Page 24 of The Witch's Shifter
A few ladies are perusing the many options, and they glance over their shoulders at me and smile. In response, I cast my gaze away and clear my throat. Where do I even begin?
“Hello, dear,” says a small voice. When I glance to my left, I find a tiny old lady arranging spools of thread on a display. She’s so small, I didn’t even notice her there when I came inside. “Can I help you?”
“I hope so,” I say.
This earns me a few giggles from the other shoppers.
After she finishes stocking the thread, the shopkeeper shuffles over to me, her silver hair glistening in the light streaming through the windows on either side of the door. “What are you looking for?”
I explain what Aurora has been knitting lately: gloves, scarves, winter hats, and teeny-tiny socks for the baby, so small they don’t even fit my thumbs.
Will a baby really bethatsmall? I’ve never been around children—at least, not up close. There are kids in the village, but I don’t know the first thing about babies.
“This way, then.”
She guides me to a wall of yarn, and I’m quite certain there are some colors on display that I’ve never seen before. Some shimmer with iridescence, and others are dark and soft, like you could step through a portal into another world if only you wrapped the fabric about your shoulders.
“If you need anything else, just call.” The woman pats my forearm, then is gone, off to restock more shelves.
My gaze drifts back to the skeins of yarn, and I’m still feeling completely overwhelmed a few minutes later when the door chimes behind me and another shopper steps in.
Reaching out, I lift one ball of yarn from a wicker basket, but I find it feels rough on my fingers—no good for a baby’s soft feet, or even my hands, to be honest. Much too itchy. Back into the wicker basket it goes. This time I select a dark green color that reminds me of the trees around Brookside in the summer. The yarn has a much softer texture, a gentle, plush quality that makes me want to run my fingers over it again and again. I imagine Aurora sitting by the fire, knitting needles clicking as she—
“Alden? Is that you?”
My fingers still on the yarn, but I don’t yet look up. A tightness sweeps over my chest.
I know that voice. I’ve heard it in times of sadness and of joy, in moments of intense conflict and of passionate lovemaking.
Almost reluctantly, I lift my head, and there she is.
Belinda.
She’s beautiful, but that’s no surprise—she was the belle of our little village, the most eligible miss before I scooped her up all those summers ago. Her skin, a warm shade of copper brown, glows in the autumn sunlight, and her dark brown hair falls in gentle waves around her face. Her sharp edges have filled out in the time we’ve been apart, and she looks softer now than she did when we were younger. Age suits her, it seems.
“I thought that looked like you.” She shifts, and I notice the child at her feet. The little girl must be about two years old now, given Belinda was pregnant when last I saw her at Yule a couple years back. She’s got honey-colored eyes, just like her mother, but her hair is a lighter shade, streaked through with strands of rich gold—a gift from her fair-haired father.
Quickly, I glance out the shop door in search of Belinda’s husband, but I don’t spot him.
“Alden?”
I steal my gaze away from the bustling street and meet her eyes once more. “Hi.”
She arches a brow at me, a smile pulling at her lips. “Hi?Really?”
On the ride here, I did consider that there was a possibility I might see Belinda, but Wysteria is such a populous city, I thought it a very slim chance.
And therefore didn’t prepare myself.
“What are you doing here?” she asks. The girl tugs on her long skirt, and she stoops to pick her up, propping her on her hip.
“Needed glass. A new windowpane.”
“Oh.” Belinda glances about. “It seems you’re in the wrong shop.”
“Well, no, I—”
Her lips curl into a smile at my expense, and I let out a sigh.
