If it didn’t make me a hypocrite, I would love to ask Rowyn about hermagic. She mentioned she’s not the strongest Hearth Witch we’ll meet, but she doesn’t see how talented she is. Her magic grows stronger every day. She’s using a great deal of it to keep the fireplaces and candles lit, to cast cleaning spells and new protective charms, and to infuse our meals with magic.
I haven’t figured out how it’s possible, but that’s a conversation for another day—when Clover can’t dodge Rowyn’s questions anymore.
All worries and unanswered questions aside, I’m glad we chose today to venture out.
It’s the spring equinox, and if anyone is in need of renewal and balance, it’s me. The celebration and crowds are much calmer than what I’m used to for the holiday, but it’s busy enough to get lost in the crowd.
As we cross the street, after leaving the hardware store to choose new paint colors and wallpaper for the den and office, I peek over my shoulder for the hundredth time today. Despite how pleasant the morning has been, a sense of anticipation grows in my gut.
It’s the same nervousness that would consume my mother any time my grandparents were coming over for dinner and she swore the house was never clean enough.
My instincts are telling me to go back to the inn, to prepare for the inevitable arrival, but we aren’t expecting anyone. Hell, I doubt anyone in Briarhollow is expecting guests this evening.
As we walk into The Wolf & Flame, the small diner run by a werewolf and his Hearth Witch mate, I glance over my shoulder one more time and catch sight of a black leather boot as the owner turns a corner. I close my eyes and shake my head before following the other witches inside.
“Hi, Lorna!” Rowyn brightly calls out and waves at the pretty witch with strawberry-blonde hair standing behind the counter.
“Hi, darling, I was wondering when I’d see you!” She calls back, sounding just as chipper. “Take a seat, and I’ll come meet your friends.”
Sitting by the window, I gaze outside while Rowyn chatters away, telling us what’s good. I only half pay attention, tilting my head to get a better look down the road.
A throat clears loudly, making me jump in my seat.
“You got a crick in your neck?” Lorna asks in amusement.
“No, uh,” I say, feeling embarrassed. “Just looking… around.”
The witches in my coven look concerned but Lorna gives me a sympathetic look.
“You must be the Blackthorn witch,” she says and crosses her arms. Her demeanor isn’t judgemental or harsh, yet my hackles start to rise.
“What makes you say that?” I ask with a cold tone.
“Your hair, honey.” She taps the side of her head with her pen. “It’s an uncommon color for a girl your age—and there’s only ever been one family of Gray Witches here.”
My shoulders drop a little. Gray Witches often have white-blonde hair, or jet black. “Oh, right. Yeah, I’m theBlackthorn witch.” It comes out colder than I mean for it, so I add, “My name’s Renata.”
“Lorna,” she says with a smile and reaches out her hand. “And my mate is back there, Killian. He prefers to stay in the kitchen—lone wolf, that one,” she adds with a wink. “He’s happy to help if I’m not around, just give a shout.”
“Thank you,” I say with as much warmth as I can muster.
I feel bad for being so harsh with her. The anxiety of how the town would treat me is turning me into a hermit. Today is making me realize I hadn’t given Briarhollow enough credit when I arrived.
Lorna introduces herself to Clover and Clementine—who are much friendlier than I am. Then we place our orders before the three of them fall into another conversation, talking about Solmar, the town in Florida the sisters are from. I turn back to the window, letting my mind wonder.
We are nowhere close to having the entire building cleaned—not to mention the rest of the property—and we aren’t sure how to decorate on such a small budget. Rowyn hasn’t been able to light the hearth, despite her magic strengthening by the day. The Foxglove sisters have never seen mud like the type in our gardens. Clover pretends she isn’t discouraged by it, but from the unfamiliar pinch in her brows at the mention of it, she’s lying.
And yet, none of that is what has been distracting me.
All day I’ve been looking over my shoulder. If I didn’t have a ghost waiting for me back at home, I’d say I was waiting for one to pop out.
This is some sort of anticipation, but I’m not sure it’s the good kind. It is quickly morphing into paranoia. My nose is practically up against the glass when I see Rowyn do the same thing from the corner of my eye.
Without pulling back, still focused on the crowded street, I ask, “What are you doing?”
“Trying to figure out what the hellyouare doing,” she answers in her normal, cheery voice.
I lean back and cross my arms. “I don’t know.”
