Though it was cold, Joanna's forehead beaded with sweat. She wiped it off with the back of a hand, trying to erase the memories as well. She realized then why the witch's spirit had grabbed her by the throat. She had been showing Joanna what it felt like when she'd died.

Joanna had come to the burial mound to seek a passage into the timeline. She closed her eyes and chanted, reciting the incantation that enabled one to slip through the portal into the passages. She had to be specific: she had to return to the right time, at least a few days before the hanging. She waited for the portal to open, closing her eyes, but her feet remained rooted at the base of the burial mound.

Chapter thirty-eight

Dance till You Can't Dance No More

On the Dragon, Freya gathered strands of hair from Killian's comb in the bathroom of the master stateroom. She had stopped by the greenhouse earlier to gather the roots and cuttings of herbs that Jean had told her she would need for her ritual. She'd placed them inside a punctured Ziploc, along with a live cicada, which resembled a gigantic fly with its huge eyes and veined gossamer wings. Of course, the cicada had begun to sing, but that was exactly what she needed: a male. Jean had been adamant about that.

The ritual would also require a drop of Killian's scent, that delectable, intoxicating one she knew so well, but she wasn't quite sure how to go about extracting it. She carried a small glass vial, like those used for perfume samples, for that end and had placed it on the sink. "Be creative," Jean had told her. "Isn't that what magic is about?"

"Freya?" Killian asked, unexpectedly behind her. "Did you hear that?"

She started, quickly turning toward him. Luckily, the cicada had stopped humming. "Hear what?" she asked, feigning innocence as she slipped a bottle of his cologne into her bag. "I'm looking for aspirin," she lied.

"A witch with a headache!" He laughed. "Now you're being secretive again, and we know that's no good." He pushed her hair out of her face and kissed her softly. Since they had been waiting for the Valkyries to descend upon them, they couldn't get enough of each other, treating each night as if it were the last. But Freya had also been busy, trying to figure out a way to stave them off.

"Hey, you." She smiled as their bodies pressed against each other in the cramped space.

"Hey, babe," he murmured, tugging her closer and cupping her behind.

She put her bag on the sink, her work forgotten for now. When she placed her hand at the crotch of his jeans she discovered he was already hard. It was as much a thrill as the first time.

Killian's lips parted from hers, and he looked at her inquiringly. "So are you going to tell me the truth?"

"I'm working on something," she said between breathless kisses.

"Anything I might help you with?"

"When the time's right," she quipped, unzipping him as he unhooked her belt and peeled off her jeans. "Right now you can help me with something else." She might get that drop of sweat sooner than she thought.

"Glad to," he whispered, grunting as he bent her over the sink and took her from behind in one swift motion.

Freya closed her eyes and moaned, holding on to the counter, as Killian leaned over her back, his hands on either side of hers, bucking against her, the force of his actions practically lifting her from the floor.

It was all part of assembling ingredients for her potion, she knew, but that didn't mean that work couldn't be any fun.

"Okay, this time I'm really putting my foot down, Freddie. This is it! I'm done!" Freya said, feeling dizzy. Perhaps it was the slanted room. Or maybe in her haste to collect all the ingredients for the spell she had forgotten to eat? It was just a few hours ago she had left Killian on his boat. She had all the elements necessary to perform the spell, but she was getting cold feet. If it were as dangerous as Jean had claimed, she didn't know if she could go through with it. And if she didn't go through with it, then she would never know the truth and neither would Killian. Freya was now irritable, and she had arrived at the run-down motel to confront the source of her current frustration.

She sat at the foot of one bed to steady herself. "I'm really sick of it, Fred. You won't listen to me, and then you expect me to cater to your every whim, bringing you food, making sure you have warm blankets."

Freddie peered at her dejectedly, hanging his head. "I don't mean to be a mooch," he said like a little boy. "If I could leave here, I would. Plus, I miss Hilly. She won't see me until her dad gives the approval, and he won't do it until I get some job done for him. But he won't say what it is or how to do it."

