“I’m not here to investigate anything. Just audit the well.” She hesitated, knowing she shouldn’t ask but not able to resist. “But why would the federal authorities bother him?”
Marlene leaned in and lowered her voice. “Let’s just say folks with his kind of past don’t love surprise visits from people with badges. Compliance or otherwise.”
“I wasn’t aware of any…past.”
“Oh c’mon. Don’t tell me it’s not in that file of yours.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to. And even if I did, it would be highly improper for me to discuss personal histories with someone who is not directly involved. Per regulation 14.2-3, subsection B?—”
“Save it.” Marlene lifted a hand. “Just be careful. He’s a good man, but he’s been through it. Some stories don’t make it into files.”
With that cryptic warning, Marlene turned on her heel and left with the chicken still nestled under her arm.
As Honey watched her retreating back, an uneasy feeling lingered. She was here to do a job. Whatever history this Ethan Hale had with the bureau was irrelevant. She gave herself a mental shake.
Honey surveyed her surroundings with each step toward the porch. She would not be caught unprepared again should another of those birds decide to take up with her.
As she approached the farmhouse, she studied the details. It was painted a sun-faded yellow with a wide white porch. A tricycle lay abandoned in the middle of the walkway, and she carefully stepped over it.
Honey’s mom made sure she knew how to notice the flow of magic through a place. The signs were often subtle.In the city, it looked like a flower blooming in the crack of a sidewalk, or a lamppost that flickered in time with a busker’s song. Sometimes it looked like a cat curling up exactly where a sunbeam would land before it hit the floor.
Here, if you paid attention, the magic showed itself too.
There was nothing particularly special about the wind chime hanging from the porch—just a collection of colored glass tied with string—but its delicate tinkle sang despite the still air. She tried to trace the signs, to follow the flow of magic, but much like the roads in town, it didn’t seem to follow a single path. On the lawn, a small cluster of clovers had grown in a perfect circle, bright and green against the otherwise tidy grass. At the center, someone had sprinkled a small handful of pink flower petals, as if offering a tribute. Honey stopped mid-step.
At least one member of the Hale family noticed the magic too.
That was a problem. Kids could be especially perceptive when it came to magic. They saw what adults overlooked and an unregulated wishing well in a place where children clearly lived? That was a recipe for disaster. No matter how little she liked being away from home, she was glad she’d come.
Someone had to set things right.
Honey climbed the creaking steps to the porch, a file tucked under one arm and resolve tucked under the other. A pile of shoes—muddy boots, tiny sneakers, a single sparkly ballet flat—sat in a heap beside the door. They were all toppled over and mixed together, but she resisted the itch to bend down and sort them by size and purpose.
Before she could knock, the door swung open and a cacophony of sound burst out.
A little girl, no higher than Honey’s waist, stood on thethreshold, wearing a tutu and what was presumably a princess pajama shirt with a suspicious purple stain on the chest. Her hair stuck out in a halo of curls and the one sock she had on was inside out.
Somewhere inside the house, a thud sounded and a dog barked. A timer beeped frantically from the kitchen. Someone yelled, “Dad, Pickles chewed on my backpack again!” A door slammed. The dog barked again.
“Well, hello,” Honey said, clearing her throat. “I’m here to?—”
“I’m not supposed to open the door for strangers,” the girl said, putting her hands on either side of the door frame as if expecting Honey to barrel her way through.
“That seems like a sensible rule.” Honey gave a tight smile and tried not to stare at the smear of jelly on the doorframe. “Can you get your father for me?”
“Daddy!” the girl shrieked over her shoulder.
A deep voice answered from within the house. “Baby, I told you to put your shoes on. We really can’t be late again.”
Footsteps. Then, a man came into sight, and Honey forgot how to breathe.
Ethan Hale looked like he’d been poured straight out of a hot farmer calendar. He was barefoot, broad-shouldered, and built like he split wood for fun. Honey found herself unreasonably aware of the fact that he was half-dressed. His flannel shirt was misbuttoned, and as he fastened the remaining buttons anyway, Honey found herself resisting the urge to fix it for him.
“Melly,” he said, already rubbing his temples. “What did I say about opening the door unless it’s me or Marlene?”
Then, without pausing, he flicked his gaze toward Honey. “We’re not interested, thanks.”
“I’m not—” Honeystarted.
