Page 8 of The Witch's Cottage
After a brief moment of consideration, Alden says, “Day after tomorrow.”
And I’ll admit a bit of a thrill goes through me. I just hope the snow will hold out until then.
I walk them back through the house and to the front porch, and just as we’re about to say goodbye, Lydia gasps.
“I almost forgot. We hold an Ostara festival every year, and I was wondering if you’d like to join us.”
I blink in surprise, then smile. “I’d love to.”
“Oh, good! You like baking, right?”
She’s probably assuming as much because of the baking goods I purchased at the mercantile yesterday. “I do. Can I bring something to the festival?”
“How about some loaves of bread? Say... twenty?”
My eyes widen, but I quickly rein my expression in. “Sure, I can do that.”
“Wonderful.” Lydia claps her hands, then reaches out and takes Alden by the arm.
He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes, his gaze so intense I fidget a bit beneath his stare.
“Thank you, Aurora! I’ll see you soon, I’m sure.” Lydia lifts a hand in farewell, then tugs Alden away, and I watch them as they walk down the dirt path and disappear into the woods, cloaks drifting in the breeze behind them.
“I saw that,” Harrison says from behind me, and I turn to find him sitting on the porch railing.
“Saw what?”
“The way you were looking at that man.”
Pushing my hair over my shoulder, I turn on my boot heel and stride toward the garden. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Harrison flicks his tail at me. “Sure you don’t.”
Chapter 5
Alden
AS I DRAG MY CART up Brookside Road, I can’t help but to be annoyed. That old cottage is a mess, and thanks to Lydia, I’m not even going to get paid for everything I’ll need to do to it.
How would she feel if I gave out goods at the mercantile for free?
Mumbles and grumbles slip from me as I drag the heavy cart, and it reminds me that I need to oil the wheels again; they’re not turning near as easy as they should be. The cart is loaded down with everything I’ll need today: wood planks, a hammer, a saw, nails, and a bunch of other tools and supplies just in case. No matter how many tools I bring to a job, I always seem to need something I’ve left at home. Always makes for afunday.
It snowed last night, just a dusting, but the air is cold enough that the flakes haven’t melted yet, and the forest shimmers as I walk the road to the cottage. The dirt beneathmy feet is crusted in a thin layer of frost, and it crunches under my boots with every step.
For a brief moment, I wonder how Aurora did last night, given she has holes in her house and it snowed. Must’ve made for a cold evening.
When I step around the bend and into the sunlight peeking over the top of Brookside, I have to pause.
Because Aurora Silvermoon is sitting on the porch, her white cat beside her, a cup of something steaming in her hands. She’s talking to her cat, pink lips moving, but I can’t hear from this distance what she’s saying. There’s a colorful knit shawl draped across her shoulders, and given the muted colors of the late-winter forest around her, she stands out like a sunflower in a poppy field.
Is it normal for people to talk to their cats? I wouldn’t know. I’ve never had a cat. But it seems odd.Sheseems odd.
Flexing my hand around the cart handle, I resume dragging it toward the old crumbling cottage.
Aurora notices me, and she scrambles to her feet, sending the cat scurrying away.
“G-good morning,” she says once I’m within talking distance.