"You know, enough of that silly flirtation. She's just some chick you met online! There are hundreds - thousands of them out there. Forget her if she's such a problem. Look," said Freya, "I think you're depressed. You need to be more active. Being cooped up in here is not helping you. Throw on a disguise, morph into something ... I don't know ... Why don't you go over to Mother's and help yourself. There's a fridge there. Something they don't have in gross, lopsided motel rooms."

"You don't have to be mean about it," Freddie said.

"Well, I'm just telling you. Mom and Ingrid are out tomorrow. No one will be home in the evening, either. Stop by and stock up. I'm tired of doing it for you. I'll leave the back glass doors open for you. You can get in from there," she said, hoping he was still ignorant of the holiday calendar and the traditions most people observed. She had a plan in mind.

Freddie looked sad. "Okay, Freya. I didn't realize it was so inconvenient for you to help me."

"It's not, Freddie. Of course not. But I'm going away and I'm worried you'll be hungry and alone."

"I'm not alone. I have Hilly," he said.

"Right." She picked up her purse. "Remember to come by tomorrow," she said. And before Freddie could rise from his armchair, she was out the door and already peeling out of the parking lot in her Mini.

Chapter thirty-nine

Frozen, When Your Heart's Not Open

Ingrid set the alarm in the library, and then outside she locked the doors and the black gate with its gigantic key. She shivered, winding her scarf around her neck.

"Hey," a voice said from behind her.

She spun around, and there he was, the one person who had been hounding her thoughts as usual.

Matt held one of the wrought-iron bars of the fence that wound around the library, his head cocked, eyes doleful. Ingrid walked up to him as they looked tentatively at each other.

She stopped a foot away. She wished she hadn't been wearing her glasses, and that her hair wasn't up in its tight, efficient work bun. She hadn't worn any makeup, and she shoved her hands into her pockets, remembering how the polish was chipped from biting her nails.

"I know you probably don't want to see me. I didn't call because I figured you needed some space," he said. "I'll go away if you tell me to. I just wanted to see you and talk."

Ingrid picked up her head. She was surprised to hear this. He was the last person she wanted to hurt and hadn't realized she could have that kind of power over him. The wind pushed fallen leaves from the park down the street. She yanked up her collar. She moved in closer, whispering, "I'm sorry, Matt. It isn't you ... It's me." She looked away.

He swung out from the bar, still holding on to it. "Oh, that old line."

"It's not a line. Will you let me explain?" she asked. "Walk with me?"

"Sure." They moved away from the fence to cross the street. They strode silently for a while. Ingrid passed the entrance to the park, and Matt grabbed her arm, pulling her toward it. She hoped he would kiss her then, but instead, he said, "We can cut through."

Ingrid gave him a dubious look, taken aback. "I thought ..."

"Hey, you have a police escort," he joked with a thin smile. "Come on."

They made their way down the park's winding path, leaves crunching underfoot. Ingrid wished they were holding hands, moving through this cold darkness. She wished there wasn't any awkwardness between them and that things had gone differently the other afternoon. When she lay alone in bed at night, she tossed and turned, thinking about him. She imagined him stroking her back, kissing her neck, playing with his hair, or just lying alongside, staring into each other's eyes. Sometimes she wished for him so hard she would wake up in a cold sweat - or else gasping for air because her craving for him was so strong.

The denuded trees they passed looked like so many sad skeletons, the perfect backdrop.

"How was work?" he asked, attempting to make idle chat.

"Listen, about the other day, I have to tell you something, Matt. Something personal," she said. He couldn't exactly run away from her, leave her stranded in the park after having chastised her for walking it alone at night.

"You know you can tell me anything, Ingrid. First and foremost, I hope that we will always remain friends, no matter what."

What did he mean by "no matter what"? Did it have to do with that woman's number the pixies had given her? That was something that had actually slipped Ingrid's mind once she had chalked it up to their shenanigans. Did he play the field? Was he seeing other women?

