Lustful Alchemy

44. SHARP

Inside the Leaky Cauldron, the chatter of the patrons merges into a constant murmur, interrupted only by the clinking of glasses and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Feeling the warmth of the flames and observing the dim light of torches and candles, the weight of the day begins to settle on my shoulders. But I can't afford to give in to fatigue. There's still a lot of work to do, and Marion Twigs, gesticulating animatedly in front of me and Cassie, has yet to explain what she has in mind, keeping us on edge after an unwarranted tense pause.

Thankfully, Thomasin approaches the table, finally taking our orders.

«A Firewhiskey,» Marion says, and I follow suit, holding up two fingers to signal my order to the young waitress.

«I'll just have a hot tea, Thomasin, please. Thank you,» Cassandra says instead.

Instinctively, I raise an eyebrow but immediately adopt a neutral expression. I glance at her sideways before turning my attention back to Marion, leaning against the chair's backrest and letting my mind register this seemingly irrelevant detail.

Yet, of course, I can't ignore the nagging thought that's begun to scratch at the edges of my mind. Come to think of it, ever since we returned from Egypt, I haven't seen her drink alcohol or light a cigarette. True, our argument before the attack kept me away from her, and my perception of the situation could very well be skewed or entirely wrong. Still, a subtle awareness creeps in, like a serpent slithering out of its den.

Could she be... pregnant?

The question takes shape within me, first striking like a whisper, then like a dull toll. Despite the sudden leap of my heart, I force myself to dismiss it. It's foolish to speculate on things that aren't certain, on fragments of reality that might be nothing more than a projection of my mind—an illusion that could hurt more than it helps. A single word, associated with her, makes me feel both invincible and vulnerable.

My mind, stubborn as ever, refuses to let go of this hypothesis, as remote and unfounded as it may seem. A hypothesis that, I realize, takes the shape of a desire.

The thought of Cassandra being pregnant—of a child that could be mine—is like a faint light illuminating a hidden corner of myself I thought extinguished years ago. Father. The word weighs like a stone in my stomach. Not because it terrifies me, but because it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. Or so I've always believed.

And yet, there it is, that image, too vivid to feel unreal. Cassie's body, rounded and softened by pregnancy, life growing within her until it becomes a child with dark hair and large, curious eyes gazing at the world. The thought is so vivid I can almost hear a laugh, imagine a small hand grasping mine.

I clear my throat, forcefully banishing the vision. Gripping the glass that the waitress has just placed in front of me, I tell myself it's better to focus on the present. After all, it's no secret that Cass appreciates hot tea, often drinking at least two cups a day, preferring it over coffee.

I shake my head, as if to dispel the sting of suspicion—there's no time for dreams or desires I can't afford. No time for something that, in all likelihood, doesn't exist.

And yet, I can't shake the thought. Perhaps because wanting it makes me feel even more human than I'd like to admit, more than I ever thought possible until I met Cassandra.

Marion Twigs leans over the table, breaking through the flow of my thoughts and pulling me back to reality, to what is truly tangible. Her exuberance contrasts sharply with Cassandra's composed demeanor at my side. Her enthusiasm fills the room more than the surrounding chatter, more than the projections of my mind and my desires.

«Well then, Cassandra,» Marion begins, lowering her voice slightly to create an air of camaraderie, «do you happen to know Lady Wimborne?»

Cassie raises an eyebrow, setting her cup down on the table. «I know who she is,» she replies calmly, almost adopting a guarded stance.