Page 14 of The Witch's Spell
Then he slips out of bed, leaving me cold in his absence, and tugs on his trousers before stalking toward the bedroom door and pulling it open. It clicks closed behind him.
I sit up in bed, straining to hear. Faolan’s footsteps follow Alden’s, growing quieter as he moves away from the bedroom through the parlor.
For a moment, all I hear is the howling wind and the creaking of the cottage. Maybe it was just the wind. Who would be out in a storm like this?
Then come low voices—Alden’s, Faolan’s, and . . .
I listen closer just to be sure.
There’s a third voice, but it’s unfamiliar—and undoubtedly masculine.
Someone’s here.
Despite Faolan telling me to stay put, I slip from bed, pull on my knitted socks, and fetch my heavy dressing gown from the hook behind the door. The air is chill enough to make goose bumps dance across my skin; it seems the fires are struggling to keep the cold at bay. We’ll likely need to rekindle them before morning.
I tug the front of the gown closed and tie it snug over my round belly. Then I pull the bedroom door open and step into the parlor.
The voices are clearer now, though they’re still quiet, making it difficult for me to discern what’s being said. I walk across the parlor, enjoying the heat from the low fire as I pass by, then peek through the doorway.
And gathered in the foyer are Alden, Faolan, and a stranger. When I step through the doorway, they all turn to look at me. But it’s the unfamiliar face I focus on.
In the darkness, it’s hard to make out his features with any clarity, but what I do see is skin so pale it almost appears silver and a shock of shaggy hair. At first I think the stranger is covered in snow, but I quickly realize that no, it’s just the color of his hair—snow white, as if all the color has been leeched from it. His eyes appear pale as well, though I can’t tell if they’re silver or blue.
He’s strangely beautiful, even in the shadows.
And he’s still bundled in a cloak, the shoulders of which are heaped with ice and snow.
“Says he got caught in the storm,” Alden says, keeping his voice low, likely to avoid waking the others. I wouldn’t be surprised if Orla and Cathal were listening to us right now, given how impressive Faolan’s hearing is. But I don’t hear any movement from the other bedroom upstairs, so Rowan must not have been awoken by the knock. I’m glad. He needs his sleep.
“But won’t tell us why he was in it in the first place,” Faolan continues, voice gravelly. He has his arms crossed over his bare chest, and with Alden beside him, they fill the narrow hallway.
The stranger, who must be about Rowan’s height, tilts his gaze up to meet Faolan’s. “I’m a traveler, like I said. Storm came out of nowhere, and I got turned around in the woods. This is the first residence I’ve come across.”
His voice has an oddly lyrical quality to it, like he’s singing even when just speaking. It makes me want to step closer, to listen to him recite poetry or read ballads. His eyes meet mine again.
“Come in, come in,” I say. “Hang your cloak there. You can warm up by the fire.”
“Aurora,” Alden and Faolan say together, tones a mix of warning and caution.
I hold up both hands, one toward each of them. “Look at him, he’s frozen.”
As if to prove my point, some slush slips from the man’s cloak and splats onto the wooden floor.
“I’ll make tea. Would you like some, Mister . . . ?”
His lips, which appear as pale as the rest of him, though I’m not sure if they’re usually that way or if they’re just cold, quirk up on one side. “Blackveil. Thorne Blackveil. And tea sounds lovely.”
He unclasps his cloak and hangs it up alongside his satchel while Alden and Faolan give each other looks, which I choose to pointedly ignore. They step out of the way, making room for Thorne. And that’s when I notice a cane clasped in his right hand. He leans on it as he passes between Alden and Faolan, his gait somewhat unbalanced. I can’t tell if he’s injured, but I know it’s not my place to ask.
“Lavender? Licorice? Mint?” I ask, already reaching up to tie my hair back. It’s still tangled from Faolan’s grip on it, and I settle for securing it into a knot at the base of my neck. I’ll comb and wash it tomorrow.
With my hands raised, my dressing gown tugs at my belly, and Thorne’s gaze flicks down quickly. He then glances toward Alden and Faolan, and I can only guess what he must be thinking. I suppose we all have our fair share of curiosities.
“Mint would be wonderful,” he says at long last. His cane thumps softly along the floor as he follows me into the kitchen.
“Alden, Faolan,” I call, trying to keep my voice as low as I can. “Can you feed the fires please?”
They seem uncertain but don’t give me any trouble. Once Alden has tossed another few logs into the kitchen hearth and has stirred the embers back to life, I get to work heating water and mixing herbs.
