Page 11 of Claws for Celebration
Lucien chose his words carefully. Hollow Oak's supernatural nature was an open secret among residents, but revealing toomuch too quickly could overwhelm someone still adjusting to their own magical heritage.
"Small communities develop their own cultures," he said. "Especially isolated ones. We've been somewhat cut off from the outside world for generations, so we've maintained traditions and perspectives that might seem unusual to outsiders."
"Traditions like what?"
"Herbal remedies that work better than they should. Weather prediction based on animal behavior. A healthy respect for the natural world and its... moods." He watched her face for signs of understanding or skepticism. "People here tend to be more accepting of things that can't be easily explained."
Moira nodded slowly, tucking a escaped curl behind her ear in the unconscious gesture he'd grown to find endearing. "Mrs. Caldwell mentioned that some families have been here since before the town's official founding. That suggests a pretty stable population."
"Very stable. Most people who find their way to Hollow Oak tend to stay." Lucien allowed himself a small smile. "The mountain has a way of calling to certain types of people."
"What type is that?"
"The kind who don't quite fit in ordinary places. Artists, writers, craftspeople, healers. Independent souls who value community without conformity." He paused, studying her expression. "People with gifts that might not be appreciated in more conventional settings."
"Gifts," Moira repeated, and he heard the weight she placed on the word. "Like my grandmother's bread that never went stale?"
"Exactly like that."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the bookstore's atmosphere wrapping around them like a warm embrace. Outside, Hollow Oak settled into evening routines asstreet lamps flickered to life and the first stars appeared between gathering clouds.
"I brought tea," Lucien said, rising to retrieve the service he'd prepared earlier. "Twyla's evening blend. She says it helps people process difficult revelations."
"Does Twyla have a tea for every occasion?" Moira asked with a hint of amusement.
"Pretty much. Her grandmother taught her the traditional recipes, and she's added a few innovations of her own over the years." Lucien set the elegant china service between them, noting how Moira's eyes lingered on the delicate cups painted with mountain wildflowers. "She takes pride in matching the blend to the person and situation."
"What's in the evening blend?"
"Chamomile for calm, lavender for peace, a touch of mint for clarity." He poured steaming liquid into both cups, the herbal fragrance filling the space between them. "And a few other mountain herbs that help people accept changes in their lives."
Moira accepted her cup with that now-familiar brush of fingers against his, and Lucien felt the electric connection that seemed to spark whenever they touched. Her scent was stronger in the evening quiet, parchment and lavender soap mixing with something uniquely her that made his panther purr with satisfaction.
"Changes like discovering your entire family history is built on lies?" she asked, taking a careful sip.
"Changes like learning that what you thought were lies might actually be protective truths," Lucien corrected gently. "Your grandmother had good reasons for hiding her past. Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is shelter the people we care about from knowledge they aren't ready to handle."
"But I'm ready now?"
The vulnerability in her voice made him flood over with protective instincts that went far beyond his panther's claiming urges. This was purely human concern for someone he was growing to care about deeply, someone whose quick intelligence and quiet strength drew him like a magnet.
"I think you're braver than you give yourself credit for," he said softly. "Not everyone would handle these discoveries with such grace."
"Grace?" Moira laughed, but the sound held more sadness than humor. "I've been wandering around in a daze for days, jumping at shadows and questioning my sanity. That's not graceful."
"You're still here. Still working. Still asking intelligent questions instead of running away or dismissing everything as impossible." Lucien leaned forward slightly, drawn by the need to offer comfort. "That takes considerable courage."
"Or considerable stupidity."
"Courage and stupidity often look remarkably similar from the outside," he admitted. "The difference is usually in the motivation."
"And what do you think motivates me?"
The question hung between them, loaded with implications that had nothing to do with magical awakenings or family secrets. Lucien found himself studying the soft curve of her lips, the way lamplight caught in her brown eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, the delicate line of her throat as she waited for his answer.
"I think you're driven by love," he said finally. "Love for knowledge, love for truth, love for the grandmother who raised you even if she kept secrets. You want to understand your heritage not because you're curious, but because understanding it helps you understand her."
Tears gathered in Moira's eyes, and she set down her teacup with trembling hands. "She used to tell me stories when I was little. About mountain magic and special gifts that ran in families. I thought they were just fairy tales."
