Page 21 of The Witch's Rite
“Lavender or mint?” I hold the two jars up for him to see.
“Mint,” he says immediately.
Turning, I fetch two teacups from another shelf, then grind a few leaves with Aurora’s mortar and pestle. We almost always keep a kettle on the fire, and there’s just enough water left for me to pour two cups of tea. The steam rises into my eyes and around my face, bathing me in the scent of mint, and I breathe it in, trying to let it calm me. I still have no idea why I invited this guy in or what I’m going to say to him, but I think it’s what Aurora would want.
Teacups steaming, I take them to the table. Rowan accepts his with a nod of thanks, and then I settle myself down into the chair across from him.
Silence descends once more. I stare at a bundle of herbs hanging from a hook near the basin while the knight stares out the window in the door leading to the garden. The tea is too hot to drink, so we can’t even use that as a way to break up the thick tension settling over the kitchen like a heavy quilt over a bed in midwinter.
I’m just starting to think this may have been a bad decision when Rowan clears his throat. He adjusts his posture, sitting up straighter, and his eyes cut to me.
“Aurora said you . . . spoke.”
Well, at least he’s getting right to it. I’m not a man of many words, and I sure didn’t want to spend the few I have dancing around the obvious topic at hand. Aurora told me he came by while I was building shelves at the library, so his words don’t catch me off guard.
“We did.”
“And . . . you’re okay with it?”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I look down into my cup, watch the way the steam still rises into the shafts of sunlight streaming through the door and window.
Since first speaking with Aurora about it, I’ve turned the conversation over and over in my head, but no matter how I look at it, I always come to the same conclusion.
“Aurora isn’tmine, not truly,” I say slowly, though I will always consider her my little witch. “I don’t own her, and goddess knows I can’t control her.”
That makes Rowan smile, just barely. Aurora may be a dainty little thing, soft and supple and full of laughter, but weak willed she is not.
“She can do as she pleases.” I hold his stare. “With whomever she wishes.”
Rowan sits forward suddenly, bracing his forearms on the table. He’s lucky I fixed it, or else that hot tea would’ve gone all over his lap. “But doesn’t it make you uncomfortable?” he asks. “Knowing she’s with another man?”
I chew on his words for a moment, then sigh. “I suppose. But only because I’m not used to the idea yet.” I trace a whorl in the tabletop with my finger, remembering how Aurora bandaged my thumb when I struck it with that nail. The memory makes me smile. It was the first time I kissed her, the first time I touched her and held her in my arms. I’ve explored her skin many times since, but that moment will always stand out in my mind.
Pulling my focus back to the present, I level my eyes on Rowan once more. “Why? Does it bother you?”
He opens his mouth, then pauses, closing it once more. His eyes narrow, seeming to study me, and then he leans back in his chair and pushes his hands through his hair. It’s long, like mine,but whereas mine is thick and curly, his looks like water, albeitred.
“I don’t know,” he says. “At first, I didn’t like the idea one bit.” He drags his hands down his face, then leans forward to prop his arms on the table again. “But I like the idea of losing Aurora even less.”
Without meaning to, I nod. Because that’s exactly how I feel. I think I’d rather share her with all of Faunwood than lose her entirely—if that’s what she wanted, I’d at least try... for her.
“So, is that what you came over here to say?” I ask. “To tell her you’ll give it a chance?”
A moment of silence passes between us. And before Rowan can answer my question, the door in the foyer creaks open, and our eyes go wide.
Because our little witch is home.
Chapter 15
Aurora
“THE FISHERMAN HAD MORE WISPFISH,” I tell Harrison as he follows me through the door. A wicker basket dangles from the crook of my elbow, filled to the brim with Harrison’s favorite fishy treat. “I’ll smoke them for you this afternoon.”
“And the starberries?” he asks as I close the door behind him.
He’s been waiting all spring and summer for fresh starberries, but they’re not quite ripe yet. I check them every morning, and I even spoke a little spell over them last week, trying to encourage their growth. It seemed to help, but they’re still on the brink of being ready to enjoy.
“Soon,” I tell him, then reach down, hand extended. He sniffs my palm, then allows me to give his chin a scratch. “As soon as they’re ready, you’ll be the first to give them a try.”
