Page 27 of A Witch and Her Minotaur
I shrug again. “Can’t have it both ways.”
“Well, if only you’d come and be social sometimes.” He flashes me a sharp glance. “You know, have a meal and a drink, share a few laughs. Bepersonable.”
I have to actively strive not to grimace, but Winston knows me better than that.
“I know, I know.” He holds up his hands, which are bejeweled with rings. “You prefer fungi over friendly banter.” His marble-smooth brow furrows. “Though I’ll never understand why.”
He quickly tallies up the cost of my trousers and tunics, and I pass him the eldertokens I owe. With expert hands, he refolds the articles of clothing, then ties the bundle with a strand of twine and knots it with a bow.
Just as he slides the bundle over, a display of gloves catches my eye. Like everything in the Brass Mirror, they’re well made, and a handwritten sign over the shelf readsEnchanted Gloves. I arch an eyebrow.
“What’s with the gloves?”
Winston glances over. “Oh, they’re on consignment. A witch friend of mine made them. They’re enchanted to last forever.” He flashes me a fanged smile. “Ornearlyforever. And they’re fireproof too. Perfect for gardening, baking, what have you.”
“Fireproof?”
Unbidden, Lyra Wilder jumps into my head, her curls all tangled and frizzy, her brow furrowed in concentration. I recall the blisters that marred her palms on our first day working together, the much-too-big gloves I offered her. But these gloves... They look perfect for her.
I reach out and pick up a pair. The fabric is soft and pliable, not heavy like some gardening gloves. And if Lyra’s going to be working with me for the rest of the year, she’ll surely needsomething.
Trying not to overthink it, I place the gloves on the counter.
Winston leans forward, regarding them with a quizzical arch to his shapely eyebrow. “I hate to say it, dear friend, but...” He holds up the gloves, gaze shifting from them to me. “I don’t think these come in your size.”
With a huff, I reach into my pocket and pull out my eldertokens. “Not for me.”
Now his quizzical expression turns curious. “No? Sounds like there’s a story to be told.”
I shake my head, though I’m careful not to catch my horns on the chandelier hanging over Winston’s front counter. “No story. Just needthe gloves.”
Despite Winston’s pouting, I don’t tell him anything about Lyra. There’s nothing to tell.
She’s just a student whose time with me is numbered. We’ll finish the year, and then it’ll be like nothing ever happened.
But at the very least, I can make sure her hands are protected. And there’s no more story to be told.
CART LADEN WITH EVERYTHING I purchased today—bags of grain and flour, clothes, more medical supplies, some interesting new seeds I’ve never tried before—I start down the cobblestone street away from the Brass Mirror. I got everything that was on my list, and I can finally start the long walk back to Coven Crest.
But just as I settle in to my pace, passing the big glittering bronze statue of a stag standing in the center of the city square, someone calls my name.
At first, I consider pretending I didn’t hear him. I’m really not in the mood to do any more socializing; all I want is to get home and pour myself a hot cup of dandelion-root coffee.
But then he calls to me again.
“Cairn! Hey! Cairn!”
This time, the voice sounds familiar.
I slow my pace and turn to look over my shoulder.
And sure enough, there he is: Milo Foster, the kid who used to follow me around the gardens. The one who works at the botanical conservatory now.
The one who sent me the letter and the application to said conservatory.
I’m surprised enough that I stop dead in the road, and the people walking behind me have to grumble and veer around. Milo jogs over, and though he’s a bit older now than when last I saw him, with a bit of scruff where he once was baby smooth, he’s still the same kid I knew.
“I thought that was you,” he says, propping his hands on his narrow hips. “I’d know that I-can’t-stand-people scowl anywhere.”
