Winters in Cambric Creek were unpredictable, it was true. The precipitation could veer wildly between driving rain and blowing snow, heaping outside her doorway, or forming deep enough puddles at the back of the property that on more than one occasion, ducks and geese had been persuaded to think they were miniature ponds and had stopped for a swim. The temperature could mirror the harshest days in the Arctic Circle, with the windchill making any time spent out-of-doors dangerous, or it could rival the middle of spring, as it did that week.
Anzan had simply pronounced himself unfit for the season, and despite his size and the thick black fur that dotted the joints of his arachnid legs, she was beginning to think he was right.
“What are you talking about?! It’s almost 60° out there. The sun is shining. Look at the windows! It’s so warm they’re all steamed up!”
“I’m not sure. That might be frost.”
“Ridiculous,” she laughed again as his teeth chattered, dropping against his chest and closing her eyes, breathing him in.
Their sort shouldn’t be living in polite society. Killers, every one of ’em!
Ladybug squeezed her eyes tighter, bracing against the voice that had been echoing in her head for nearly two weeks.
The old lizard woman had been in line in front of her at the post office, whispering none too quietly to her troll companion, pausing regularly to glare back at Ladybug. She had been minding her own business, thinking about how she might prioritize the order queue that morning, not eavesdropping at all on the other post office patrons, butthatline in particular was uttered with such vehemence, accompanied by such a venomous look, that Ladybug heard. Heard it, then watched their heads turn in unison to give her one last sharp look before taking their place at the window, the full meaning occurring to her at last as she watched their backs.
Her mouth had dropped in shock.Anzan? Are they talking about Anzan?After all, Anzan was no killer.Sheknew him. He was kind and gentle, thoughtful and intelligent, and the women didn’t know what they were talking about.
She’d been halfway home that day when it had occurred to her that the lizard woman and the troll might not be the only neighbors whispering about him, and by extension, about her.
It wouldn’t be the first time.
The Brackenbridge house being the source of gossip was hardly a new occurrence. There had been plenty of neighbors over the years grousing aboutwhat those witches are getting up to, especially when she’d been a very small child and gatherings at their home had been a regular occurrence. Just before Authricia had become high crone, when her mother was still alive, when friendly witches arrived with the makings of a potluck and as much laughter and gossip was traded around the fire as actual spellwork. Then again, years later — after her mother had died, every time Willow went out of remission and Jack Hemming’s car found its way to their driveway, and of course, the noisy, dramatic day Holt left . . . the Brackenbridge witches were no stranger to being the target of whispers.
Butthisfelt different.
We’re not welcome anywhere we go, for the violence of our kind is well known to all.She remembered Anzan’s words to her that afternoon of Mabon. She remembered his quiet desperation the first day the huge Araneaen had appeared before her door, bowing on the sidewalk to her, how he had nowhere else to go, moving into the shabby attic apartment that same afternoon.
Because of people like that,she’d thought furiously that day. It wasn’t as if the town itself was brand new. Cambric Creek had been incorporated decades earlier, a multi-species community from the start, and this old biddy should have gotten used to seeing her different-looking neighbors out and about ages ago.Age isn’t an excuse for ignorance.
She had practically stomped to her car that afternoon, stomped into the house once she’d arrived, giving the neighbors a completely new reason to speculate about what the Brackenbridge witches were up to.
Ladybug didn’t care. She had changed, this last year. It seemed nauseatingly cliché to say that her life had changed because of Anzan, that being in love and being loved in return made her better, simply by virtue of no longer being completely alone, but shewasdifferent.
She’d come to the realization that it wasn’t love that had been the deciding factor, for she needn’t look any further than her own memories of sobbing young women and wild-eyed neighbors visiting their home for a love potion or a spell of retribution to know that love was the catalyst for as much pain as it was pleasure.
Anzansawher. There had been no one in her life who truly saw her since the aunts had died. She hadn’t transformed into one of those witches with a gift for the gab just because she was partnered, and leaving the house was still an exercise in trying her best to understand that hidden subtext the whole world seemed to know. She hadn’t grown comfortable in crowds overnight, hadn’t learned how to be helpful without seeming obsequious, hadn’t changed at all, really. And he didn’t care. He saw her exactly as she was, and the act of beingseenmade her feel more substantial. Less afraid to take up space in the world, and the substantiality made her more certain of her place in it.
She was a Brackenbridge witch, and she would not be made afraid in the place she called home.
“I’ll bet it’s even warm enough for us to take our walk tonight.”
He seized in her arms, hands locking around both her wrists, his coffee cup never sloshing.
“It’s a good night for someone to be snug in a cocoon,” he threatened, burying his nose beneath the edge of the turtleneck, as if the mere thought of going outside made him colder.
“It’s a good night for someone to remember it’shisturn to cook dinner and keep his webs to himself,“ she laughed, pushing lightly off his chest. His numerous eyes blinked in a wave as she lowered from her toes after kissing him again, his features as serious as ever.
“Don’t work too late, my little bug.”
The cat was still yowling when Anzan left the room. Ladybug leaned over the worktable, scooping up the purple case housing her earbuds, tuning out the noise determinedly, allowing the comforting, familiar sound of a decade-old lesson to aid in re-finding her focus and pushing the rest of the world away.
He can make all the noise he wants. I’m going to ignore him until he goes away, and there’s nothing he can do to change my mind.
A good plan in theory, but she ought to have known he wasn’t going to make it easy.
Ladybug learned the hard way the following morning, listening to the few messages that had been left overnight, proving that she couldn’t yet afford to discontinue the voicemail box subscription. She opened the back door mindlessly, stepping out with a bowl of the cat food she diligently made herself each month, grinding chicken bones and livers with fish oil and other supplements. She was mid-bend, placing the bowl beside the bench, when a black streak shot out from the bushes, making for the house.
“No, you don’t!” she yelped. Swinging back to the door, she caught the edge and pulled it shut just in time, blocking the beast from slipping inside. “No!” she shouted, stamping her foot on the flagstones. It was an inelegant display, but she’d never been especially elegant before. “You arenotcoming in.”
