Page 8 of Matches and Mistletoe
He cleared his throat. “Festive.”
Quickly he turned away and reached into the bag again. When his hand emerged this time, it held a magnificent gown—velvety scarlet trimmed with the purest white wool. “For the family feast tonight.”
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you.”
She wore it to the glen that night, and perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed that amid the woodsmoke and the spiced wine, amid the scent of toasted apples and the ripple of merry music, Elatha’s eyes lingered on her more often than usual. The look he wore delighted and frightened her, all at once.
Thistle danced with everyone in his family before he finally caught her. And in the whirl of wine and laughter and glimmering magic, with the velvety gown hugging her form like a lover, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. Then she twirled away, terrified at her own boldness.
Before dawn, Elatha’s mother Ygraine seized Thistle’s hands and murmured, “I am glad to see you still here, with him. He has needed someone.”
“He has you,” Thistle answered. “He loves all of you so much. He works the entire year so he can see you for half a night.”
“I know.” Pain flickered in the Fae woman’s eyes, and she lowered her voice still more. “I wish he wouldn’t. I wish he could let us go. Our time is done, love, and we know it. Being dragged from our rest each year—it is a joy to see him, but it is agony, too, knowing that another year has passed, that we have no life but this crumb, this scrap of a night. I would rather sink into my restful oblivion and never wake again.”
“Have you told him?” whispered Thistle.
“Oh, no,” said Ygraine. “And I will not—not yet. I never wish for him to feel that he is alone or unwanted.”
Ygraine’s fingers began to stiffen and harden in Thistle’s hands, taking on a barklike hue and texture. She pulled away, retreating into her place in the thicket, and she reclined beside her husband, while branches and leafless vines crept over her and sealed her in place.
Elatha moaned aloud as six pairs of beloved eyes turned dull and wooden. He paced the edge of the clearing, grief and rage sharpening the lines of his shoulders.
Thistle walked forward and touched Ygraine’s brow. “He is not alone,” she whispered. “And he is not unwanted.”
She and Elatha returned to the huge, hollow house, and he went immediately to his worktable. Even from her room down the hall, she could hear the angry clank of metal, the thunk of tools, and the incessant swears from his lips.
His pain gave her the courage to do the thing she had craved for months.
The scarlet gown slid from her shoulders, pooling on the rug in her room. Her corset and underthings followed, bits of white snow on the blood-red fabric.
Naked she walked into his workroom and stood behind his chair.
“Don’t turn around,” she said. “I have a present for you. But first you must tell me something.”
Tension hardened his back. He cocked his head. “Very well.”
“Have you even tried to find me another place to live? Somewhere I’ll be wanted?”
“I—I have been busy. But if you would like to leave, I can find you somewhere to go. I will make it my first task tomorrow. I will—”
“No.” She slid both hands over his shoulders, tilting her mouth down to the soft waves of his hair. He smelled of pine and earth, of leather and metal.
“Tell me, Elatha, Felwitch and Fae,” she said. “Am I still Unwanted?”
A long sigh shuddered from his chest. “No.”
She squeezed his shoulders tighter.
“For a while you were merely one of the villagers,” he said hoarsely. “But for three years I have noticed you. And since last midwinter, I have become addicted to your presence. I think, if you were to leave, I would fade. But that should not influence your choice. I will not bind you here, or chain you to this dismal cycle I call a life. If you want to leave, I understand.”
“Butyoudon’t understand.” Thistle pressed her lips to the side of his neck. “To me you are not the Unseen, the masked Felwitch. You are not Unwanted. And you are not Unloved.”
His breath hitched. He reached up, his fingers curling around her wrist.
“If you would like your gift,” she said softly, “you may turn around.”
He turned and rose from the chair in the same fluid movement. Stared at her body for so long she trembled a little, uncertain, wondering why he did not touch her.
