But of course, it was Ambrose. She recognized him before she was even properly out of the house, his silhouette so familiar to her now and his impossibly stylish hair shining like gold in the late morning light. Up close, his smile shone even brighter, the same crooked, imperfect one he had been wearing since the potion had hooked him.

“Hello again,” he said, breaking whatever strange hold his appearance had on Laura.

She shuddered, refusing to dwell on it, and looked around to make sure that no one else was in earshot before closing in on him. “What on earth are you doing here? And what made you think that following me home was a good idea?”

“Well, now,” he started, finding the decency to look chastened, “I wasn’t trying to intrude upon you or anything, but I realized something while kneading the dough this morning. My mind likes to overthink when I’m stuck doing repetitive tasks, you know how it is. But that’s not the important bit. Were you, perhaps, going to use your one day off to pick the flowers for my jelly?”

He had somehow gotten even chattier than before, and Laura didn’t know how to feel about that. But the tone he had used when he asked about her plans riled her up.

“Why, yes, I was going to waste my precious time fulfilling your order. Now that you have your answer, you may go back.”

“I’m not going to, though,” he said, pulling a sizable basket from behind his back. “If you’re going to work on my request, it’s only fair that I help.”

Laura groaned, a sound she had been expelling far too often over the last two days. At least this time, she had a hope of getting him to see some sense. The spell on Eleanor had ceased once the line of sight was broken, so it figured that it should be the same for Ambrose. There were no large things to hide behind in the street, and she wasn’t about to take him into her uncle’s house only to lock him inside the first room with a sturdy door, but she didn’t need to. There were other ways she could try.

“Close your eyes,” she said, trusting that he would follow her instructions, “and say that again.”

He did just that, the deep intensity of his grey eyes shuttered behind his eyelids and his full lashes leaving long shadows on his cheeks. It was a welcome feeling, not being subjected to his enamored stare. Still, when his mouth opened, the same words came out.

“I came to help you pick wildflowers.”

“Why?” The desperation in her question was palpable even to her.

“It’s only fair I do, seeing as it’s my request taking up the time you’d be better off using for the contest. I know how much winning means to you, and I don’t want to keep you from achieving that dream.”

She found the words sensible, though oddly magnanimous, coming from him. But he didn’t stop there.

“Because I like you,” he added, his eyes still firmly shut.

Bother the man. Even the spell cast on him had to act in a way that was most aggravating to Laura. But then, he had been so much calmer than Eleanor after having the chocolates, it would be no wonder if the magic had affected them differently. Her test had been flawed, too, and she resolved to run it again in better conditions. Right then and there, though, she had more immediate problems to take care of. Time—and the flowers—would not wait for her.

She turned and started walking down the street. In mere moments, Ambrose’s footsteps echoed hers.

Between the spell and his usual stubbornness, turning him away would be too much of a hassle. He was also right that it was his order eating up her precious time and energy, and she was not about to turn down free labor. So she let him be.

Her uncle’s townhouse was almost on the outer edge of the city, and their destination was just a short distance away. Laura had walked that way a thousand times, first with her mother, then on her own. She had grown used to taking that road alone in the last ten years, and she expected Ambrose’s presence to bother her, but it didn’t. He kept a steady pace beside her, quiet except for the rhythmic sound of his hard heels hitting the road. Then even that was gone, swallowed by the dusty dirt paths on the last leg of their journey.

The meadow was glorious in the bright daylight and resplendent with flowers, even in late summer. It was a miracle that a place like this could remain untouched so close to the city, but then again, people came to Belarune City to study magic, not to roam the nearby hills.

Ambrose stopped at the edge of the clearing, taking in the sights. They had visited this place together as children, but Laura had to wonder how much time had passed since he had last been there. The look on his face showed a strange mix of feelings, almost as intense as when he looked at her with those adoring eyes.

“It’s a bit late in the year for most of the flowers, so we’ll have to work with whatever we can find,” Laura said, disturbing his reverie. “Dandelions and daisies are a sure find, as well as red and white clover—though red has more sweetness. If we get really lucky, we might find some chamomile or lavender on their way out. And over that way, there are some wild roses I’d like to check out.” She pointed to the far side of the meadow, where the pale pink flowers were barely distinguishable. “Let’s split and gather as much as we can. And remember, when you collect them—”

“Don’t worry,” Ambrose cut her off. “It might have been a while since I last did this, but I still remember what I have to do.” He dropped the large basket between them and bent over to peer at the nearest blooms.

