Page 63 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
My eyebrows raise, shock running deep through me. “Council feelers?”
The sound of the coffee grinder obscures whatever my sister says, but she nods, her expression grim as I’ve ever seen it.
The Hedgerider Council was absolute shit when our parents died. They did nothing but remind Fallon that she was duty-bound to keep up the family business and sent an amount of cash so meager it was gone in an instant. We’ve hated them ever since—steered clear of them as much as we could. There’s only a few ways they’d make Alice official, and it’s too soon for anything that serious, but if she were Council-official itwouldstop Sector from coming after her.
“You want her to stay,” I breathe.
Fallon narrows her eyes at me as she dumps the coffee grounds into the machine. “Yeah, I do. She makes you all gooey and easy to deal with, and…” Fallon trails off, the pain in her eyes nearly killing me. “She gets me. It’s not hard with Alice, like it is with other people.”
I reach out and squeeze Fallon’s shoulder, feeling the wiry muscle under her sheep-patterned sweater. “If they ask, you tell them I’ll comply with whatever their terms are. Can’t say how Alice will react to that, but it doesn’t have to be a whole thing.”
Fallon chuckles. “Yeah, I’m sure Alice will see marrying you as a casual event.” The humor drains out of her smile. “But I get the feeling an engagement might do the trick. We’re sure as shit not getting her Fey-blessed.”
That would require a trip under the hill, a bid to the Courts, and we’re all as likely to die or go mad as we are to come back with protection for Alice. So we’re definitely not doing that. They’ll suggest it, though. The Council is full of bastards like that. Ancient councils are fucked-up business, after all.
I blow out a big, deep breath. “Well, we haven’t had a betrothal in the family since Mama and Pa. If that’s what it takes and Alice agrees, it’ll keep her safe for life.”
Hedgeriders can get a divorce, but once you’re in, by blood or by marriage, there’s no getting out. Fallon makes a noncommittal kind of noise as the coffee maker bubbles to life.
“What’s that about?” I ask.
She glances at me, a prim little smile on her face. “Nothing.”
“You don’t have nothing-face,” I reply, following her to the front porch.
“I’m going to make some eggs,” she says. “So if you’re going to get donuts, get at it.”
“Fallon.” I grab her sleeve. “You need to tell me if there’s something about all this you see as an issue.”
She shakes her head. “There isn’t.”
I think back, carefully examining my words to ferret out what I might have missed. What I might have said to make her react like this. It’s a game I’m good at with Fallon. My heart skips a beat.
“Who is it?” I growl. If the Council wants Fallon married off, I’ll be damned if I let that happen. “Who’re they trying to force on you?”
She sighs. “Nobody.”
My sister’s not big on outright lies, unless she’s running a mission. But she sure ain’t telling the truth right now. I don’t ask another question. I just stand and stare at her.
She looks up at me, then shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter, Wyatt. I’m old as the hills and he’s never come looking for me. Doubt there’s much chance that he’ll come this way now.”
Old as the hills. Is that really how she sees herself? I get it, though. Having to grow up as fast as we did fucked us both up. Still, this is all new information for me. “Mama and Pa already arranged something…before?”
My sister lets out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Of course they did. I’m the Hayes heir. Their union joined together two of the most important bloodlines in the North.” She shakes her head. “Did you think Mama wouldn’t trade me off like cattle at her quickest convenience?”
Her words are harsh, but she’s right. I’m not sure why I never wondered. Maybe we’ve been out here, away from other hedgeriders, for too long. Slowly, I shake my head. “If he ever does show up…whoever he is?—”
Fallon throws a hand up in the air. “He ever shows up, and I’ll deal with it myself. Don’t worry about me. Worry about Alice.”
I’ve gotan order in for hot donut holes and a half-pint of Mac’s hollandaise, but the diner’s bustling and there’s a bit of a wait,so I head across the town square to talk to Willa Proctor, who’s working in the community garden with Sally Laveau.
“Willa,” I call, just as she lifts a pumpkin into the wheelbarrow next to her. It’s huge, too big for her to lift on her own, probably, but Willa’s got a way with magic.
She looks up at me as she sets the pumpkin down, dragging the back of her hand over her pale forehead, leaving a streak of dirt. “Hiya, Wyatt,” she drawls.
She’s from out west somewhere, though I’ve never heard anyone say exactly where that is. Fallon hoped we’d hit it off when she moved here, but we never did. Not romantically, anyway. Willa’s just about as gun-shy as I was ’til Alice showed up.
Today, Willa’s dark brown hair is pulled back in two thick braids. She’s wearing a cotton floral dress and a pair of heavy work boots. As soon as she sees my expression, she asks, “What’s wrong?”
