Chapter 23

Alden

WHEN AURORA FINALLY STUMBLES SLEEPILY into the kitchen the following morning, eyes puffy from staying up late reading through her auntie’s spellbooks, I’m kneeling on the floor with my saw impaling the back door.

Rowan and I helped her peruse some of the old tomes when we got back to the cottage last night, but we were both exhausted from the day; Rowan passed out on the couch, and I had to drag myself to bed before my body refused to move another inch. That left Aurora sitting in front of the fire with Harrison, draped in a blanket, books spread out all around her.

Now she tips her head at me, green hair all messy and tangled from sleep, and blinks. “Alden,” she says uncertainly, “why are you sawing a hole into my door?”

Before I can answer, Harrison comes trotting into the kitchen and leaps up onto the table. Aurora’s gaze flicks to him as he meows, and her eyebrows rise as she shifts her eyes back to me.

“You’re building him a cat door?”

I flash Harrison a look, and he looks back at me. So far, he’s kept my true secret from Aurora, the one I didn’t want to reveal in front of Rowan last night: that I’m madly in love with her. I’m liking this cat more and more every day.

“This way he can come and go as he pleases,” I explain, continuing to saw my way through the door. “You won’t have to open and close the window for him anymore, and I’ll build a cover for it so it won’t let the cold in over the winter.”

Aurora’s eyes turn a bit glassy. Next thing I know, she plops onto the floor beside me and wraps her arms around my neck. I let out a breath, caught off guard by her sudden weight, and loop my free arm around her.

“Thank you,” she whispers into my ear. Then she presses a kiss to my cheek and pulls back to rest her forehead against mine. “You do so much for us. I hope you know how much we appreciate it.”

My lips curl up on one side. “A fresh loaf of sourdough would go a long way in reminding me,” I say, and as if on cue, my stomach grumbles.

Aurora stands up with a giggle. “Not this morning—we’ve got a vine whisper elixir to make.”

“So, you found what you were looking for?” I ask, pushing up off the floor and setting my tools aside. I’ve still got the coop to finish as well—without Rowan’s help, I didn’t make as much progress yesterday as I expected—so now I have two unfinished projects around here. I can’t stand unfinished projects. They have a tendency to build up like mismatched socks in a drawer.

Yawning, Aurora pulls the kettle off the hook above the coals. “Late last night, I finally found Auntie’s entry on gilded thornbugs. There are a few ingredients I’ll need to gather for the elixir, but once it’s done, it should be easy enough to send them away from the pumpkin patch.”

With a sigh of relief, I sag into a kitchen chair. “That’s great news. It wouldn’t feel like Faunwood without a pumpkin patch.”

Aurora pours the steaming water into two cups, then brings one over and sets it on the table in front of me. The smell of licorice and mint sends calm washing over me.

“Drink up,” she says, sipping her hot tea and reaching out to draw a hand over Harrison’s fluffy white head. “We’re going foraging.”

“WHAT ARE THESE FOR?” I ask. I’m kneeling in a wet patch of summer grass, watching closely as Aurora carefully— very carefully—guides dewdrops into a clear glass vial.

“Morning dewdrops shimmer, see?” She holds the vial up, and the liquid inside shines brilliantly in the light slipping through the trees. “These will give the elixir a shimmering quality. It’ll help entice the gilded thornbugs away from the pumpkin patch. You saw how beautiful they are—they’re drawn to sparkly things.” She gives me a little smile, then turns back to what she’s doing.

We already harvested fresh sprigs of lavender from the bushes growing near the cottage, and they give off a delicious scent as they sit in the wicker basket beside me. Birdsong drifts through the trees overhead, and I can just barely hear the river burbling somewhere in the distance. It’s a perfect summer morning—well, except for the fact that Aurora didn’t make any sourdough. My stomach grumbles again in protest.

Aurora handles the glass vial delicately, her long fingers coaxing morning dew gently from the lush green leaves of the summer plants. And as I watch her work, noting the concentrated furrow in her brow, I suddenly want to tell her the truth.

I want to tell her my secret.

My chest squeezes, along with my stomach. The idea of telling her that I love her makes me feel slightly queasy. What if she doesn’t feel the same?

But what if she does?

I’m still a bit of a coward around her at times, like a boy who doesn’t know what to do with his feelings. In ways, though, it’s refreshing, like I’m young again. After Belinda, I didn’t think anyone could make me feel this way, let alone make me squirm nervously at the idea of telling them how I feel.

I’ve got to do this. Rowan isn’t around, we’re here alone in the forest, and there couldn’t be a better time.

“Aurora?” I say gently. My stomach tightens up even more.

“Hmm?” She doesn’t look over at me, instead focusing on collecting a few more dewdrops. Once they slip off the leaf and into the vial, she gently corks the bottle and turns to look at me. “What is it?”

I should have told her before she turned to look at me. Because now her green eyes make me freeze in place, and my tongue feels like it’s been twisted into knots. She tips her head curiously, eyes narrowing a bit, and a thin braided strand of hair slips over her shoulder.

I avert my eyes, choosing instead to look at the forest floor, and take a deep breath.

“I . . .”

Goddess, this is going to sound so cheesy.

Clenching my fist, I dig deep inside myself, trying to find some courage. Then I flick my gaze to hers and hold her stare. “I love you, Aurora.”

Her eyes widen, her pink lips opening into a look of surprise.

Then her face goes a bit white, and she scrambles to her feet in a flurry of skirts. The next thing I know, she’s sprinting to a nearby tree and doubling over, and I can hear her throwing up behind the wide trunk.

And that is perhaps the worst thing that could ever happen after telling someone you love them. I’ve played this scene in my head hundreds of times, but it never happened quite like this.

After that thought passes, it’s quickly replaced with one of concern. Something is wrong with her, and this time I won’t let her convince me otherwise.

Pushing to my feet, I head in her direction.

“Don’t come over here,” she says, then sniffles like she might be crying. “It’s embarrassing.”

“It’s not ,” I say, voice stern. Joining her, I lean against the tree and rub her back softly. After a few moments of deep breathing, she stands to look at me. Her eyes are slightly red, and her cheeks are ghostly pale. “Come on,” I say, immediately returning to the wicker basket and picking it up. The clear vial of shimmering dewdrops is nestled amongst the sprigs of lavender, tucked into its own soft bed. Turning to look at Aurora, I narrow my eyes and hold out my hand. “We’re going to see Niamh.”