Page 13 of The Witch's Cottage
Rolling my eyes lightly, I reach for the door handle and pull the front door open.
Alden is standing there on the porch, shoulders so wide he nearly fills the whole frame. He’s wearing a long-sleeved cotton tunic, and his dark curls are windblown. I’m quickly reminded of yesterday, when he peeled off his tunic while working on the veranda. I tried so hard not to stare at him, but it was almost impossible, what with the sheen of sweat onhis strong back and the ripple of muscle with every swing of his hammer. He caught me looking, and I kept my eyes firmly averted after that... mostly.
“Hi,” I say, stepping aside to hold the door open. “Come in.”
Alden steps through the doorframe, and Harrison immediately jumps from the windowsill and runs up the steps. Alden’s dark gaze follows him as he disappears onto the second floor.
“That’s Harrison.” I close the door behind him with a soft click. “It takes him a while to warm up to new people.”
A grunt is Alden’s only response. It nettles me, but I’ve come to expect it at this point.
“Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask as Alden sets a few tools on the foyer floor.
“No.” He looks down, meeting my gaze. “But thank you.”
I’m not sure I ever noticed before, but his eyelashes are so thick that they tangle with one another, and some are long enough to almost brush his cheeks when he blinks.
Heat rises into my face. With a nod, I quickly turn away and head for the kitchen. The last thing I need is him seeing how his dark eyes and deep voice make blood rush into my cheeks. “Okay. I’ll be in here if you need me.”
Before he can offer me another grunt, I slip through the doorway and into the kitchen. Leaning back against the wall in a shaft of sunlight, I catch my breath while Alden moves around in the foyer, probably prepping his tools. I’m not sure what it is about him that makes me so giddy. He’ll be gone after today, and I’m partly relieved, but also a bit disappointed, because then I won’t have an excuse to see him anymore.
That thought dims my spirits a bit. But I know just the thing to make myself feel better.
While the bread bakes, filling the kitchen with the delicious smell of sourdough, I crush a few seeds and herbs with my mortar and pestle, then slip them into a cotton sachet. I place a kettle over the fire, already filled with water from the well, and wait until steam rises from its slim spout. Removing it from the hook above the coals, I pour the boiling water into my teacup, and the scent of licorice, marshmallow root, and fennel wafts up from the hot water.
The smell sends a wave of calm over me. Teacup held between my hands, I take a seat at my kitchen table, careful not to wobble it. I sit there a while as my tea cools, admiring the little prisms of light that dance across the wall thanks to the crystals hanging from a rod stretched across the window.
It reminds me of when Auntie first started teaching me about crystals and their many properties—from crystal quartz to amethyst and citrine to selenite. I keep finding crystals in the cottage and spread around the garden and property, and every time I do, I take a moment to smile and thank Auntie for leaving me with such lovely treasures to find.
That thought makes me smile as I lift my teacup to my lips and take my first sip. And almost as soon as I do, there’s a hiss and a grunt from the parlor, followed by what sounds like a hammer hitting the wooden floor. Without a second thought, I’m out of my chair and sweeping through the foyer and into the parlor, where I find Alden clutching his hand to his chest, a thin line of blood trickling down his tawny skin to stain his cotton sleeve red.
“What happened?” I ask, eyes wide.
“Nicked myself with a nail. I’ll be fine.” He angles his body away from me, making it harder for me to see his injury.
“You don’t look fine.” I arch a brow at him, then gesture to the kitchen. “Come on. I’ll get it cleaned up for you.”
“I’m fine,” he says, voice low and gravelly.
“You’renot,” I snap, finally losing my patience with him and his bearish ways. “Now stop being difficult and let me help you. You can’t work if you’re dripping blood all over the floorboards.”
The look he gives me is withering, but he finally relents, still clutching his hand as he walks into the sunlit kitchen. I gesture for him to sit at the kitchen table while I fetch a few clean cloths. When I turn to face him, I have to fight the smile that wants to rise to my lips at the sight of him sitting at the table. He nearly dwarfs it, and it’s no small miracle that the little kitchen chair is even holding his weight.
Banishing my humor, I sit across from him at the table and hold out a hand. “Okay, let me see it.”
“I told you, it’s fine.”
My eyes roll so hard I’m sure they almost get stuck in the back of my head—just like Mama warned me about when I was little.
“Alden Stonewood,now.”
His bushy eyebrows rise, and he yields his hand to me without any further trouble.
There’s certainly a wound on his thumb, but when I dab the blood away with the cloth and take a closer look, I can tell it only caught the edge of the skin.
“It didn’t go all the way through,” I tell him, standing to fetch the kettle from above the coals.
“Told you,” he grumbles.
