It felt like an eternity stretched between one heartbeat and the next, and Laura watched Ambrose slowly bend over her, worried that he was going to give in to the magic and kiss her on impulse, like Eleanor had tried.

She closed her eyes, which was a terrible mistake. It made her too aware of every place they touched, his hands gripping her arms even tighter, his chest pressing against hers, setting her off balance until she was sure she would topple over.

Except she didn’t; nor did he try anything untoward.

He simply pushed her upright and held her steady until she regained her footing. Then he let go and stepped back in a hurry, as if she’d burned him. Laura found it within herself to feel offended.

The blood that had rushed to her face was slowly retreating, leaving her a little dizzy, and although she tried, she found no voice to thank him with. So she turned back to the wild roses and started plucking at their petals. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Ambrose doing the same, his cheeks the same pale pink as the flowers and his fingers slower and less sure than before.

She had to do something about that. So she made a list.

First, go back to the shop, clean the petals, and set them in the big boiling pot. Then, while they simmered, send Ambrose to buy jars and take out the grimoire for just enough time to memorize the recipe. If she worked quickly, she could have the potion brewing by the time he returned, and maybe even feed it to him before the day was over. And then she’d get to watch his face as the spell cleared out of his head. She could even imagine it, his eyes growing wide with the shame of it.

“Don’t you think that’s enough?” he interrupted her reverie.

Laura jumped, almost certain she had spoken her thoughts aloud. But no, Ambrose was pointing to the basket, which was already heaped with petals. “I think you’re right,” she said, emptying one last handful into it. “Time to go, then.”

His shoulders slumped, and he took one last look at the meadow, lips parted as though he was about to launch a protest.

“Come on,” Laura urged, already walking away. “The sooner we get to the shop, the sooner you’ll have your jelly. I’ll even let you hail us a cab, since you like it so much.”

While she wouldn’t be caught dead complimenting him, she had to admit that his height was advantageous in some ways. Ambrose managed to get them a carriage as soon as they reentered the city and even insisted on paying for the ride.

The ride left her with an uncomfortable tightness in her chest. Whatever had been there between them when Ambrose had held her in the meadow had sparked back to life every time their knees bumped. Even once she was out on the street, she couldn’t breathe freely, and a strange tremor shook her hands. She dropped her keys trying to unlock the shop door, and Ambrose had to do it for her.

She rushed into the workshop, the familiar cramped room helping her regain her composure.

“Leave the basket by the sink,” she directed Ambrose. “I’ll take care of things here.”

“Are you throwing me out again, then?” he asked in a jovial tone, but without the smile that he had worn so casually before.

“Not for long.” Laura dug through her satchel and handed him some coins. “I’m all out of small jars, and I need you to go buy some. The glassmaker knows what I need, so just tell him my name.”

It was easy to see how her words made him perk up like a freshly watered plant. His shoulders straightened, and his smile was back in full force. “Got it. Anything else?”

She hesitated. This was her chance to send him on a wild goose chase and buy herself enough time to brew that antidote, while getting the littlest bit of revenge for all those times he had critiqued her chocolate in the past. While she did entertain the thought for more than just a mere moment, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

“No,” she said, almost regretful. “Just walk slowly on the way back so the jars don’t crack.”

The moment the door closed behind him, she sprang into motion. First, she dumped the flower petals into the largest pot she had, filling it with clean water. Her mother had liked to soak them for a while before rinsing them, and Laura still followed that habit. Then she took the grimoire out of its hidden drawer and dropped it onto the worktable. As if knowing what she wanted from it, the book fell open to the page she needed. There was the antidote recipe, in the same crooked handwriting she’d grown so accustomed to.

She went over the list of tools and ingredients once more, lining everything up on the table: the mortar and pestle, the fresh herbs from her satchel, the dried ones from her small pantry, and the bowl of water she had left out all night for the Moon to cleanse. With everything in place, the old confidence came over her again, and she got to work feeling sure that not only would she master this spell, but it would also undo the effects of her unfortunate chocolates.

By the time Ambrose finally returned, a clinking bag in one hand and a paper-wrapped bundle in the other, the workshop was back to rights, no trace of anything that could be deemed magical in sight. The fire was burning merrily in the stove, and if Laura looked a little hot, it was surely because of the steam rising off the simmering petals, and not because she’d had to hide the incriminating evidence in a rush.

“Here’s what you asked for,” he said, handing over the jars. “And here’s a late lunch.”

He set the bundle on the worktable and unwrapped the paper. There was fresh bread again, and cheese and grapes.

The smell made Laura's stomach wake up and loudly remind her that she hadn’t had a decent meal since breakfast the day before. Even so, she was close to pushing the hunger aside once more and finishing her affairs with Ambrose as soon as possible, when the man pulled out the only stool she kept in the workshop and nudged her toward it.

“You eat first, and I’ll take care of the jars. All I need to do is wash them thoroughly and then set them in the oven to dry, right?” He had found a spare apron and was already tying it around his waist, far too comfortable in the small space.

Laura watched him get to work, too taken aback to try and stop him. She tried to find some fault with his washing or any trace of carelessness, but had to give up soon enough. The expensive jars were safe and being cleaned with thorough determination. Still, she kept an eye on him even as she sat down to eat.

The cheese was alright, and the grapes a little too sweet, but the bread, as much as she hated to admit, was exquisite, with a thick and crunchy crust and a soft, fluffy interior. She had to wonder whether this loaf was made from the dough Ambrose had kneaded while thinking of her and whether he had finished his work or he’d run out in the middle of it and someone else had had to take over.

Not that she was going to ask him that.

It was hard enough watching him milling about her workshop, wearing her spare apron and taking over her tasks. Talking to him was too much to give.

Then, while biting into another grape, she realized that she had the opportunity to give him the antidote without raising any suspicions.

“I feel bad watching you work while I’m just sitting here. Have you even had a chance to eat today?”

Ambrose hummed as he moved the tray with the upside-down wet jars and their lids toward the stove and carefully opened the small oven built into it. “No, I don't think so,” he responded too joyously. “Mom got me breakfast, but I forgot about it when I came to get you.”

“All the better, then!”

He turned a quizzical look upon her, not caring to watch for the hot oven he was pushing the tray into.

Laura was so surprised to see him touching the metal with his bare hands that it took her a moment to realize what she had said out loud.

“I mean,” she mumbled, struggling for words, “I was hoping we could have a meal together.” That was not what she had expected to come out of her mouth, and blood rushed into her cheeks. Whether it was shame or something else, she didn't want to think. “I even made us tea.”

She set into action before anything else could be said, pushing him onto her newly vacated stool and setting the cup she had prepared in front of him.

“Here you go,” she said in a rush. “I had a cup while I was waiting for you, and yours has gone lukewarm, I’m afraid. Drink it all before it gets any colder.”

If there was one good thing the love potion had done, it was making Ambrose listen to her every command. He picked up the cup and, without even stopping to smell or look into its depths, he downed all of it at once.

Laura nearly squealed with excitement. There went the antidote. It wouldn't be long until its effects would be visible.

She watched for the switch that was sure to come, but nothing seemed to happen. Ambrose still had that same look in his eyes, and his smile was warmer than ever.

“You know,” he said, bending over in her direction, “this reminds me of our childhood tea parties. It tasted just as bad as the first time.”

There it was, a complaint just like usual. Laura should have been ecstatic, but there was an uneasy feeling she could not shake off.

Ambrose went on. “Still, I wouldn't have it any other way.”

It was as clear as day—the antidote had failed.