Page 10 of Matches and Mistletoe
“Such heart-rending romance.” Thistle stopped walking and pulled his face down so she could plant a kiss on his mouth. “I wonder what the people of Embry Hollow will do when their Felwitch does not return.”
“They will have to learn the art of restoration on their own, I suppose,” he answered. “Perhaps they will make gifts for each other each midwinter.”
“One can only hope.” Thistle threaded her fingers with his. “Promise me one thing, Felwitch.”
“Anything within my power.”
“Promise I will never have to weave again.”
His laugh echoed through the trees, shimmering in the morning sunlight.
2
I lost my companions on purpose that day.
The great hunt I had organized held as little joy for me as the voices of the maidens who clustered in my halls, simpering and fluttering their fingers, hoping to catch a sign of my favor—hoping to gain my bed and my title.
I could not fault them for their ambitions. The leap from country maid to Countess would have been an enviable one. And though I tried to be a fair and just lord over my lands, there would always be a disparity between my people and I, one that they longed to erase by raising their own fortunes.
They had begun to call me “Stone-Heart” when they thought I could not hear, or perhaps when they hoped I would. I must have a heart of stone, of course. Why else would a young, handsome Count such as I neglect to take a bride?
Why indeed.
For a long time I wondered if I was broken inside. I conversed with the young women of the villages nearby, and with the daughters of other nobles; and though my body occasionally reacted to them, my heart never did. The choice of ladies was limited, and none of them shared my interests or my beliefs; none of them stirred me to any kind of ardor.
Stone-Heart was perhaps the wrong moniker. Unfeeling or uncaring I was not; yet my heart was dull, ashy earth where no seed of love could ever sprout.
The festivities preceding Christmas wearied me, and the hunt offered no diversion. I had never understood how other men could take such pleasure in chasing a fear-stricken creature over hill and dale, through the underbrush and over rocks, until the poor thing’s heart gave out and it resigned itself to death. It seemed an insufferably cruel pastime, so after setting the hunt well in motion, I urged my horse aside and we wandered into the trackless wood.
These days I could scarcely take a ride without some servant or friend requesting to accompany me, and I rarely denied them. Not so stone-hearted, you see. So I reveled in the luxury of being alone in the cold, leafless forest. A few hardy birds twittered from bushy evergreens, and above me the sun glinted pale and golden through pearly gray clouds. I sucked in breaths of frosty air and felt utterly at peace.
Something skittered across the path, directly under my horse’s hooves, and the stallion bucked in response. I was too relaxed; I lost my grip and slid off the horse, crashing into the undergrowth. Both my hands sank into the thick mud beneath the forest litter.
I rose, wincing, and wiped off as much of the mud as I could. Just then I heard a drip and a gurgle, the unmistakable sound of liquid in some pool or stream.
Leading my horse, I followed the sound to a mossy hillside, from which burbled a sparkling rivulet of water. The water pooled below, trapped by a circle of flat rocks. I knelt on one of the rocks and plunged my hands gratefully into the water, prepared for an icy shock; but to my surprise, the liquid was warm. It closed around my hand like a rippling blanket, swathing my fingers in blessed heat. Though I rolled up my sleeve and reached in deep, I could not feel the bottom of the pool.
A hot spring, then. What a sheer delight to have found one! And with my retinue far away in the forest, hunting, I could take a moment to enjoy this place without fear of discovery.
I tied my horse to a nearby tree and divested myself of my clothes. The cold nipped at my bare skin, but I did not care; I could not believe my luck. Solitude, beautiful scenery, and a hot spring—this was my best Christmas yet.
Sinking into the hot water, I sighed with gratitude and sent up a prayer of thanks to the saints and the old gods of the world. In my mind, the Christmas story was as true as the tales of ancient beings who walked the glades and worked magic. No one else seemed to believe that faith and Fae could coincide, that they could be two halves of the same whole. And I could not marry any woman who did not keep her mind open to the possibility of magic.
My feet scraped the bottom of the spring, skimming along sandy pebbles. How odd that this pool should be precisely the right depth for a man of my height. The ideal temperature, too.
I pushed the coincidence aside and tilted my head back against a stone, letting the heat work through my muscles.
Something brushed against the flat of my stomach, and I jerked upright, peering into the water.
No doubt it was only a fish, or a piece of detritus fallen from a nearby tree.
But it had felt like soft fingers, delicate and curious.
Another touch, this time at my waist, and still I could see nothing through the glimmering water. I let my hands drift lazily at my sides, but the next time those fingers brushed my skin, I caught them in a vise-grip and hauled them up, above the surface.
They were a woman’s fingers, slender and pale, and when I pulled harder, her wrist appeared, then her slim arm and rounded shoulder. Her neck curved up from the water, pulling with it a wet head and a sheet of silver hair that sparkled like the water itself.
And her face—I had never seen such a lovely face. A long, graceful nose, sloping cheekbones, a chin with a touchable dimple in its center—lips as dramatically arched as Cupid’s own bow. Her eyes seemed too large—larger than any human’s. Creamy lids fringed with thick lashes drooped over the liquid blue depths of those eyes. Between the silver strands of her hair emerged upswept ears with points as sharp as knives.