Laura did the same, and, in trying to find the best and freshest flowers, moved further and further into the meadow. Yet every time she turned, there was the basket again, patiently waiting at her side, and there was Ambrose, mere steps away.

He was painting an interesting picture, his waistcoat long discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Wading through the tall grasses, his long fingers brushed over the flower heads, expertly plucking their petals, just like they were taught to do as children. They made their way steadily through the meadow, and, just as steadily, the basket was filling up.

It was a novel experience for Laura, this calm and quiet time incongruous with both the man himself and the love spell he was under. The Ambrose of latter years had always been one for bickering, but there had not been any complaints for quite some time. There hadn’t been any words at all, nor touches, only—and those could have been Laura’s imagination—longing stares cut short when she looked his way.

Eleanor had been wildly announcing her love regardless of the place they were in, and so, so driven to hug, caress, and even kiss Laura. But while Ambrose had let slip a few remarks and even declared his feelings on a couple of occasions, he had been rather subdued in his actions—shy, even. And it was made all the more evident by the way he always drew away first when they both went to deposit another handful of petals into the basket. Always near touches, never actual contact.

If it were true that the potion affected him differently, that would also explain why blocking his line of sight didn’t break the spell like it had for Eleanor. But surely, the antidote would fix it.

Laura had already gathered the herbs she needed, secretly stashing them in her satchel, and she had a good feeling about her great-aunt’s recipe. She just had to hold out a little longer.

“I think we overdid it,” she said when she noticed the basket was nearly filled to the brim. “That’s way too much for a single jar.”

Ambrose shrugged. “You can always make more and keep some for yourself. I’ll get you freshly baked bread to spread it on, just like the old times.” He closed his mouth with a snap and looked away, as if he’d said something wrong.

For Laura, those times were long gone and poorly remembered. She had pushed away most of what had happened when her mother was still around, too heartbroken to mull over the memories of her. So she was surprised to find how many fragments of her childhood spent with Ambrose had managed to filter through that barrier.

The last time they had been in the meadow came to mind, and the day after, when they’d taken turns stirring the pot of boiling petals. Later, Ambrose had brought a small loaf of sourdough, still steaming hot, and her mother had sliced it for them, spreading the slices with butter and their freshly made jelly.

It left a strange sensation in her chest, bittersweet but not entirely unpleasant. Still, not something she wanted to linger on.

“In that case, I want some wild rose in the mix. Let’s go.”

He followed her like a shadow, silent and loyal. She didn’t like to admit it, but she could get used to that. Also, having a helping hand did indeed get the work done twice—if not thrice—as fast. And she knew just what to ask him to do next.

Delicate pink flowers adorned the tall canes of the wild roses, and she made a mental note to visit again when the rosehips would be ready for the picking. The prettiest blooms were out of her reach, so she turned to Ambrose, beckoning him over. He left the basket and came like a well-trained puppy.

“You can pick the ones at the top, and I’ll take care of the ones lower down. Only grab a few, here and there, to make sure that there are enough left for the bees. Oh, and,” she added, sidestepping around the thorny plants, “do watch your step over here. There are roots coming up from the ground and—” Her words cut off with the clear knowledge of impending doom. The very roots she was warning him against had snagged her boot, and she found herself falling.

Except the embrace she landed into was not that of the thorny plants, but Ambrose’s. He had managed to grab her at the last moment, and now there she was, clutched against his chest, too uncomfortably aware of the speed at which his heart was racing. His arms were wrapped around her, fingers pressing into delicate flesh, and too reluctant to let go.

Worst of all were his eyes. If before, Laura had allowed herself to think that the spell had not taken him as strongly as it had Eleanor, she now knew for a fact that she had been wrong. He watched her with a mix of longing and hunger more intense than that of any child facing their favorite dessert.

She told herself that the thorns would have been preferable to this, but in her chest, her treacherous heart started to beat the tiniest bit harder.