He smiled at the name she’d occasionally teased him with.
“Well, I knew. I mean, I was right there. And I have eyes. Beautiful eyes, if I might say so myself, however… Despite you being a rather closed-off individual?—”
He ducked quickly enough to avoid the cap he discarded earlier hitting him in the head.
“Fine, fine, but it’s not like you are an open book, pun unintended. I had no idea you had a sister who could be your twin and an aunt who is probably running some world domination agency from the basement of her restaurant that serves as a cover. Not to mention another Crowhart operating a coffee shop on the island?” His eyes were earnest, attempting a joke to put a smile on her face, the effort of avoiding her aim putting some pink in his chiseled cheeks. She reached and traced his stubbled chin, surprising them both with the touch. Yet, she drew strength from it, and he allowed her the pause. When she spoke, she let her hand glide down to his shoulder.
“I have three sisters, Lachy.”
His mouth made a comical O, and she closed his jaw with a snap of teeth.
“Ceridwen is the oldest. By five years. Then me. Then five years later still, the babies. The twins, Seren and Deryn. Seren runs the coffeehouse.”
“Are you all, like, deeply bourgeois? All the businesses… Are the Crowharts managing the entire island’s commerce or something? And were your parents Welsh, ’cause, Your Majesty, those names…” He trailed off, allowing himself a tiny giggle and she joined him.
“My family is known for strange names. The first Crowhart of record, the one who allegedly was the first inhabitant of the island, hence naming the town Crow’s Nest, was Gwendolyn, which is also Welsh. Gwendolyn Abigail Crowhart. There’s always a Gwen or an Abigail in our pile somewhere, for generations.”
“And where did those end up in yours?” He reached out his hand and she gave him hers, on instinct, immediately glad for the touch.
“Ceridwen’s middle name is Abigail. Seren’s Gwen and Deryn’s Lyn.” She smiled at the long-forgotten image popping in her head of her sisters dressed to the nines going to some family affair only to return with their clothes in tatters, full of mud and an explanation that they chased puppies being met with their mother yelling out their full names. There was a photograph of the four of them with Deryn, always the chief troublemaker, holding both pups in her arms.
“And you? Did the ancestral middle name skip you? It’s Elizabeth, that much I know, no matter how secretive you are. Can’t hide it from me when I handle most of your affairs.”
She poked him in his rock-solid abdomen and smacked him on the arm when she hurt her finger.
“Workplace abuse!” He giggled some more, and she risked her fingers by tickling him, knowing where his weakness lay.
“Uncle! Uncle!”
She laughed even as he surrendered and scooted far away from her on the work bench. When he stopped panting and laughing, he looked at her expectantly, and she knew there was no escaping his question.
“Gwendolyn’s daughter. And… My mother.” The last word alone was like dunking into ice water. Everything was pain and she couldn’t breathe. Tears threatened, and she stood up. She couldn’t do this with him looking at her with those kind eyes. It would just make everything worse.
She waved his protests away and took the untouched water from his hand on her way out.
Rhiannon rushed outside only to be met with a sunset and crowds of placidly wandering tourists. Toddlers chased each other and parents swayed to the sound of the jazzy music coming from the Rooster. Just off Market Square, the line for the Crow’s Tavern was getting longer at a steady pace.
She imagined Victoria presiding over the dinner rush, her thin, sinewy arms flexing under the weight of plates. The image was so vivid it might as well have been a memory, and Rhiannon gasped at the rush of power to her chest, almost taking her an entire foot backward and into the charming and quaint little yellow building, so unlike the one she had just exited. Book Nest basked in the evening sun like a ginger cat, a touch sleepy, blissfully unaware.
And inside was Prudence, who made Rhiannon’s skin burn, who caused her craft to erupt stronger than her hurried memories and who was hopefully just as blissfully unaware of what was going on around her.
Except maybe that was not entirely true, as Rhiannon lifted her gaze to see herself being watched by a pair of charcoal eyes,level and steady. She had felt these eyes on her so many times in the past weeks. Like ashes on a brand. No longer sad like the ones in her dreams, but rather wary. Careful. Prudent.
How fitting…
Rhiannon had lived long enough, had seen too much, and had a code of conduct that was largely based on her mood that very day. And despite her own claims to the contrary, she honored her debts and her responsibilities. And after what had transpired earlier—and no, Ceridwen’s admonishment was not the reason she took a deep breath and started on the stairs to the ornate second-floor balcony overlooking the Market Square—she knew she had to at least try to explain herself. And maybe wipe that cautious look from Prudence’s face.
She took her time climbing up, still not knowing how to begin this conversation.
“Hi, I’m a witch and so are you” did not sound remotely like the strategy to go with, even if it was the truth. So, Rhiannon reached for the tried and true.
Fake it till you make it.
“The new resort really brought business to the island.”
There, she threw the opening salvo like a challenge, like a glove for a duelist. Prudence, who didn’t take her eyes away from her as she moved up the stairs, smiled shyly, brightly, clearly happy to see her, the careful watchfulness gone in an instant. Rhiannon blinked, unused to being the cause of such a reaction. And unused to seeing the already pretty features—Lachlan had the right to dub her a fair maiden—arrange themselves as if by magic into a truly irresistible face.
Did everyone see this? Rhiannon was almost tempted to call down to the passersby and ask them: “Am I the only one seeing this?”
