Page 36 of The Witch's Spell
He says something—I’m sure of it, for I see his mouth move—but like when the creatures were speaking to him, all I hear is distant birdsong, the wind through leaves, and even the burble of a far-off river. It’s like he brought summer with him, wrapped up in the melody of his voice.
“There is not a proper word for it in your tongue,” he then says in my language. “So I suppose Fairyland suffices.” He leans on his cane with a sigh. “But yes, I believe the storm was pulled through the portal with me. I’ve never heard of such a thing happening before. When I stepped through, I thought we were simply having similar weather patterns, both caught in winter’s chill. But I know now that’s not the case.” His gaze shifts, and I believe he’s looking into the shadows of the trees, where I know the fog lurks. “This is of Fairyland. I’m certain of it.”
“Do you know how to send it back?” I ask, hope rising up in my chest. “If you open the portal, will the fog leave?”
He shakes his head, and the movement sends the pixie fluttering from his shoulder on silent wings.
“The portal isn’t working. It’s like it became warped, or like the fog is a broken piece of it, transporting us from one place to another, but never where we intend to go.” Catching a silky lock of hair with his forefinger and thumb, he begins rubbing it between the pads of his fingers, gaze troubled. Then he whispers, “I’m sorry, Aurora. I never meant to bring trouble to your doorstep.”
His eyes look like storm clouds, his face a mask of worry. And before I know what I’m doing, I find myself crossing the grove, standing right before him so that I have to tip my head back to look into hisotherworldly gaze.
“I know,” I say softly. “I’m not upset with you. And this is a good thing. At least we have a better idea of what itis, even if we don’t yet know how to get rid of it. It’s a start.”
His gaze washes over me, pale and crystalline. I’m overcome with the desire to touch him, to know what his skin feels like beneath my fingers. I don’t know if it’s the magic in his blood or the beauty of his face, but I feel inexplicably drawn to him, incapable of turning away.
I lift my hand slowly, giving him every opportunity to pull back and out of my reach. But he doesn’t. Instead, he releases the lock of hair he’s been worrying at and regards me with glittering eyes.
When my hand finds his face, I’m surprised by how warm he is. The heat radiating from his skin isn’t like Faolan’s, which feels always like a fire burns inside him; rather, my fingers feel a gentle tingle of warmth, like I’ve reached out from a shadow to allow the sun to gently kiss my skin. It’s a soft type of warmth, one that I wouldn’t mind at all being wrapped in, embraced by.
With my hand still upon his face, his sharp cheekbone beneath my thumb, Thorne lifts a hand and captures a strand of my hair.
“You are... different,” he says, voice lilting with curiosity. “I’ve met many humans, but none like you.”
My lips curve up as I say, “Perhaps that’s because I’m a witch.”
Thorne’s resulting smile is more beautiful than it has any right to be. “Perhaps.”
We’re quiet on the walk back to Brookside. Thorne keeps pausing to reach into the fog and stare into its murky gray depths, but he doesn’t tell me what he’s looking for. I’m not so sure even he knows. But at least we’ve a place to start now.
If the fog was brought through the portal, there must be a way to send it back. Maybe we’ve been looking for the wrong information this whole time. Auntie doesn’t have anything in her spellbooks about magic from Fairyland, but the Faunwood library might have something worth reading. It would at least be better than sitting around staring at the fog, waiting for it to swallow us whole.
The idea makes me shiver.
But then a burst of warmth comes through my bond with Faolan; I guess he finally woke up. He’s probably wondering where I am.
When I look over at Thorne, I realize he’s still wearing his real face, not the glamour to make him appear more human.
“Are you going to tell the others?” I ask. “About the fog and...” I gesture at his face.
This makes him smile again. “Would you prefer I not?”
We come across a particularly icy patch of ground, where the trees grow so dense that very little light can filter through to the forest floor below. Before I can reach to steady myself with a branch or tree trunk, Thorne offers me his hand.
“I don’t want to pull you down if I fall,” I say, trying not to eye his cane. I’d feel terrible if I slipped and we both crashed into the ice and snow.
Thorne’s smile doesn’t falter. “I’m steadier on my feet than I look.” He extends his hand a bit farther.
And this time I take it.
His fingers seem longer now than they did when he grabbed my arm earlier, when he was still wearing his glamour. And they’re strong too, completely firm and secure under my grasp. Like earlier, in the fairy hollow, there’s a warmth to his skin that is just gentle enough to chase the chill from my fingers. My toes, though, are another story. When we get back to the cottage, I plan to pour a cup of tea, grab a cookie—or three—and curl up under a blanket in front of the parlor hearth. Once I’ve had a chance to wrap my head around everything Thorne revealed to me today, I’ll come up with a plan. Or I’ll try to, at least.
A knot forms in my stomach, and the baby kicks in response.
I really don’t want to let the villagers down, and now that I know all the fairies are stuck here too... We have to figure this out—andsoonif I want the Highcliffs to be able to visit for Yule.
Once we’ve maneuvered through the icy patch, I release Thorne’s hand, then immediately regret it when the cold rushes back into my fingers.
“I think,” I say in way of distracting myself from reaching for him again, “you should do whatever you’re comfortable with. It would be best to tell them about the fog, but if you want to keep your identity a secret, I certainly won’t say anything.”
