhile could be gained without them. But each step he took now pushed him farther down a strange and fascinating road. One he wasn’t traveling solo.

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

Nell shifted her gaze up to where Mac leaned over the top of her head. “I’m sure.”

“It’s just that I don’t want you to feel obliged.” He attached the next electrode. “Don’t think you have to be polite to the crazy man. You can just tell me to forget it.”

“Mac. I don’t think you’re crazy, and I don’t feel polite. I feel interested.”

“That’s good.” He skirted around the sofa where she was stretched out, looked down at her. As he’d told her once before, she sparkled. She was also, he sensed, very open. “I’m going to be careful. I’m going to go slow. But anytime you want to stop, you just say so. And that’s it.”

“Got it, and I will.” Her dimples fluttered. “Stop worrying about me.”

“It’s not just you.” At her questioning look, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Everything I do now, even somehow what I don’t do, affects Ripley. I don’t know how I know that. It’s not really logical. But I know it.”

“You’re connected,” Nell said softly. “As I am. Neither of us will do anything to hurt her.” She touched a hand to the back of his. “But both of us will, more than likely, do things that will annoy her. I guess we’ll just have to handle it.”

“I guess we will. Okay, well . . .” He gestured vaguely with the two electrodes in his hands. “I need to put these . . . You see, we’ll need to monitor your heart rate, so. . .”

She looked at the little white adhesive, back up at his face. “Ah.”

“If you feel uncomfortable or weird about that, we’ll just skip that part.”

She studied his expression and decided the only man she trusted more than the one currently trying not to look embarrassed was her husband. “In for a penny,” she said and unbuttoned her blouse. He was quick, efficient, and gentle.

“Just relax and be comfortable. We’ll get your resting rates.”

He turned away from her to work with the machines that he’d hauled over from the cottage. He hadn’t intended to bring them, or to do the test—not yet. But when Nell had come back to the cottage with him, she’d asked questions. Polite interest at first, he thought, then more direct, more detailed. Before either of them realized it, they were discussing physical reactions of magic. Brain-wave patterns, lobes, pulse rates. And she was agreeing to participate in a series of tests.

“So, where’d you learn to cook?”

“My mother. That’s where my interest started. After we lost my father, she started her own catering business.”

He adjusted dials, watched the graph. “Ever think about opening a restaurant?”

“I gave it a passing thought, but I don’t want the structure or the limitations. I like my catering operation, and working in Mia’s café. Though I am toying with ideas there. I think we—she,” Nell corrected, “could expand a bit. Outdoor seating in the season. Maybe a cooking club. I’m going to talk to her about it when I have it more formulated in my mind.”

“You’ve got a head for business.”