He had stopped in the path, beneath a lamppost, and they faced each other. He reached out for her hands. Ingrid brushed back her hair, but there were no loose strands to pat back, so her hands fell into his large, warm ones. "Tell me," he said. "What's wrong? Why'd you run away?"

She looked him in the eye, and he nodded encouragingly. The pines whooshed around them. "I can't do it," she said. "I can't tell you. I'm scared."

"Don't be," he said. "It's just me."

She shook her head.

"You're pregnant?"

She laughed. "Uh ... no."

"You already have a boyfriend?"

She shook her head.

"You're married?"

Again she laughed.

"Terminally ill?" he said, looking nervous all of a sudden.

"I'm a virgin!" she blurted out.

He looked taken aback for a while, and then he smiled, crinkling his forehead. His smile was gentle. "Well, there's nothing wrong with that."

She let go of his hands, breaking away, striding ahead, her cheeks burning. She quickened her step until she arrived at the playground, where she ran to hide in the shadows, sitting on one of the swings. Once again, she was mortified. This was why she was the world's oldest virgin. Because having to admit it was so painful, it was preferable to losing it.

She watched Matt's silhouette as it moved closer to her. She couldn't see his face. He came and sat on the swing beside her. They both swayed ever so slightly, sideways and forward, their feet on the ground.

"Ingrid, it's really okay. I mean, it's not a big deal ... I mean ... it's sort of overrated, you know ... not sex, but ... What I mean is, it's very sweet, actually," he said.

"What? Saving myself for the one? It wasn't like that. It just ... never happened. Plus, I'm over thirty. It's horrifying."

Matt smiled. "It's not really. It's cute."

She sniffed, Matt handed her a handkerchief from his pocket, and she took it. She pinched her nose with it, then lifted her glasses and wiped at her eyes. She turned to him. He was watching her intently, his hands on the chains of the swing. He was really much too big for it, like an overgrown boy.

She bunched up the handkerchief. "I'll wash this and give it back to you."

"Ingrid, we can take it slowly. I rushed it too fast. I want it to work out between us."

"You do?"

"Yes!" he said. "Listen, you want to know something?"

She nodded.

He swung closer and said very softly. "I wish you were my first. I wish you were the first girl I'd ever met. When you meet the right person, it's like nothing else - nobody else. No one in your past ever mattered. That's what it feels like, when I'm with you. You shouldn't be ashamed ... There's nothing to be ashamed of."

She looked up at him and smiled. "Have there been many others?" she teased.

He shook his head. "No, not at all."

She exhaled. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"I was going in to the city to visit my brother. Why?"

"Will you come to dinner with my family instead?" she asked. "Would he mind?"

"Not at all. They'll understand. They'll be happy for me."

"Good."

"Now can I ask you something?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Will you walk over to that tree with me?"

"What for?"

She found out when they walked over. He kissed her tenderly, her back pressing against the trunk. He ran his mouth along her neck and cheek, breathing heavily, his lips trembling, so gentle, then rested his face against hers. His breath felt warm and safe. They stayed like that for a while, Matt leaning against her in the dark, wind-swept park, and though they remained immobile, she could feel all that was roiling within him.

And then he said it, something Ingrid had never heard from someone other than her family.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear. Then again, in case she hadn't heard the first time: "I love you, Ingrid Beauchamp."

Chapter forty

Simple Gifts

The house was redolent with the smells of Freya's cooking: sage, rosemary, melted butter. She had stuffed the bird with chestnuts, cranberries, sausage, and herbs from the greenhouse, mixed with chunks of Joanna's homemade wholegrain bread. The day before, Joanna had baked all the staple pies - pumpkin, yam, apple, pecan - so Freya could have free rein of the kitchen today. Freya's domain was the savory; she wasn't fond of baking, which was Mother's area of expertise.