Page 23 of The Witch's Rite
“So,” he says, reaching up to snag a lock of my hair. He twists it around before his gaze meets mine again. “How is this going to work?”
“Well...” I glance away from his intense eyes. “I suppose we just take it one day at a time. As long as we all agree.”
“Hmm.” Rowan releases my hair, and I look up just as he shifts his focus to the window over my shoulder. I’m sure Alden is out there moving about, keeping himself busy. “He cares deeply for you.”
Warmth curls in my chest like Harrison upon my lap as we sit before the fire. “And I him.”
Rowan’s clean-shaven jaw is sharp in the golden light. Shifting slightly, I lift a hand and allow my fingertips to drift along his skin. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting me explore the planes of his face. With the sunlight illuminating him like this, I can see how his eyelashes are a golden red, and the colors remind me of autumn.
“Thank you,” I say softly, using my fingers to turn Rowan’s face toward mine. Once he’s looking down at me, I rise onto my toes to press a gentle kiss to his lips. “For taking a chance with me.”
As he pulls back, a smirk curls across his lips. “As if I have any power to resist you, Aurora Silvermoon.”
Then he kisses me, forreal, and for just a moment, I allow myself to get completely lost in bliss. Because he’s going to try, for me. Just like Alden is.
And I feel like the luckiest witch in the world.
Chapter 16
Rowan
THE DAY IS WARM—THE warmest we’ve had yet this summer—and I’m hot beneath my armor. I stood at the northeast entrance to Faunwood this morning, bidding goodbye to the last few travelers who visited this year for the Beltane festival. It seems the stragglers have all departed, and the village is quieter for it.
Now I’m walking the streets, nodding to the villagers I pass by. Though I’ve been here since early spring, they still seem unsure of my presence, staring and even whispering at times when I walk past.
I think again of how disappointed I was to have been assigned this post by King Jorvick. As one of his knights, I am sworn to him, and when your king calls, you answer.
Never thought I’d be called to serve in a sleepy little village like this though.
On my way through the market square, I spot a bouquet of colorful blooms sitting atop a wooden cart, the man behind it dozing off in the afternoon sun. Looking at how bright andcheerful the flowers are, I can’t help but to picture them on Aurora’s kitchen table or sitting in her windowsill, soaking up the sunlight. She was so delighted when I brought her the sunflowers, but those have long since wilted and been tossed into her compost pile. When I’m done with my duties for the day, perhaps I’ll stop by and purchase a fresh bouquet for her.
With a small smile, I turn to continue on my path.
Suddenly, I’m overcome with a racket of clucking and cackling. Startled, I step back to find a particularly flustered hen standing at my armored feet. She glares up at me—or seems to, at least—and ruffles her creamy brown feathers, sending a few drifting down to the cobblestones.
I stare at her, and she stares back.
“Sorry?” I say, feeling very much like I’ve offended her in some way. I hadn’t realized she was standing there until I turned to walk away.
The hen lets out another cluck, then tips her head. The sunlight is glinting off my armor, and she’s drawn to the reflective surface of my sabatons. She takes a few steps forward, then pecks my foot.
“Hey,” I say, taking a step back from her. But it doesn’t deter her. She scurries after me, more intent now on pecking my sabatons and greaves. After trying a few times to evade her, I finally realize how ridiculous I must look: a knight running from a chicken. Aurora would probably be doubled over laughing at me right now.
With a huff, I bend down and scoop the hen into my arms. She squawks and struggles, but after I tuck her into the crook of my elbow, she settles down, looking somewhat comfortable despite my rigid armor.
The man behind the flower cart is awake now—the ruckus must’ve roused him—and he’s staring right at me. With a sigh, Ihead in his direction. My shadow falls over him as I stand before the cart.
“Sir knight,” the man says, removing his floppy cap to bow his head to me.
“Do you know whose chicken this is?” I point to the hen, and his gaze flicks quickly to her.
“I think she came with one of the travelers. She’s been wandering the square for a few days, but no one has been able to catch her.” His eyes shift back to mine, or what he can see of them through the slit in my helmet, sparkling now with amusement. “Seems she’s taken a liking to you.”
I look down at the hen, and even though my face is covered, she stares right back. Her gaze is unwavering in its intensity, and I finally look away. For some reason, she feels more intimidating than facing an enemy in a joust.
“Where should I take her?” I ask the man, and he shrugs.
“You could give her to the baker,” he suggests. The idea makes my stomach turn, and as if the hen understands his words, she squawks again and wriggles more firmly into the crook of my arm.
