Page 13 of Thistle Thorns

“Would you really have believed me if I’d spoken up about what I saw?” I cried. Then I faced all of them. “Any of you? You apparently couldn’t trust me with the truth, and still don’t, instead taking on that protection spell that ended up being no better than a curse! Maybe if you’d prepared me—”

“We were,” Dad interrupted calmly. “And we were doing a good job of it too, considering all these months you’ve been alive and successfully hidden and even thriving, it seems. Your Vanishing Spell was potent enough to erase your entire existence, and for that feat, we are all very proud of what you’ve accomplished. But”—he rose from his seat, his expression hardening—“did you ever stop to consider what it would do to your mother and me, not to mention the rest of the family, when the spell finally broke and we realized that we had a daughter again and no idea what had happened to her? That there was a decomposing body in the hall and our grimoire stolen? How were we supposed to interpret that, other than someone had kidnapped you and one of the three sources of our power? The scenarios that plagued us then—we were preparing for a coven war, Meadow. For you.”

My bottom lip trembled, the ceramic one-cup measuring cup shaking in my hand and sloshing lukewarm tea over the backs of my knuckles.

“It was only when your mother cast a spell to piece together the fragments of that night that we realized what truly had happened,” he continued. “Imagine our shock then.”

I couldn’t apologize for the strife I’d caused them, not yet. “Would you have told me,” I repeated, fighting to keep my voice level. “Would you have told me the truth if I’d come to you first?”

Him looking to my Grandmother was all the answer I needed, but my heart hoped for more.

“No,” came her quiet rely. “No, I would have spelled you to forget.”

My control broke. “Why?”

“Because I wanted you to live your life, to enjoy it—”

“Like a lamb does before it’s slaughtered?” I shouted.

My words hung in the air when the hearth flashed orange, the light streaking down the hall and into the dining room, bathing us all in a brief hellish glow.

“Another hour lost,” Aunt Hyacinth announced in a muted voice.

“Meadow,” Grandmother said sharply, “you don’t have to agree with me on this. But you do need to obey. If you want to help Marten as fiercely as you say you do, then do what you told the hearth fires to do: stop squabbling and get along. We are family. You will get the answers you seek, but only after we get through this. You will only be safe when Marten is safe and the Circle of Nine remade. That is the goal. Nothing else can take priority right now. That is where our focus should be.”

Focus. How well I knew that word. How much I hated it right now.

I would have protested again, demanding the explanation I was so desperate for, had it not been for Arthur’s promise. I will tell you everything. And yet, the one I most wanted to hear it from was her. Grandmother. The woman I had modeled my entire life after. Until now.

Clenching my jaw, for I didn’t trust myself to speak just yet, I simply nodded.

“Good,” Grandmother said with a superior lift to her chin. “Now—”

“We’ll do what we should’ve done all along,” Mom said, pushing herself away from the table.

A second later, I was yanked into her arms. The smell of old books and her wiry strength enveloped me. Dad hugged us immediately after, and our bodies rocked with the impact as each family member joined in the embrace. Including Grandmother, last, and after a long pause.

Even after all the hurt and fear, the secrets and lies, I was with my family again. Their love wasn’t perfect, but none of us were. And I knew, from the bottom of my heart, that none of their actions had come from malicious intentions. That didn’t excuse anything, but it gave us a foothold to rebuild. To be better.

A sob I didn’t know I was holding back wracked my chest.

“Oh, honey,” Mom whispered, holding me even tighter. “I’m so happy we have you back.”

“Me too, Mom,” I wept into her shoulder. “Me too.”

CHAPTER SIX

It seemed Otter was permanently assigned to be my chaperone, and my long and lanky cousin sauntered beside me as we crossed the wildflower fields to the hobs’ barn. I owed the orchard caretakers an explanation, or at least a debrief. Sawyer and Ame accompanied us, trotting ahead with their tails in the air and heads looking every which way. Overhead, three of the largest pixies—who I’d come to call Dart, Flit, and Zip—took turns dive-bombing Otter’s head in an attempt to pull his hair, much like mockingbirds would do to a cat when it was near their nest.

“Shoo!” he told them, swatting at the air and always missing. “Same side, guys! Same side!”

They weren’t convinced, and they clearly thought my instructions to leave him alone were made under duress.

“Can we go back to the farmhouse where I won’t get my ears chewed on, please?” he groused.

“Just a minute,” I said, seizing the chilled handle to the barn’s sliding door.

“Hey, fellas,” I greeted loudly before I even slid the door open along its frosty track. No doubt they were on high alert and posed to swing makeshift clubs or hurl apples the moment the door opened, despite Sawyer previously informing them we were no longer at DEFCON 1.

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