Chapter 15

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The old white mare was quick and her gait was smooth. I was especially thankful for that, for I'd never ridden a horse before and wasn't sure if I'd be able to stay astride without clamping my arms and legs around her in a death grip. She knew all the secret places, all the winding deer trails and long-lost backcountry roads that would keep us hidden away from any castle patrols or any of Wystan's bandits. That didn't stop me from looking over my shoulder a dozen times during the thirty-minute ride. Under Sawyer's direction from where he and the foraging bag were corralled on my lap, Daphne brought us to the farmhouse.

White with black shutters, it had a wraparound covered porch and a nice red chimney and a steep roof to slough off both leaves and snow. There were plenty of large windows to let in the sun at any time of day, and myrtle and morning glory vines crept along the lattice-covered crawlspace. A white picket fence surrounded the old farmhouse, rosemary and lavender growing at the garden gate and thousands of multicolored delphinium blooms everywhere else.

That's a floral ward , I realized.

This was a witch's farmhouse and no mistake.

In the southern corner was an ancient maple tree, now devoid of leaves, and beyond that a dormant wildflower field and an orchard that smelled sweetly of composting apples.

"It's from a dream," I murmured, sliding off the mare's back. Sawyer wiggled out of the foraging bag, the gravel path crunching lightly as he landed.

"It's magical," Daphne agreed. "And quite literally too. Those flowers should all be dead now."

She was right, and I gave Sawyer a questioning glance. He gave me a solemn nod. "It was that way when Ame found me. I was over there, by the pixie house."

I gave the miniature Colonial with its pastel colors and ribbon embellishments set on a post by the eastern fence a skeptical look. "You mean birdhouse?"

" Pixie house. I know what I said," the cat replied stoutly.

Chewing my lip, I watched the pixie house for any sign of movement. They might be guarding the farmhouse, and if they were fiáin, they could pull my hair or scratch out my eyes or worse.

"I'll wait here," the mare said, lowering her head to crop at the withered grass. "You have an hour, maybe a little more, before we must head back. The nasty things of the forests and fens tend to come out closer to sunset, so hurry along, dear."

The white gate opened eagerly at my touch, and the brick path that led to the front porch felt warm beneath my boots. Sawyer padded along behind me on silent feet. No sooner did the first porch step creak under my foot than a shrill whistle rose from the pixie house.

Three silver-green pixies arced across the blue sky and arrowed straight for me like diving falcons. With a warning hiss, Sawyer sprang to the porch railing, muscles bunching under his baby fur as he prepared to launch straight up and smack them from the air.

I fought for calm even as magic sprang easily to my fingertips—I didn't want to hurt the farmhouse's guardians, not if I could avoid it. They were just doing their job. Thistle thorns, were these the same pixies in the notebook, the ones I'd started a turf war with? I hadn't read on to determine the outcome.

"Stop it!" I cried, dashing the rest of the way up the steps to the cover provided by the porch. "I mean no harm!" Thistle thorns! Isn't this what the delphiniums are for? Why aren't they working?

Suddenly, Sawyer straightened out of his attack. "Meadow, I think these are—"

The pixies halted an arm's length away from my face just as I flung up a pitifully thin green shield. It would be enough to repel them, maybe knock some sense into them. Perhaps convince them to just return to their little house and forget all about me.

But the pixies did none of those things. Instead, they whistled and warbled like songbirds, clapping their hands excitedly and whizzing around my shielded head like happy little gnats.

"—friends," the cat finished.

Well, they certainly weren't fiáin, not with those chipper attitudes. They buzzed around Sawyer, flicking his ears and pulling gently on his tail, and he batted at them with velveted paws. They avoided his swats with fluid ease, either exceptional fliers or familiar with such feline antics.

The magical shield dissolved as I lowered my hands and straightened from my defensive crouch. I was immediately swarmed, the three pixies tugging—cheerfully—on my brown hair before one of them chattered something to the other two that had all three of them zipping away.

"They know us somehow," Sawyer observed, hopping down from the railing to sit by my ankle, curling his tail over his paws. "I think… I think I played with them. Yes, that's right! You named that big one Dart. They didn't come out before, not when Ame found me. They were snoozing away. Their snores sound like someone playing a panpipe, you know."

The pixies were only gone for a moment before they returned all a-buzz, each carrying something clutched tightly to their chests.

