Page 5 of A Heart of Winter
“Wimp.”
“And proud of it.”
She chuckled at that, and when her voice came again, it was relaxed in a way I hadn’t heard in years. That hit me like a lightning bolt—how much Morwenna had hated everything about Michael’s presence in my life.
Her ease was something that had disappeared so slowly and so long ago that I hadn’t realized it was gone until now, when it had come back.
“You really hated Michael, didn’t you?”
Her only response to that was a snort. “Go start your fire, ice prince, before you die. Find a book, watch some TV?—”
“You have an internet connection in this place?”
That earned me another snort. “Like anyone can live without the internet. Modem’s in the hall, password is taped to it, Netflix is already connected on the TV. It’s your account. Now stop worrying and go relax. Everything is going to be just fine, kitten.”
And for the first time since Michael had sneered at me in disgust and told me to lose his number before slamming the door on his way out, I thought just maybe she was right. Maybe everything would be fine.
Wonderland
It was beautiful.
That was the other thing about winter. The morning after, when the snow had stopped and the sun came out, it glistened in the light like the whole countryside was covered in diamonds.
Admittedly, that beauty only lasted a brief moment before it was broken, animals and humans and vehicles tracking dirt into the snow, and melt making it into a muddy mess.
But for that one moment, the world felt special. Sparkling and new, clean, full of possibilities.
I didn’t want to leave the house and go trekking through the muck, to be the one who broke the magical moment of post-snow serenity. But early in the morning, standing in the kitchen, staring out the window at the shining hill behind the house, the snowflakes drifting out of tree branches and catching the sun, I heard a familiar noise.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Thwack.
Someone was chopping wood.
Morwenna had said she “owned” the land all around the cabin, which made the noise odd, but also, it was an opportunity. If someone was chopping wood, then theoretically, they knew about where I might get firewood.
Or possibly I could convince them to chop some for me too, in exchange for as much money as I needed to pay for that service.
Because . . . well, Morwenna hadn’t been wrong. Cuddling up in the den with a cozy fire going, marathoning old episodes ofMurder, She Wrotehad been . . . so relaxing. Nicer than I’d felt in weeks, and I’d fallen asleep right there on her memory foam cushioned couch, faux-fur blanket thrown over me and an army of throw pillows tossed around to make sure I was comfortable.
Okay, so maybe Morwenna’s cabin was a tiny bit better decorated than our childhood home.
Or a lot better.
Anyway, it was morning, and it was time for me to get to work on making sure the wood pile was going to last as long as I needed it to.
So I opened one of my trunks, digging through until I found what I needed—my coziest sweater and a pair of wool slacks that might hold up to the dirt of the countryside. It wasn’t incredibly likely, but wool had a better chance than the silky microfiber I’d been wearing the day before.
The one good thing about being used to New York winters was that I had a great pair of boots. They wouldn’t hold up to hiking or anything, but they could handle the muck of a New York City street, so I didn’t think they were going to fall apart at the first sign of mud.
When I was fully bundled up with boots and coat and a fluffy black cashmere scarf, I made my way out of the house and followed my ears toward the sound of chopping.
Sure, I had a moment’s hesitation. This person was probably a trespasser, after all. Maybe they were some kind of children’s horror movie character with a generic WASP name like Freddy or Jason or Robert, lying in wait for me to arrive so they could chase me around the forest with their axe, while I screamed and fell down because my heels were too high.
Except . . . I was a three-hundred-year-old witch, so even if it were someone with sinister intentions, it was unlikely they would manage to take me down unless they were a creature with immensely powerful magic. By the time my mentor had died, what killed her had been almost the only thing that could kill an ancient, powerful witch: age.
