Page 79 of A Spell for Midwinter's Heart
“But some,” she said in conclusion, “are consistently asked to work, share, and learn more than others. We’ll need to fix that for the unity to be true.”
Rowan was called away amid the applause that followed, tasked with dealing with yet another emergency. As she jogged off, Stephan fell into line, along with one of his oldest friends, Arnauld Matthews-Lieb, who’d been there to see his mom kick off the festivities.
“Hey there, Rowan,” said Arnauld with a charming grin. He was tall and slim but clearly muscled, with golden brown skin and black hair shaved short, wearing the deep blue uniform of a firefighter.
“Hey, Arn,” she replied. “Your mom was brilliant as usual. How are you?”
“Could be better.” He nudged her. “If I knew who I was having a dance with tonight.”
“Too late there, Arn,” said Stephan. “She’s only got eyes for the little lord McCreery.”
“No shit?” asked Arn with a nod. “Well, if he doesn’t treat you right…” He winked, and Rowan blushed. For as long as they overlapped at Elk Ridge High, her brother’s best friend had always ensured she wasn’t a complete wallflower at school dances. It had seemed like generosity on his part, but she wasn’t so sure anymore.
“Don’t give this one your sympathies,” said Stephan, putting an arm around Arn’s shoulders. “We’ll head over to the public house. There’s a reason he’s still in uniform.”
“The ladies love a firefighter,” Rowan said.
“You know it,” said Arn with another wink.
There was no respite from the festival’s needs. Before she could even finish saying good-bye, the next call came in. It seemed that the band heading into town to play for the next few nights—a Celtic trio made up of three witches—was stuck at the mountain pass, having attempted to summit in a Kia. It fell on her to retrieve them, squeezing all three women and their baskets full of rustic instruments into her dad’s truck.
As soon as she was back, it was off to Merchant Alley. It took all her willpower not to float by her nose like a dog in an old-timey cartoon toward Visiones de Navidad, from which the smell of buñuelos drifted—frying dough and musky anise. Its front was decorated with clay ornaments in bright primary colors, and she promised herself she’d swing by as a treat when her shift was over.
“Something wrong with your booth, Roy?” she asked, stepping into the back of one of the other old wooden structures. Roy Joseph, Birdie’s boyfriend and longtime Elk Ridge townie, sat inside. He wore his long white hair in a braid, and his eyes were the color of piercing steel. The booth’s shelves were filled with smoked meats—king and coho salmon, deer, elk, turkey—all caught and prepared by Roy and members of his extended family.
“Oh yah,” he said. “Same one’s been givin’ me trouble for years. I’d do it myself, but your young knees can take one for the team, eh?”
Rowan knelt and inspected where one floorboard had popped loose, before excavating nails and a hammer from inside her utility bag. She wasn’t exactly handy, but her father had taught her the basics of hitting a nail with a hammer. And since Roy was with Birdie, she didn’t hesitate to use magic to arrange all the nails and prevent them from slipping as she swung the hammer.
“Business better this week?” she asked.
The old man rocked in place, nodding. “Comes ’n’ goes, comes’n’ goes. Least we can eat what we don’t sell, but I’ve got more’n ’nuff back in the chest freezer, and I’d sure rather sell it all.”
“Do you sell anywhere but here?”
“Ah, nah. Too much trouble, traveling ’round.”
“Would you sell here more if it were an option?”
He eyed her in playful suspicion. “Maybe so. What’re you cooking in that big brain of yours? Birdie said you were up to somethin’. I told her, thought our problems were too small for that one.”
Rowan winced at the accusation, unable to deny that it had been true all of a few days ago.
“I’m getting better at seeing how big problems are more like a bunch of small problems wrapped up in one.” She hit the final nail into place with a satisfying thunk. “There, good as…it was after the last repair.”
Her eyes caught on a basket full of assorted goods, many of which she recognized as having come from various other vendors at the market—Roy must have accepted it all in trade. The prevalence of trade and gifting in the winter fest market had always been one of her favorite things about it, even though she had been woefully unprepared to take part. Perhaps next year she’d up her crochet skills and see if she could make something worth trading.
Next year. She was making plans for the next year.
29
December 27
The Seventh Day of Yule
“We have a problem.”
Zaide stormed into the Midwinter living room, Naomie at her heels.
