Page 34 of Thistle Thorns

“Meadow will always have my protection,” Arthur told the witches, his voice as deep as his resolve. “Whether it is by my hand alone or by the entire weight of the Coalition. The latter wouldn’t be necessary if you’ve told her the truth about who seeks her. Have you?”

The effect was the same as if he’d yanked that basket of steaming biscuits from Aunt Peony’s hands and thrown them against the wall. Every witch stiffened, except Grandmother, who remained as cool and unaffected as a glacier.

“That is Hawthorne family business, and none of yours,” came Grandmother’s crisp answer.

“But she’s not just a Hawthorne anymore,” he growled. “She is m—”

“You’ll keep your barbaric notions to yourself or leave this house!”

Behind us, all the way in the hearth room, the Hawthorne flames blazed a fearsome green.

I erupted from my chair, keeping a tight hold on Arthur’s hand. The farmhouse flames conveyed my fury as easily as the Hawthorne flames had done for Grandmother, and ivy-green light spilled into the hallway.

“And you all will remember this is my house,” I seethed. “Arthur is my…” Friend didn’t cover it—plus I didn’t kiss friends the way I kissed Arthur—and I wasn’t sure if boyfriend did either. He was something much more, something deeper. The man was ingrained in me, heart and soul. But I certainly wasn’t going to say lover in front of my family and have them burn us both at the stake, irony aside.

I shook my head, unable to find the words, and plowed ahead, “You will treat him with respect. I don’t know how many times you needed reminding, but it is because of him that we weren’t lost to that portal.”

“Hear, hear!” Flora crowed.

Daphne slapped her hand over the garden gnome’s mouth.

“And before you came here”—I made sure the fury glowed in my eyes—“he gave me friendship and kindness when I didn’t deserve it. He was there for me, as he is now, braving your venom for my sake, and all because he’s a shifter and not a witch!”

My family looked sufficiently chastised, all except Otter, who sprang up from his chair to dash into the kitchen. The sounds of him rattling the fireplace poker free of its stand punctuated the silence hovering above the dinner table a second later.

Close to tears—my frustration and anger had to go somewhere—I sat back down in my seat, retrieved my spoon, and stabbed at my stew.

“Briars and brambles, Meadow,” Otter exclaimed softly, returning to the dining room. “You got that fire so hot it started crawling across the floorboards!”

Arthur gently extracted his hand from mine and set his folded napkin on the table beside his empty bowl. “I should go.” He stood, the muscles of his torso rippling as he straightened his spine. “That stew was excellent, Miss Peony.”

My aunt flushed, either from Arthur’s kindness or her own shame, and mumbled an acknowledgement.

He turned to me. “Meadow, I—”

“Will sit your butt back down. We haven’t had dessert yet,” I snarled.

He dropped into his chair so quickly it was like I had literally cut his legs out from beneath him.

Flora tittered beside me.

I glared at every witch at the table, daring them to protest. More than half of them dropped their eyes to their food.

“Would…” Aunt Peony had to clear her throat of the squeak in her voice. “Would you like some more stew, b— Arthur?”

“I’d love that,” he replied, lifting his bowl. “And some more of those biscuits, please. Thank you.”

Not knowing Arthur would be bringing cobbler, Aunt Peony had made her famous jammy tarts for dessert—shortcrust pasty filled with brandied apricot jam, strawberry jam with candied lemon, and succulent blueberry. Even though the plate of tempting tarts sat on the table next to Arthur’s cobbler, no witch touched them.

Flora had initially reached out to put one of each on her plate, but I’d slapped her hand away. These too closely resembled Aunt Peony’s tell-tale tarts, which would make you spill any secrets you wanted to keep hidden the moment that pastry dissolved on your tongue and that fruity filling filled your mouth with the taste of summer.

“They’re not those tarts,” she told us testily.

No Hawthorne made a move. They wouldn’t risk eating one and telling Arthur and the Crafting Circle ladies anything and everything.

“Did you, or did you not, make these after I told you Arthur was coming to dinner?” I retorted.

“Yes, I did, but only because they were quick to make!” Taking one of the brandied apricot tarts, she shoved the whole thing into her mouth before snatching up the plate and whisking it back into the kitchen. A moment later, there were the fussing sounds of the electric mixer whisking heavy cream into stiff peaks.

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