Page 35 of The Woodsmoke Women's Book of Spells
I force my feet to follow the trail back down the mountain. I barely take it in, the views, the trees, the mud-slicked paths. I place one foot in front of the other until I reach my field and Ivy’scottage. Then I feel it—a change. As though the world has shifted a quarter inch. A flurry of snow shivers down around me, falling in lazy, soft arcs. I put out my hand, collecting a couple of flakes as they fall, and then look up into the vast abyss of white. The snow falls faster, drifting as I stand there and smothering the field in a crisp sheet. My phone beeps in my pocket and I lunge for it.
It’s Matthieu.
My heart thumps, once, twice, thundering as I read the message. He’s been tied up for a few days. Back tomorrow. A breathless, fleeting laugh escapes from me, and I pocket my phone. Sniffing, I crunch across the crème brûlée of snow, making my way to the cottage to begin the work for the day.
I should feel only relief, should be able to shrug off my earlier fears. But that cabin, the map, the lingering quiet of that clearing—it all keeps breaking through, haunting me. And I wonder about that story, the one that Cora warned me about. At the very back of my mind, in the darkest, least-visited corner, I turn over a question as the snow flurries thicken. One that should have no place in this world. What if Matthieu is something out of one of the tales in the book? What if... what if he did appear with the frost? What if Cora is right?
What if Matthieu isn’t real?
“I reckon you’ll be in by Christmas,” Matthieu says, running a hand over the countertop in the kitchen. I’m doing the same, marveling at the thick slab of wood. It’s a honey color, carved and fitted beautifully, blending with the character of the old cottage and the Shaker-style cupboards I chose. The kitchen is finished; even the flooring is down. It’s two weeks until Christmas, and we just have some work to do upstairs and the furniture to collect and build. I decided to stage the cottage for selling, reasoning that it would sell for more than an empty house. Who can imagine creating a life ina few well-painted boxes? But all the furniture is a reflection of my taste, my dream life, reminding me of what I still can’t fully admit to myself. That I could picture myself living in this cottage.
“I’ll set up an appointment with the estate agent,” I say, looking up at Matthieu. “It’s time.”
He nods. “If you’re sure.”
“I—yes,” I say, gazing across the kitchen, taking in the brushed-chrome door handles, the gray-green cupboards, the range cooker built into the old fireplace. The kitchen is perfect, reflecting that heritage quality of true craftmanship, traditional and solid with the sleek and built-in modern appliances hidden behind cupboard doors. “I’m sure.”
Matthieu straightens and moves a few feet away from me to run his hand over one of the cupboards. “It’ll fetch a bit. You can open an art studio and get back into painting. Travel the world—go even farther than Europe. Do whatever you want. You’ll never have to return to Woodsmoke again.”
“Yes,” I say, my throat thickening. I smile up at him, not saying what I’m really thinking. That I can do all those things now, that Ivy has given me that gift. But the one thing, theonlything I keep turning over in my mind... is whether to stay.
“Carrie, we should celebrate. We should, I don’t know... go out for dinner. Would you like to go out for dinner... with me?” Matthieu’s voice pulls me out of my brooding, and I turn to him.
“Are you asking me out?” I smile, stepping closer. My stomach twists with a delicious fizz as I eye his smile, the angles of his face.
He ducks his head, not quite meeting my gaze. “Yes, Carrie. I think I am.”
“Huh.”
“You haven’t said yes.”
I reach for his hand, then think better of it, suddenly awkward. “I would love to.”
“I’ll book somewhere. There’s this place in the next town over, or we can get takeout and drive to the lake, make a picnic—”
“Wherever. Whatever you want to do,” I say, still smiling. “Or we can go to a café, or...”
“I’ve found a trail near the cabin that leads to this clearing. It’s not marked on any of the newer hiker maps, but it’s beautiful.” His eyes finally find mine, all smoldering edges that make my pulse quicken. “If you like.”
An unmarked trail. A clearing. Suddenly the image of that map and all that twine surfaces in my mind and I hesitate. Perhaps he’s just exploring the mountains, the trails he can remember from when he was younger. But I’m remembering the other reason for his explorations, the person he’s talked about who’s a part of his memories. His brother Henri. Who is no longer with him.
“Matthieu, can I ask you something?”
“Yes?”
I swallow, glancing up at him. I figure it’s time to ask, to put my niggling worries aside, especially if we’re stepping away from just working together. I have to know. “The cabin, where you’re staying... it’s the one just up the trail, right? The one straight up from Ivy’s field, the nearest one, past the lookout point?” I know those cabins have a separate access for vehicles, but Matthieu always arrives on foot. He always takes the trail down to Ivy’s field... I have to be sure it’s the same one.
“Yeah, I rented it for the winter. Off a friend, I told you. The Vickers cabin.” He’s walking around the kitchen now, checking the hinges on the cupboards, checking they’re hung just right.
It is the right cabin I went to. I swallow, picturing the damp, the cold of that place. The map on the wall, the pushpins, and the twine between them. “And it’s... okay for staying in?”
He frowns slightly, drawing his hand away. “It’s just right for me. For now, anyway.”
I nod, but somehow I can’t bring myself to mention Henri. Or to mention the map, or that I’ve been there, looking for him. Doing that now feels... intrusive. I swallow guiltily, thinking maybe I shouldn’t have gone looking for him. “Well, shall I finish off in here?”
“Sure,” Matthieu says. His features have clouded over a little, as though he has drawn himself back in. And I did that. I did that with my prying about the cabin. I curse myself. I should never have listened to Cora.
“Matthieu...” I pause, searching for the words to set us back in the moment when he asked me to dinner. When I felt like I could twine my hand through his, almost taste his kisses on my mouth... “I can’t wait to have dinner with you. Truly.”
