Page 17 of Thistle Thorns

Grandmother and Dad shared a look, then Dad put his knives away and Grandmother extinguished her magic. “We’ll see about some moonstone at this Barn Market in addition to the opals.” She flicked her fingers at me to keep driving as she rolled up the window. “Carry on.”

Growling, Sawyer slunk back to my lap. “I can see why Ame doesn’t like you,” he told my grandmother.

“It’s not my job to be liked, cat,” she said sharply. “It’s to keep my family alive and safe. You can bear the humility of a collar for a few days to do the same for my granddaughter.” It wasn’t a question.

Sawyer lifted amber eyes up to me. “Are you really going to let her collar me?”

I didn’t have an answer. On one hand, I understood my grandmother’s logic: moonstone dispelled the low-level glamours frequently used to mask an entity’s true identity, so a cat wearing one couldn’t be anything other than itself. Certainly not a fiáin. On the other hand, I knew my cat and it wasn’t necessary. But…

“They don’t know you like I do, Sawyer,” I said, feeling miserable with every word that came out of my mouth. “And what we just went through right now? I don’t want that—or something worse—happening to you because over something stupid as mistaken identity. So… yes.”

The tabby tomcat made a little choking noise and promptly removed himself from my lap, tucking himself tight against the passenger side door, as far away from me as he could. He looked resolutely out the window at the rain that had picked up again. “I wish your family had never come here.”

Biting down on my lower lip so I wouldn’t cry, I finished the drive to the Barn Market in silence.

CHAPTER SEVEN

“Hurry now,” Grandmother said, opening her door before the sedan had come to a complete stop. “There’s much to do and this rain will only slow us down.”

Her booted feet crunched on the gravel as she hurried out of the rain, gesturing for Aunts Eranthis and Hyacinth to quickly join us. Dad remained in the car with me as I coaxed Sawyer into my foraging bag. There wasn’t much room in there with all my witchy bits and bobs, including the Hunting Spell crystal and the black tourmaline, but the tomcat was still small enough to fit. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes and adjusted the scarf that hid the bulk of him from sight over his head so I couldn’t see him.

“I’m sorry about before,” Dad said as we hustled under the eaves of the massive red barn. “It’s just common procedure—”

“Well we’re not at Hawthorne Manor, are we?” I said cuttingly. “We’re in Redbud. Things are different here. You can’t come barraging back into my life and hurling my cat out car windows!” I clutched my foraging bag with said cat to my chest.

Dad eyed the leather bag, probably still not convinced about the validity of the cat, then lifted light brown eyes. He nodded once, either in acknowledgement or understanding, then gestured for me to follow the female members of our family and go inside.

The little bell above the door chimed at our arrival, the roar of the rain on the roof snatching the cheerful noise and throttling it.

“He has a brownie helper,” I informed quickly, “so nobody freak out if you hear little feet scurrying about but don’t see anything. It’s not mice. It’s Monkfoot. And he’s nice, so keep your magic to yourselves.”

Grandmother pursed her lips at that, mildly insulted that I’d felt it necessary to remind them of magical etiquette. After that fiasco in the moonflower grove, and in my own car, I was prepared to give that reminder a lot. Redbud was an open magic town with a decent population of supes and fairies who hadn’t done anything to anybody, and I didn’t want my family antagonizing them. The Hawthornes weren’t staying in town long, but Misty Fields had a reputation here. One I still felt the need to protect and uphold, even though my life here seemed to be coming to an end.

“Menswear’s to the left in the back,” I said, pointing, “and, um, I actually don’t know where the womenswear is.”

“Hello?” Grandmother’s voice echoed louder than the thunder outside. “Is there an owner or manager about?”

“You don’t need to shout, Grandmother,” I admonished lowly. “Emmett’s usually at the checkout counter if he’s not helping a customer. It’s right over—”

But Emmett had already come hurrying at the sound of Grandmother’s commanding resonance, hastily wiping away the fog from his wire-rim glasses. It was quite cool in here and his frosting breath misted on the glasses the moment he replaced them.

Grandmother gave the proprietor of the Barn Market a slow up-down glance, no doubt assessing the clean, pressed overalls, the checkered shirt—now in flannel for the winter, instead of cotton—and the royal blue shawl-collar cardigan he had bundled up around the jowls of his throat. His white hair, which still bore the comb strokes of his morning hygiene routine, had started to become unruly with the static.

His eyes widened behind his fogged glasses, his mouth going a little slack, and Grandmother lifted her chin.

Then, Emmett Trinket bowed.

As much as his old back allowed him, of course, and Aunt Eranthis smothered a girlish giggle behind the back of her hand. Aunt Hyacinth nudged her in the spine to hush up.

“Hi, Emmett,” I said quickly, stepping forward.

“Why, Miss Misty Fields,” he greeted, once again wiping his glasses clear with his handkerchief. “Who’re these fine folks you’ve brought with you today?”

“Emmett, this is my g-grandmother, um—”

“Irene Fields,” she supplied, extending her hand.

He actually lifted it to his lips to kiss her knuckles instead of shaking it.

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