Page 30 of Thistle Thorns

“Don’t you ‘Flora’ me, cider witch,” she hollered. “They’re kidnapping my fairy!”

As Dad and Uncle Badger wrestled the fairy past me, I snatched up the garden gnome by her miniature Carhartt overalls.

“Ugh,” she cried, swinging her fists to no avail, “I hate being eighteen inches short sometimes. Put me down!”

“What’s this about it being your fairy? You said—last night, I might add—that you’d never even think about adopting it.”

Flora pouted. “That’s before I found it cuddling with Poppy on her dog bed in the living room. Came home from sorting out the moonflowers this morning and there they were, spooning. Must’ve come in through the dog door. It’s absolutely besotted with that rabbit. Plus I’ve never seen a creature weed so fast.”

As a garden gnome, Flora had command over her little plot of land, and if she wished to keep a summertime garden thriving even in the midst of winter, she could. Which also meant everything that came with summertime flowers, including weeds and insect pests. And while she could cast spells to rid her garden of these inconveniences, it risked upsetting the natural order of things, and Flora was not about to have that on her conscience. Especially not after she already risked much to keep her land thriving when it should be dormant.

“It thinks the June bugs are candy, Meadow,” she told me, eyes sparkling. “I’ll never lose another raspberry or rose again.”

I glanced back over my shoulder to examine the fiáin with fresh eyes, only to discover Dad and Uncle Badger in the middle of growing a collar and rope out of thorns and chaining the fairy to the big maple tree.

“That’s before the Hawthorne brute squad showed up and kidnapped him,” she groused. “Make the chain long enough so Flint can get on the porch out of the rain, would ya?” she shouted.

“C’mon,” I said, bringing Flora to my shoulder. The wet of her boots chilled my shoulder, sliding a dampness down my skin that made me shiver and long for Arthur’s warmth. The chain that connected us hummed as my mind began to wander—

Another warning pulse, more of an announcement than anything else, rippled under my feet.

“Hello, dear!” came a familiar voice.

“Hey, watch it,” Flora admonished as I spun around, narrowly missing thwacking her off my shoulder with the low-lying branches of the maple.

As I squinted into the rain in the direction of the voice, I chastised myself for thinking about the lumberjack shifter at a time like this, but that chain… “Daphne? Shari?” I called.

The elegant older woman and the quiet crafter hurried out of the orchard and across the dead wildflowers. Daphne was done up in her frontierswoman outfit with her broad-brimmed hat keeping the rain out of her eyes. Her blackthorn shillelagh squelched in the soft ground with every stab. Shari had a mustard-yellow puffer coat on over her oversized sweater and a crocheted hat that resembled a turkey on top of her head, its orange legs tied tightly under her chin. Her wingtip glasses were entirely misted over when they reached us, and she held on tight to the crook of Daphne’s arm for guidance.

“Flora came by all in a tizzy,” Daphne said before I could ask. “And Crafting Circle ladies don’t let their friends get into fights without backup.”

“I brought knitting needles this time,” Shari said, pulling two metallic-pink needles as long as my arm out of her bag. “They’re pointier. Stabbier.”

“There’s no fighting going on,” I explained quickly.

“Says you,” Flora grumbled.

“Then we’re here for moral support,” Daphne said, lifting her chin.

“Where’s Lewellyn?” I asked, looking past her for any sign of the man or wolf.

“Lurking beyond the property line. We all agree it’s best if he doesn’t encounter that shrew—I-I mean, your grandmother—again.” She waved a hand in dismissal. “Now, Flora, why were you hollering about a kidnapping?”

Flora thrust a finger behind us where Dad and Uncle Badger were now chaining the fiáin to one of porch posts. “They stole Flint!”

“Good gracious, is that the feral fairy from last night?”

Shari hastily wiped the fog from her glasses and peered at the porch. “He doesn’t look very comfortable.”

“Of course he’s not comfortable!” Flora stomped on my shoulder. “And neither am I, cider witch, soaked to the bone in this rain.”

I took the hint and hurried to the house, the two women following after me. It was a good thing too, for the sooner I got warm, the sooner I’d stop thinking about how nice it’d be to have Arthur’s arms around me. Thistle thorns, I had to talk to Lilac. But in the meantime… “How did you even follow Dad and Uncle Badger back here?” I asked the garden gnome.

“Once I realized who was breaking into my house,” Flora flung at my father, who finished cinching tight the briar chain around the porch post, “I took the Vespa to Weaver Lane. They were moving fast at first, flashing here and there like smoke—”

The Rabbit Step Spell, I realized. Then I silently kicked myself for not practicing it since leaving the manor. Though, I’d wanted to keep a low profile then, even among the hobs.

“—but it wasn’t hard to guess where they were going. Then I used my own green magic to keep up when theirs quit.”

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