Page 25 of Thistle Thorns

“Hmm,” Grandmother said again, lips quirking. “How quaint.” Louder, she told Cody, “I accept.”

“Sensible,” he grunted, as if whether or not Grandmother accepted his gift was of no consequence to him.

It wasn’t like he was going to get the bad luck, after all. Except rumor would fly that yet another salad bowl carved with olives had been rejected for no good reason, though likely because it was cursed just like the other one. Even so, there was a definite upturn to his pursed lips as he removed the price tag and set the bowl with the other pieces to be wrapped up.

I helped Cody wrap everything in brown paper and twine then left with Aunt Hyacinth to back the car up to the open bay. I wasn’t to be left alone, ever, and the two of us hurried back into the deluge of rain. Sawyer wisely stayed in the car when we got back out to load up the trunk.

“Mr. Beecham,” Grandmother said as she let Aunt Hyacinth and me take care of all the manual labor, “my granddaughter tells me you allowed her to forage on your land not too long ago. I have need of some of the same plants she collected and would like your permission to do the same. Immediately.”

The request caught him off guard, and he looked pointedly at the veritable sheets of rain that were shrouding everything in gloom. “What? Like, now?”

“I’m not made out of sugar, Mr. Beecham. I won’t melt in this rain.”

“Maybe not, but you’ll twist an ankle and probably your neck getting down the sawmill path. You’ll be off to the hospital at the same time I’m slapped with a lawsuit. No, ma’am.”

Grandmother’s ivy-green eyes glittered. “Mr. Beecham—”

“’Sides, the area she was in is all flooded out. See how that river’s roarin’? We’ve had some hard frosts and the water’s got nowhere to go with the ground pinched up tighter than a horse’s eyes in black fly season. They don’t call it ‘wetlands’ for nothing, you know.”

Grandmother surveyed the river, glaring at the water for having the audacity to throw a wrench in her agenda. Even a green witch as powerful as Grandmother couldn’t redirect a river. An irritated sigh shot past her teeth. “Another time, then? Tomorrow.”

“Weather report says this’ll all be gone tonight,” he said. “You can probably risk it tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the boy check it out for you. He’s as big and sturdy as a bear, that one.”

Grandmother’s gaze slid over to me, and I refused to blush. “Yes. We’ve met. Well, tomorrow then, Mr. Beecham.”

He touched the brim of his ball cap to us and gave the car a wave as we drove off into the rain, quickly disappearing from sight as the wet November day swallowed us whole.

CHAPTER TEN

Upon returning to the farmhouse, I almost didn’t recognize it. The outside was the same with its white planks and black shutters, all enlivened by the magical boost we’d infused it with earlier that day, but the inside…

Mom and Aunt Eranthis had been busy.

Someone had found my cache of apple seeds in its jar in the hearth room and improvements had been grown. Extra chairs, an extension to the dining room table so it could now easily sit ten, supple hammocks hanging in both the den and the spare bedroom upstairs, additional shelving to keep the spell ingredients and potions needed for the summoning separate from my bulk stocks, and various odds and ends that would make the Hawthornes’ stay in Redbud that much more comfortable. Or at least acceptable.

Charlie Lancaster had indeed delivered the keg of beer Otter had ordered, and it sat in the corner of the dining room in a grown kegerator, which was basically just a seamless barrel filled with ice. The tap at the top had been crowned with a flourish in the shape of the letter H.

The dining room table was now Aunt Eranthis’s personal workspace to tailor all the clothes we’d acquired at the Barn Market. She had no less than three pins sticking out of the corner of her coral-colored mouth and her glasses teetering on the very edge of her nose as she squinted her kohl-lined eyes as her magic needle whizzed back and forth.

There was no sign of Otter, so either Dad had enlisted him on the hunt for the fiáin or he was out patrolling the property.

Inside the tiny kitchen, Aunt Peony bustled back and forth between the stove—having finally relented—and the counter by the sink where she would look over Dale’s shoulder as he stood on a stool to see if he was chopping the potatoes to her liking. From the way she hovered and he briskly chopped, it was evident they’d formed some kind of semi-reluctant/semi-congenial working environment. Aunt Peony’s dandelion helpers were literally everywhere else, scattering out of range of their mistress’s bustling footfalls, lest they be squashed. She still used the hearth, but she had to compete for its power with her sister, my mother.

Mom knelt on the slate hearth stones, hands flat on her knees, flanked by Dutch ovens that were bubbling away with goodness knew what. I dumped my first load of Cedar Haven paraphernalia by the back door and craned over my mother’s shoulder. The twin fires were subdued, more a wall of light than flickering flames, and entirely purple. I’d never seen that color before.

I’d also never seen a face in the flames before, like some sort of magical video call. “Boar!” I cried.

My cousin’s face split into a smile, but then he quickly wiped it from his face after a glance at my mother. Clearly he wasn’t sure whether or not he should be happy to see me, given the circumstances.

“It’s alright, Boar,” Mom assured.

“Heya, Cuz,” my favorite cousin greeted, smiling once more. “Auntie’s been filling us all in at home. You’re gonna be grounded for eternity, you know that?”

“Boar,” Mom chastised.

“I’m twenty-five, Boar,” I said sourly. “I’m not sure ‘grounding’ me would have the same effect as it did when I was fourteen.”

Boar’s face was suddenly shoved aside, and Rose’s appeared in the flames. Even with her features in purple monochrome, I could tell she was flushed with excitement. There a bit of jostling as Rose pulled her sister Lilac into view, their two faces squished together.

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