Page 31 of Thistle Thorns

“And harassed us the entire way,” Uncle Badger said, following us as we trooped inside to the hearth room. He rummaged amongst the shelves until he found a pair of long-stem tweezers. Sending the garden gnome a condemning look, he retreated to the meager evening gloom of the western window to pull sunlion teeth out of the back of his hand. Black serrated seeds hit the windowsill with faint clicks like the sound of cat claws on a hardwood floor.

“That’s what you get for stealing my fairy!” Scrambling down my shoulder, Flora aimed a kick at my father’s shins.

The combat instructor easily stepped out of the way and gave me a stern look. “Out of respect for your friendship with this lesser fairy—”

“‘Lesser?’” she shrilled.

“—I showed restraint, but if she is to stay here, she needs to be civil.” He eyed Shari’s knitting needles. “They all do.”

While I didn’t appreciate my father making rules in my own house, I understood that calmer attitudes were necessary.

“I’m right here, long-legs,” the garden gnome shouted. “Say that to my face.”

“Flora,” I said sharply. “That is enough. You’ll get your fairy—Flint—back.” Wrenching open the back door, I stepped back outside.

The restrained fiáin scuttled away like a fish flopping on the deck of a boat, nostrils flaring, flinching when I set a glowing hand on its chest. That made sense—I hadn’t been exceptionally gentle last night when I’d smothered its face in Caer powder.

My power flared, and my father and uncle’s magical bindings snapped like frayed threads. It was so quick, and I realized I’d barely tapped into the seed of my magic. Which wasn’t a seed at all, not after it’d broken through the spell on my cuffs. My magic core had remained a fully rooted and canopied oak with leaves that rustled in an ever-present breeze. Though its task was complete, the only change was the dimming of the gold-green light of its leaves and the muting of the golden bark, like it was dozing. A cat napping, and easily roused when needed. I’d have to examine that later.

But first things first. While the restraints binding its arm and legs were gone, I’d left the chain and collar on its neck so it wouldn’t wander off. It didn’t have much room to move on the porch, so I retrieved Grumpy’s old water dish and set it nearby. Sniffing, the fiáin quickly found the fresh water and daintily started to lap it up through its savage needle-like teeth.

When I returned inside, Dad was staring at me. “Those were Mabian bindings. Only Grandmother’s ever been strong enough to destroy them with a simple touch.”

Flora patted me proudly on the knee. “The cider witch has got some pep, make no mistake. You should’ve seen the spell we—”

“We can talk about that later,” I said quickly.

The Crafting Circle ladies quickly picked up on the hint.

The Hunting Spell was my little secret, for now, especially with the scrutiny I was under. I didn’t need someone yelling at me about the dangers of spell-weaving, especially since it was already done, when I was already getting reprimanding looks for Arthur, not to mention being the true cause why Marten was trapped in an Unseelie prison.

“Indeed,” Grandmother said. The aunts, who had clustered at the doorway between the kitchen and the hearth room, parted to let her through.

“And the rest of you, out of my kitchen,” Aunt Peony ordered, clanging her wooden spoon against the rim of the soup pot. “Honestly.”

Nobody moved.

“Bringing that fiáin here, especially alive, was foolish, Tod,” Grandmother said tightly. “What if those magic hunters have another tracker?”

“They don’t,” Flora said. “If they did, we’d know about it.”

Grandmother arched an eyebrow.

“The Redbud phone tree. Well, not the official one,” Daphne explained when it was clear Flora was just going to look smug that she knew something that the matriarch of the Hawthorne coven did not. “It’s a faster way to spread gossip than waiting for the latest Talk of the Town. Although, hanging out at the Magic Brewery for a morning is usually just as effective.”

“Go on.”

“Six trackers have come to town, and six are still here. And there’ve been no more accounts of lost pets or livestock since, um, Flint became Flint, so they don’t have another fairy tracker.”

At the sound of his name, the feral fairy’s head popped into view in the western window, eliciting a surprised shout from Uncle Badger as he stumbled away, tweezers tumbling to the floor.

“They still have access to magic,” Grandmother countered. “It’s possible they could be using it right now. Get rid of it.”

“I brought it back for Forsythia to examine,” Dad argued. “There are runes burned into its chest. If she can determine the caliber of spellcaster we’re dealing with, we’ll be better prepared to deal with them if it comes to that.”

“Scorch marks,” Mom said, wiggling between her sister and cousins to the forefront. The hearth room was getting awfully crowded. “While they’ll stay imprinted on the body’s soul, they’ll fade from the flesh when it dies. He was right not to kill it, Mother.”

Grandmother didn’t look one iota pleased about Dad’s foresight, nor this minor mutiny both he and her daughter had staged, but she didn’t get a chance to rebuke them.

---