Page 86 of The Witch's Spell
“Is that,” Harrison asks from behind me, “a chicken sweater?”
I’m laughing too hard to answer him, watching as Rowan pulls the knit sweater over his head and looks down at the brown hen I stitched right on the front.
“It looks just like Lucy,” Rowan says.
“Please wear that into the village tomorrow,” Faolan says, wiping tears from his eyes from his laughter. “You can wear it over your armor.”
“Don’t tempt me.” Rowan ties his long red hair back so we can all better see the brown hen stitched into the green sweater. “I’m going to wear thiseverywhere. Thank you, Aurora.” He reaches behind his back and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in paper packaging and tied with a ribbon from Lydia’s mercantile. “These are for you. My mother brought them along, and I thought... Well, I thought you’d like them.”
I take the bundle and gently unwrap the ribbon. The paper packaging falls away with a crinkle to reveal a small stack of children’s books. The book on top is titledThe Boy Who Chased the Moon.
“Those were my books when I was a boy. Well, mine and Lucy’s.” Rowan smiles. “Now we can read them to our child.”
Tears swim in my eyes, distorting the artwork on the front of the book. I scrub a hand across my face and say, “These are lovely. Thank you, Rowan.”
He nods once, then scoops Marigold up when she comes strutting through the parlor, tucking her comfortably into his lap.
I give Faolan his gift next. As he removes the book from the bag and slowly opens the front cover, I say, “It’s a guide to our constellations, so we can track the stars together.”
“Where did you get this?” Faolan asks, not looking up at me. He’s already immersed in the painted illustrations, his fingertips delicately tracing the pages.
“I was able to convince Welma to part ways with it”—I tip my head—“at the cost of a few jars of blackberry jam.”
“Aw,” Rowan says, shooting a sharp look at Faolan. “I liked that jam.”
“Too bad.” Faolan flashes Rowan a fanged smile. “Guess Aurora likes me more.”
“You’re joking, right?” Rowan tugs at the bottom of his sweater. “She made me achickensweater. Doesn’t get much better than that.”
Faolan rolls his eyes and turns to fetch something from behind him. “It’s not much,” he says to me, “but I found this on a run in the woods, and it reminded me of you.”
He holds something out, and when he places it into my palms, it makes them droop beneath the weight. I open my fingers. It’s a beautiful chunk of crystal quartz, and I can tell Faolan took the time to clean it, because the different faces and facets gleam in the firelight, not impeded by dirt or debris.
“Like I said...” Faolan clears his throat. “It’s not much.”
“Nonsense.” I push forward and capture his warm lipswith mine, then whisper, “It’s fantastic. I know just the windowsill to put it in. Thank you.”
I ease back into my seated position, then reach into the basket to pull out the last gift: Thorne’s gift.
“You . . . got me something?” he whispers.
“It’s nothing special,” I say, suddenly feeling a bit shy as Thorne opens the bag and everyone turns to watch.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it’s a ridiculous gift. But it’s too late now. Thorne is already pulling the gift free, setting the roll of parchment across his lap, and tugging the ribbon binding it loose.
The parchment unfurls, and Thorne studies it, brow furrowing.
“What is it?” Faolan asks.
With a curious tip of his head, Thorne holds up the parchment. “It’s empty.”
Everyone’s eyes find me. But I’m looking at Thorne.
“It’s the start of a new map,” I explain, voice low.
“A map of what?” Thorne asks.
Oh my goddess, I think.This was such a silly idea!