"Feathers?" I asked, recognizing a cardinal's red and a blue jay's striped plumes. "And a penny?"

The biggest pixie scowled at me, thrusting the penny forward for a closer inspection.

"O-oh, I'm sorry. A very bright penny."

The pixie whistled, happy I had eyes in my head to see just how polished the copper was. Then it chattered, flicking its gaze to my hands that had stayed at my sides.

"Oh," I exclaimed again. "Are these gifts?"

I offered cupped palms, and the pixies carefully deposited their trinkets. The smaller two waved in a distinctly human manner and whizzed away, but the big one, this Dart who literally darted around like a silver hummingbird, zipped forward to place a feather-light kiss against my cheek. I wouldn't have felt it, numbed as my skin was from the cold, but a tiny zap like a static electricity passed between us. It didn't seem to bother the pixie any, but a memory forced its way through the maelstrom of Grandmother's curse as my eyes lowered to the collection in my hands.

"Gifts given by generous hearts are to be treasured by the recipient, no matter what they are," a voice told me .

I shivered at the baritone notes of each syllable. It was a man's voice, but not my father's, not Uncle Badger's or Uncle Stag's, nor Boar's and certainly not Otter's. Not Emmett's, not Cody's, and not Ossian's. This voice was as deep as a mountain's roots, as steady as a river's course, as warm as freshly baked bread.

I know that voice! I knew that voice like it was my own, yet I couldn't remember ever hearing it.

"Meadow, are you alright?" Sawyer cried as I staggered against the porch railing.

By the Green Mother, my heart was hammering . Pounding. It was a bluebird fluttering against the confines of a gilded cage, desperate to get free. There was an ache there too, like the taproot of a dandelion just waiting to be reborn again in the springtime sun.

"Thistle thorns," I muttered, clutching my head and fighting for clarity. "Does ‘the Redbud Curse' mean anything to you?"

Amber eyes large and bright with worry, Sawyer shook his head. "Could that be what's going on right now? With Wystan's attacks and the whole town hunkered down in fear?"

"I don't know."

"You alright, dear?" Daphne called from the other side of the garden fence. "I was munching over there by the herbs when the wind shifted and I heard pixies! They didn't knot your hair or go for your eyes, did they?" She stamped a hoof.

"Quite the opposite," I called back. "We're going inside now."

I paused at the front door, familiar handwriting by the doorbell declaring this house belonged to Misty Fields.

Misty fields… my favorite view. My pulse thrummed as I realized I had written that name on the little tag, though I couldn't remember doing so.

Grandmother, what did you do to me? I shivered, fear creeping into me. This was a part of my past I hadn't even known existed, and yet it felt like I was coming home. The creak of the porch steps was familiar and comforting, the pixies were obviously very fond of me, and this old farmhouse… it was like seeing a friend after years apart. Had I lived here before Ossian, before my little room at the Candlelight Inn? Why would Grandmother rob this memory from me?

I glanced down at the tomcat. He sat by my ankle, and at my look, he leaned into my leg. You can do this. The encouragement was as clear to me as if he'd spoken right into my mind.

Sucking in a deep breath, I placed my hand against the worn knob, twisted, and let myself in.

An aura of expectation greeted me. It was like the farmhouse had been waiting for me, and as I crossed the threshold, it sighed in relief.

The interior was as sparse as the exterior, as if the previous occupant Misty Fields— me —hadn't planned to stay long. The essentials were here, plus maybe a little more to make it homey and less skeletal. There were only a handful of truly personal items within view—a goldfish plant on the kitchen window and, beside it, a glass candy dish filled with all sorts of buttons and marbles and feathers and other mismatched knickknacks. Just like the ones in my hand. Above, crouched in the lefthand corner of the same window, was a white garden spider with seven legs.

While the curious part of me begged me to explore, the part of me that feared discovery urged me to stay on task—to revive the Hawthorne hearth ember. At the end of the hall, through the dining room and the little kitchen, was a fireplace. A hearth. Gray slate lined the floor while smooth stones that looked like they'd been pulled out of a river or excavated from a field built the firebox, a thick wooden mantel crowning it all before it disappeared into the wall and the brick chimney beyond. There was dry wood split and stacked to the side under a south-facing window, and an iron grate in the firebox with four nub-like teeth to keep the logs out of the ashes.

And on that grate was a single piece of red cedar feeding a small yellow flame.

The hearth in the abandoned farmhouse was lit.