Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE

WREN

B y the time Caelan walks me back home, I've pointed out my friends' homes and storefronts, some of the shops I like best, and some I haven't wandered into yet, and I managed to extract a promise that he won't do anything untoward with the information I've offered up.

The bargain I struck was easy enough to make, considering this has been the easiest evening I've spent since moving to Wild Oak Woods, the hours slipping by with laughter and Caelan's quick wit.

He's not like anyone I've ever met before, not at all, from the way he's curious and wide-eyed about nearly everything we come across to the way he seems highly put upon, reminding me of a noblewoman I once had the misfortune of working on a custom piece for when I was first starting out, years ago.

Now, we stand back in the warm, familiar glow of Witchwork's Jewelry, Fenn long since disappeared into the woods to hunt or do whatever it is that fox familiars do when off-duty.

"This was really… nice," I say, fishing in my pocket for the heavy iron key that will unlock the door.

"Nice?" he asks, a hint of a sardonic smile on his lips. "Consider me damned by faint praise."

"You are so ridiculous," I say, huffing a laugh and shaking my head in disbelief. I grin up at him, pleased but slightly confused by the budding pleasure deep in my chest. He's not just beautiful, but charming, and clever, with a streak of self-confidence paired with self-effacing humor that resonates with me.

I didn't know I had a type when it comes to men—frankly, I've always been too busy and concerned with… literally everything else about surviving day-to-day to even consider men as more than a passing way to scratch an itch.

A very particular itch, one I haven't even thought about since moving to Wild Oak Woods.

Now, though, with Caelan's sharp, otherworldly features, whimsical speech and debonair flair… I'm thinking about it.

That's the thing about an itch—once you've thought of it, there's nothing more aggravating than not being able to scratch it.

His nostrils flare, and he take a step closer to me. "Just nice, then, little witch? That's all this was… was nice ?" The word drips with derision, but instead of being annoying, it's hilarious.

"Don't get in a snit about it," I tell him, arching an eyebrow. "It's not your fault that my standards are so high. You'll just have to try harder to meet them."

He takes another step, and suddenly, I'm backed up against the heavy oak door, the lion-shaped door knocker digging into my shoulder.

One of his large, lavender hands splays against the door by my head, the other near my waist, not quite touching me.

My breathing grows quick.

Caelan's caged me in, caught me like a mouse in a trap, his light blue eyes dilating as his breath warms the cold tip of my nose.

My eyes drop to his mouth, and I lick my lips.

Is he going to kiss me? Do I want him to kiss me? What if my breath is bad after the greasy street food? What if I'm being stupid by wanting to be kissed by an Unseelie fae?

My gaze darts back to his eyes, my breath hitching slightly as his head dips lower.

I stretch up on my tiptoes, reaching for him, wanting to close the distance between us, wanting to find out how bad of an idea this is?—

When he straightens, there's a hint of a smile on his lips.

"Goodnight, little Wren. Thank you for a lovely evening. Sweet dreams."

With that, he disappears into the gloaming dark, leaving me reeling and open-mouthed against the door to my shop, all alone.

It takes me far longer than I'd like to admit to recover fully.

Shock turns into shame, shame into indignation, and indignation into annoyance.

Why would he make me think he was going to kiss me?

Why wouldn't he just kiss me?

I hold my palm up to my lips, huffing out and testing my breath. I wince. It is, in fact, a bit strange-smelling.

"It's for the best," I mutter to myself, jamming my key into the lock and turning it until it gives a satisfying opening click.

Still, my heart's beating too fast. My skin's oversensitive, and I shudder as I unwrap the woven shawl from my shoulders.

A whispered word lights a lantern—a simple spell, one of the few I use outside of my jewelry work—and I pick up the enchanted silver and glass light and begin to head to the stairs at the back of the shop when a sight brings me up completely short.

The sight of me in the mirror.

My stomach drops, and I cringe at my reflection.

My hair, which I haven't bothered with lately, looks like a fucking scarecrow. Bits of yellow-blonde hair stick out in messy tufts; the braid I thought I'd neatly done this morning looks to be several days old, not a matter of daylight hours.

There are dark purple circles under my eyes, a brown smattering of leftover summer freckles standing out garishly on pale skin. Even my eyes are less blue than usual, more stormy grey and so, so tired-looking.

No wonder he didn't want to kiss me.

There's a stain on my dress too, and I stare at it in growing horror.

Caelan was the very picture of elegance and style, and meanwhile, I look like I've been sleeping at my jeweler's bench for the last month straight.

Gross.

Scowling, I stamp upstairs, determined to do better.

"I didn't start over here just to let myself turn into a bog witch," I mutter, my feet falling heavy and satisfying on the wood treads.

I unlock the second door to my apartment, probably unnecessary here in Wild Oak Woods, but a habit from living in the less than idyllic city that I doubt I'll drop anytime soon.

If ever.

Breathing deeply, I lock the door behind me, taking off my threadbare shoes and gathering myself.

In the city, I wanted to blend in. I didn't want to stand out, I didn't want to be an easy target for the many nefarious characters who were only too ready to pounce on anyone they deemed worthy of their attention.

Especially after my parents passed—it was enough to simply carry on waking up and working every day.

Being clean was enough. Being presentable was hardly my top priority in those days, especially early on after their deaths, when I could hardly move for grief.

Fenn was the sole reason I was able to feed myself most days, and then, when the attorney came to tell me this shop had been deeded to me, in this tiny hamlet so far outside anywhere I'd ever lived, suddenly, things seemed possible again.

I would have an actual storefront, not just the hand-me-down clients of my parents looking for renewed spells on worn-out charms and trinkets.

I could hone my skills far away from the thundering noise of the city.

I could finally earn my way into the guild.

Then the coven kicked me out, because without my parents, what was I?

A nobody.

I blow out a breath, trying to blow out all that negativity with it.

Maybe it's time to try harder. Maybe it's time to be so good that the damned guild can't ignore me.

And maybe, just maybe, it's time to do something about the covenless crew of witches who decided to make me their friend.

Maybe it's time to be more than just Wren who owns Witchwork's Jewelry.

It's time to be worthy of that responsibility.

I brew a cup of herbal tea, slowly, methodically, a ritual that's earned its place in every nighttime wind-down, and I pull out a piece of parchment from a long-forgotten desk drawer.

My ink pot's nearly dried up, and I frown as I jab my freshly sharpened quill into it, finally giving in and dropping in some hot water.

Finally, I scratch out a few words on the paper, hoping it will settle the turbulence within me.

I read the words back out loud, hearing an echo of my mother's cadence, imagining the brush of her hand against my cheek when I was a young girl determined to prove myself with the rest of the fledgling witches.

Be so good they can't ignore you.

I miss her. I miss them both.

It's time to take her advice to heart and be the witch she raised me to be.

I tuck the parchment under my pillow before I get dressed for bed, and when I finally lie down on it, I can almost imagine I hear her words in my ears.