Page 15 of Thistle Thorns

Joe removed his long red hat and held it over his heart like he was paying his respects at a funeral. “I’m so sorry for your association.”

“You sure he wasn’t swapped at birth?” Ricky asked, scratching his head. “Fae changelings used to be all the rage a few centuries ago.” He shrugged. “Guess that Unseelie fae was just taking him back home through the portal.”

I winced.

Roland immediately rounded on him. “Shut your trap or I’ll stuff your hat so far down your throat it’ll keep your toes warmer than your socks!”

“When we get him back, I’ll make sure he apologies to you all,” I promised. “Until then…”

“We won’t antagonize the witches and we’ll guard the property,” Roland summarized, “but you make sure they treat us with the same courtesy we’ll be showing them. We’re not going back to the ways of the Pembertons and all the humans before them.”

All the hobs shuddered at the thought.

“I understand.” To Dale, I said, “Maybe bring over a crock of the apple butter and a bottle or two of the wassail? Food gifts tend to go a long way in my family.”

“I’ll get the fresh stuff,” the hob declared, and we dispersed to our tasks.

On the way back to the farmhouse, I caught Otter giving me a sidelong glance. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged. “It’s just… You really took Boar’s comment about you being a pushover as a challenge, didn’t you? Stealing the grimoire, running away from home, setting up your own cider farm with hobs, befriending Fair Folk like that garden gnome, bonding a familiar, getting frisky with shifters. You took the Hawthorne rule book and literally chucked it out the window.”

“I can’t tell if you think that’s a good thing or a bad thing.” The rear garden gate swung open with a light touch, and a little pulse from the hearth rippled beneath our feet. It was different from its warning pulse, softer, gentler; Grandmother had spelled the hearth to track the family’s comings and goings to better keep us informed as to where each of us was at all times.

“It’s a thing,” Otter said noncommittally.

Then he seized my arm and spun me to face him, his face alight in that jovial way of his I hadn’t seen since fleeing the manor. I never noticed how his eyes sparkle like Uncle Badger’s.

“But you know when this all blows over in a few years that Lilac is gonna freak out about your lumbersnack.” He grinned. “You know hers was just an eagle. You claimed a bear.”

“I don’t think I’ve claimed—”

He waggled his eyebrows at me. “That’s not what I heard by the maple tree.”

Just the insinuation alone was enough for me to feel Arthur’s phantom touch on my skin, his breath on my neck, his warm hand sliding up my thigh, under my dress.

I choked on a breath, wheezing. I’d felt lust for Arthur before, but this fantasizing—and in front of other people, no less!—was on another level entirely. It had my whole body thrumming, even my soul; the invisible chain between us hummed like a strummed guitar string. It left me wanting, painfully aware that I hadn’t— What had Otter said? Claimed? And yet, deep down, I knew it wasn’t a wholly sexual joining I yearned for.

“Shut up, Otter,” I whisper-hissed, clamping down on the flush that had me no doubt resembling a freshly boiled lobster. “Don’t you have groceries or something to get?”

“There you are.” Dressed in one of my gypsy blouses and her battle leather pants, Aunt Peony looked like a biker mom on her way to a parent-teacher conference. She seized Otter’s wrist and hauled him away towards the larger of the two unmarked cars that were now parked by my sedan. “If you had any idea what it takes to provision for nine—”

“Ten,” I corrected. “Arthur’s coming over tonight.” Just the sound of his name on my tongue sent another shiver through me.

“Ten people,” our aunt continued as if I’d never interrupted, “you would not be dilly-dallying.” Her thrusting a long pink T-shirt into Otter’s chest nearly bowled him over. “Put this on, and be quick about it.”

She handed me a pair of folded fleece leggings, a few pair of socks, my boots, and my parka. “These are for you, Meadow.” As I dressed, Sawyer tugged my old filthy wet socks to the porch one by one, his nose crinkled in permanent disgust.

Otter shook out the shirt. “Flower Power” stretched across the chest in glitzy lettering. “No freaking way. Isn’t this one of Rose’s T-shirts her sorority was selling as a fundraiser back at college? I’m not wearing this!”

“Yes, you are. With that shirt and my blouse, we’ll look like a pair of hippies who are also proud supporters of the leather industry and not the stranded witches we are. We’re in the middle of Corn and Cattle, USA. We’ll blend right in.” She snapped her fingers. “Hurry up. I don’t want to miss the before-noon sales.”

Grumbling, Otter unclasped his shortened battle robes and tugged himself free of his battle leather vest that clung to him like second skin, tossing both onto the porch railing. Then he wiggled into the shirt, which was almost as much a second skin as his vest, and gave our aunt a patronizing two thumbs-up with a matching grin.

Her thrusting a piece of paper—torn from my birch-bound notebook, it would seem—and a pen into Otter’s chest nearly bowled him over yet again. “Now keep up, Otter. And scribe for me as I drive. Oh!” Spinning on her booted heel, Aunt Peony turned to face me and asked, “Meadow, dear, where’s that grocery store again? Galleon’s? Gallipot’s?”

“Galloway’s. At the town rotary, take the north spur. You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you!” she replied in a singsong voice, spinning back around.

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