Page 33 of Thistle Thorns

The power of his presence was underscored, but only slightly, by the tray of blackberry cobbler he held in his hands. “I brought dessert,” he calmly told the crowd of battle-ready witches. “Hope that’s okay.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Hawthorne family dinners were usually riotous affairs with at least half a dozen conversations going on all at once, but this dinner might as well have been a wake for a fallen witch. The Hawthorne witches ate quietly, only the scraping of spoons against bowls and quiet munching to be heard.

Aunt Peony had cleaned out my refrigerator to make cauldron stew, or what everybody lovingly referred to as a bowl of scrap outside of Aunt Peony’s hearing. It was some sort of cousin to gumbo, as a dark roux was its base, and then any vegetables and meat you had on hand went into it with a hefty spoonful of spices and a bunch of broth. Today’s was sausage and chicken drumsticks with sweet peppers, onions, and tomatoes I’d canned from the garden. She served it over fluffy white rice with butter-topped biscuits on the side, and you weren’t a Hawthorne if you didn’t start the meal off with at least two biscuits on your plate.

Uncle Badger had poured the beer, serving Arthur last yet giving him the largest mug, and Aunt Hyacinth had made the fancies—aka cocktails—something Flora, Daphne, and Shari could definitely get behind. After the chatter necessary to pass the butter to whoever wanted it, or hand out extra napkins—no one asked for the salt and pepper, for Aunt Peony knew how to season her food perfectly the first time around—no one spoke. Otter was still rubbing the back of his head after Aunt Hyacinth had cuffed him for greeting Arthur with a “’Sup, Grizz?”

Arthur was so big he was forced to sit at the end of the table, directly across from where Grandmother sat at its head, and she made sure to flay him alive with her eyes the entire meal. The lumberjack shifter knew he was in enemy territory and did nothing to aggravate her, other than what his mere presence already did, nor my father, who sat directly on Arthur’s left. Unlike the other witches, Dad hadn’t changed out of his battle leathers, and he kept his right hand flat on the table between him and the shifter, the knife in his wrist sheath just a thought away from sliding into his palm. Arthur feigned ignorance, but I could tell by the way his leg pressed against mine—the only touching we would get away with tonight—that he wasn’t as relaxed as he looked.

Meanwhile, the Crafting Circle ladies sat in a line beside me, Daphne sandwiched between Flora and Shari so she could keep an eye on her ward and the other on the rambunctious garden gnome.

The quiet crafter was the first to finish her meal, rubbing the butter of the biscuits off on her cloth napkin with an obsessive resolve before pulling her bag onto her lap immediately after so she could return to her spur-of-the-moment crocheting project—a sweater for Flint. Beside her, Aunt Eranthis leaned over to examine the pattern.

Braving the tension and endearing him to me even more, Arthur asked me softly, “How does it go getting your brother back?”

“That’s none of your concern, bear,” Grandmother said immediately.

He leveled her a look that would have had a human break out into a sweat. “It is. Meadow is of concern to me, thus is her brother.”

Of concern to me. Not exactly the most romantic of words, but I still appreciated them.

“Cody tells me you’re coming by tomorrow to forage,” Arthur said, his words once again for me. “Oh, and sorry. I forget. Cody said you needed more of this.” He pulled a jar of honey from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Said you wouldn’t quit nagging him about it?”

I rolled my eyes.

“Perfect timing,” Aunt Peony said, rising and plucking the jar from the table. She bustled away into the kitchen, presumably to add the honey to one of her potions in the hearth room.

Swallowing my stew, I wiped my mouth on my napkin before answering his question. “Yes. Apparently we need more blackberry lily rhizomes and milkweed seed pods, among other things.”

“Trade secrets, Meadow,” Aunt Hyacinth scolded.

“Will you be there this time?” I asked Arthur.

Thistle thorns, I hope I don’t sound as desperate as I feel. I hadn’t realized until I saw him again this evening that an ache had taken root in my chest. When the bond between us had been but a tether, it’d been easier to ignore, or at least forget about. Now that it had thickened and tightened into that chain, I found myself hungering to be with him.

In his presence, I had to convince myself. Not just in his arms.

“If witches needed shifters to accompany them on foraging expeditions, we’d never get anything done,” Aunt Hyacinth announced to no one in particular.

Arthur ignored her, and so I did I. His hazel eyes grew rueful. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he rumbled lowly. Beside my father, my mother stiffened at the endearment. “Coalition business. It has to be conducted in person.”

“Is everything… okay?” I ventured. I wasn’t sure how much he could share in front of me or anyone else not tied to the organization.

Aunt Eranthis actually choked on her stew when Arthur’s hand slid across the table to cover mine and give my fingers a squeeze. It was an effort not to interlace my fingers with his just to be that much closer to him. Beside me, Flora just chuckled, sipping her cocktail and enjoying the tension.

“It is,” Arthur assured me. “I’m just apprising them of recent developments.”

“Spy.” Grandmother spat the word out like it was a chicken bone Aunt Peony had left in the stew.

Amber flashed in the lumberjack shifter’s eyes. “Guardian,” he corrected firmly.

“That’s what her family is for,” Dad told him, the fingers of his free hand twitching in the anticipation of violence. I knew from experience just how quick he was getting those knives out their sheaths. He’d used them once against Arthur already, and I wasn’t about to let him do it again, especially when he didn’t have his bear hide to protect him.

“Dad,” I hissed from across the table. By the Green Mother, I wish whoever had expanded it hadn’t enlarged it so much so I could actually kick him under the table.

“Anyone care for more biscuits?” Aunt Peony chirped nervously, having reappeared with a fresh batch. There was nothing Aunt Peony hated more than angry conversation at the dinner table; she was convinced it spoiled the food, and as the witch who spent the majority of her time preparing that food for the entire coven, she didn’t like to see her efforts wasted.

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