Page 22 of The Witch's Spell
“Fire,” Rowan murmurs, slowing his pacing as a hopeful look overtakes the one of concern. “That might just work. How much firewood do we have?”
Faolan and Alden share a look, and Alden reaches up to scratch his beard as he says, “We got the woodshed almost full.”
“Good. Let’s give it a try. Cathal, Orla,” Rowan says, turning to regard them. “You start a wood pile on the north side of the cottage. Alden and Faolan, you take the south. I’ll take the west.”
Oddly, there’s no fog to the east, which is the direction of Faunwood. It’s as if the fog has a mind of its own, or is at least aware enough to have enclosed Faunwood while not cutting us off from the village.
Small blessings, I suppose.
Rowan stands straighter, and I see the years of training he went through, the brave leader who lurks just beneath his armor, the man he is when he’s not feeding the hens or licking blackberry cobbler from his fingers. How could his parents have let so many years go by withoutreconnecting with him? It’s a terrible shame they don’t know the man he grew into.
And how unfortunate it’ll be if they don’t get a chance to join us for Yule, all because of this fog.
“All right, let’s go,” Rowan says, trying to rouse everyone and usher them toward the door. “We’ve got fog to clear.”
Chapter 13
Thorne
SEATED ON THE SIDE PORCH stairs, cane across my lap, I watch as the man I now know as Alden carries wood from the shed and into the forest to the south of the cottage. The bigger man, Faolan, trails behind him, face still contorted into a scowl. He looks in my direction, blue eyes narrowed, and I stare back, not breaking eye contact. Just before he vanishes into the trees, his lips pull up into a snarl.
A shifter. Can’t say I’ve come across one of them in a while. And now I’m trapped in a cottage withthree.
Behind me, the kitchen door opens, and soft footsteps sound on the wooden porch.
“I’m sorry about Faolan,” Aurora whispers. “He’s not usually like this. It’s just that he doesn’t get along with his brother, and now the fog, and...” She lets out a fluttering sigh. “I’m just sorry.”
I turn slightly to look up at her. She’s got one hand on her stomach, the other propped on her hip. Her long green hairhangs to her waist, and there’s a flush to her freckled cheeks. I feel an odd sort of appreciation for just how simple she is, from what appear to be hand-stitched dresses and knit socks to the bit of flour dusted along the edge of one sleeve.
Averting my eyes, I say, “It’s fine. I’m a stranger here. He’s right to be suspicious of me.”
Since this afternoon, I’ve been turning his words over and over in my mind.
“It has something to do withhim,” he said.
And then his brother, the short-haired shifter, chimed in with, “It smells like him.”
I reach up and snag a lock of hair, then begin rubbing it between my fingers, worrying at the strands as I ponder the fog and its purpose here. Could they be right? Does this have something to do withme?
I need to get closer to it, to study it without everyone’s eyes on me. Only then will I know for sure.
With a heavy sigh, Aurora settles onto the second stair beside me. One of my brows quirks up. She seems to have no aversion to me despite having known me for less than twenty-four hours. Maybe this is why the shifter is so protective of her. Perhaps she trusts too easily.
When she catches me staring, her cheeks go pink, like the fresh buds on the trees in spring back home. “Sorry,” she says, trying to scoot over to make more room for me.
Dropping my hand from my hair, I smile. “It’s fine.”
Her feet, clad in warm socks, wiggle on the wooden stair beneath ours, and she bites her bottom lip, a furrow forming in her brow. “Do you think this is going to work?” sheasks, voice low. The other shifters—Cathal and Orla, if I’m not mistaken—have returned from the woods to grab two more armfuls of firewood. I believe Aurora wishes for them not to overhear.
Once they’ve vanished again, I sit back, elbows propped on the stair behind me.
“No,” I say truthfully. Aurora doesn’t strike me as someone who would appreciate lying.
In my periphery, she sits a bit straighter, then lets out a big sigh and slumps against the banister beside her. “I don’t either.”
My gaze slides her way. I study her, then guess, “But you want to give them hope.”
She nods.
