Thistle stood in the shadows of the trees outside Margaret Little’s house. They were just starting to fill in with spring leaves making for decent cover. Thistle didn’t seem to care.
Her hair, a violent shade of purple this month, was swept back from her face. Her features, which were narrow, were so pinched she looked like she was about to have a seizure. The way she glared at me rather than Aunt Tillie told me I was in for a world of hurt if things didn’t go well.
“See, this is why I didn’t want to bring her,” Aunt Tillie complained. She’d put a camouflage scarf around her hair and had painted matching lines on her face. She looked as if she was preparing for war or a vigorous round of paintball. “All she does is complain.”
“I didn’t want to come,” Thistle fired back. “Bay made me.”
“Hey!” I shot her a dark glare. “I didn’t make you do anything. I asked if you wanted to go on an adventure.”
“You asked if I wanted hot cocoa after dinner at the inn. You didn’t mention anything about an adventure.”
“Oh, hot cocoa.” Behind us, Clove sniffed. “I was promised hot cocoa too.”
I glared at her over my shoulder. This was the first “adventure” she’d participated in since the birth of her son Calvin. I didn’t hate her for not being part of the fun—not that this was much fun—but it was nice to have her on the team again. Thistle had been keeping to herself more than usual, but Clove had been focused on her baby. When whispers started spreading about an adventure, she wanted to be part of it. Obviously, she was already regretting her decision.
“You’ll get your hot cocoa,” I assured her. “We just have to handle this first.”
“Just what is ‘this?’” Thistle demanded. “Why are we hanging around outside Mrs. Little’s house? I thought we all agreed that after the clown situation we would give her a break.”
It was rare for Thistle to be the voice of reason. Almost unheard of really. She had a point, though. Mrs. Little had been so overwrought that she’d fallen victim to a changeling and been drained to the point she almost died. In the weeks since that incident—we’d saved her—we’d left her alone. Even Aunt Tillie, who considered Mrs. Little her arch nemesis—yes, Lex Luthor style—had left her alone.
Tonight’s adventure wasn’t about torturing Mrs. Little. That’s the only reason I’d agreed to Aunt Tillie’s plan when I heard her conspiring with her sidekick.
“We’re not here to make things worse for Mrs. Little,” I started.
“Speak for yourself,” Aunt Tillie interjected, her nostrils flaring. “I always want to make things worse for Margaret.”
I gave her a sidelong glare. “You said you wanted to make things better for her.” My tone was accusing. “I heard you say that.”
“You’re so naive,” Thistle complained. “When has Aunt Tillie ever done the right thing by Mrs. Little?”
“Let’s not pretend that Margaret is a paragon of virtue,” Aunt Tillie fired back. “Everything I’ve ever done to her she’s deserved.”
I folded my arms over my chest and jutted out my chin. If I’d known we were here to torture Mrs. Little, I would’ve stayed home and had hot chocolate in bed with my husband. I wouldn’t have gotten dressed up—in layers no less—and frozen my butt off. “You’re in trouble,” was all I managed.
“You know, I hate to agree with Bay,” Clove started.
I turned my glare toward her. “You hate to agree with me?”
“You’re not my favorite person right now,” Clove replied. “I don’t see any hot chocolate around. I was bamboozled.”
“Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch,” Aunt Tillie muttered.
“I don’t think we should be going after Mrs. Little right now,” Clove insisted. She was the most soft-hearted of our group. “People in town say she’s off her rocker. She spends all her time hiding in her house. She opened her store only twice in two weeks, and both times she had panic attacks when people she recognized came in because she swore up and down they weren’t real, that they were monsters wearing her friends’ faces.”
Aunt Tillie snorted. “Like she has friends.”
“I hate to agree with Clove,” Thistle said, earning a dour glare from our cousin, “but she’s right. As much as I like messing with Mrs. Little—and it is one of my fondest childhood memories—she’s holding on by a thread. I heard they’re talking about having someone from the state check on her because maybe they want to put her in a home.”
My heart sank. Margaret Little was a monster. She kept trying to buy up property in Hemlock Cove so she could position herself as some town tyrant. She’d partnered with a djinn to mess with us and tried to turn the town against us more times than I could count. What was happening to her now wasn’t okay, though.
“Listen—”
Aunt Tillie cut me off. “No, you listen. We’re not here to torture Margaret.”
I waited.
“We’re here to make Margaret better so I can torture her later,” she said.
