Chapter 20

CHAPTER TWENTY

No sooner did she utter the words did the back door open, ejecting a gust of cold night air into the hearth room that had me thanking all my lucky stars that half of me was still bundled under the quilts. Sawyer abandoned the tray and burrowed under those same quilts, hiding.

Grandmother swept in, her ivy-green eyes large and bright, her stern face softening when she found me sitting upright and the bandage removed, my shoulder healed with nary a scar to show for it. The rest of the Hawthornes swept inside after her, Uncle Badger winking one sparkling blue eye, a teary Aunt Eranthis kissing me lightly on the forehead, and Otter yelping with delight and enfolding me in an awkward sideways hug. Dad was the last to enter, pausing at the open door to turn and shake Arthur's hand.

My jaw nearly dropped into my lap. Dad was… shaking Arthur's hand? Not knifing him?

I recovered almost immediately, for at the sight of Arthur Greenwood, my heart went wild. Or rather, the invisible chain linking us did. Maybe both.

It shocked him at the same time, and the lumberjack shifter twisted away from my father, hazel eyes bright. The biggest smile lit up his entire face like the sky on the Fourth of July, and he barked out a single note of bone-deep relief. He lunged forward, but my father caught his arm with a regretful shake of his head. Arthur looked like he was about shift and decapitate my father with a swipe of his claws, but Dad stilled him with a barely audible, "Later, Arthur."

Grandmother said primly, "Come inside and shut the door, Tod." Her meaning was clear: Arthur was not to be allowed inside.

But my lumberjack shifter wasn't to be deterred. He passed by the western window and leaned against the house where I was sure to see him, the siding planks groaning from his weight. With a knit hat on his head, a scarf nuzzled up to his jaw, and his hands in his pockets, Arthur Greenwood was dressed for the weather. And the wait.

After shutting the door, Dad locked it shut and hurried to my side. His brown hair was mussed and there was dirt on his stubbled cheeks and he smelled like he'd been rolling around in a drainage ditch all day, but his face was bright with delight.

"Honey," was all he said, sweeping my hair away from my face. Then he brushed the throw blanket away to examine my shoulder, testing its rotation and palpating the joint just as Aunt Peony had done. The callous of his thumb grated against the healed flesh as he rubbed at where the wound had been. "There's no mark," he said in wonder. "That's not just healing magic. That's rejuvenating magic."

You are becoming, Violet's words echoed in my mind.

Flinching, I leaned away from him and adjusted the blanket back over my shoulders. I wasn't ready to become anything.

"Away," Grandmother ordered the witches.

But my family didn't comply immediately. They all lingered to squeeze my foot or brush my shoulder or touch me in some way before they filed out of the hearth room, probably to get cleaned up and head to bed. They were filthy and tired, and as they trooped through the kitchen, Aunt Peony had her recovery shots waiting for them. Granted, the greenish-brown sludge wasn't served in identical whiskey glasses as it had been at the manor, instead distributed among the hodgepodge of glassware I'd brought along with the Camping Spell, but the effect was the same. A little boost after a hard day.

Resolutely ignoring Grandmother's command, Dad deposited himself at the foot of the bed at an angle where he could keep an eye both on me and the door. He cupped his hand around my quilt-covered foot like it anchored him to me and this moment.

"We need to talk," the matriarch of the Hawthorne witches announced. She sat down at the edge of the bed, making sure she was close enough to snatch out a hand and twist my ear like I was seven again.

From the severity of her tone, I knew I was going to be in for a rough night.

"You were careless out there," Grandmother began without preamble.

I bristled at the attack. Hidden under the quilts by my thigh, I felt Sawyer unleash his claws. But I remembered the promise I'd made to myself in the attic and said quietly, "I know."

Grandmother actually blinked in surprise, her next words dying in her throat.

It's why I'd asked Aunt Peony for my foraging bag. I'd had alternatives in my bag out there in the woods that I hadn't used—the black tourmaline being the first to come to mind, plus the amazonite pendant around my neck—and I didn't want the mistake of tunnel vision or the hubris of thinking I could do everything on my own to come and bite me in the fanny ever again. From what Aunt Hyacinth had told me, I could have died out there.

"Y-you're a coven witch," Grandmother continued, all of her bluster gone. "Not a hedge witch to go off on your own."

"I know," I repeated just as calmly as before.

"You draw your strength from your fellow witches, and when you didn't follow us after those magic hunters, you left a hole in our defense. Six witches could've destroyed them, but the imbalance of five…" She shook her head. "The one you call Antler Tattoo got away. The ringleader. We were out hunting for him, but he's craftier than any human has a right to be. That magic he's stolen is considerable."

"But," Dad began pointedly, "there was no way to tell if we would've been successful if we'd had to deal with a silver mallaithe tree hunting after us too."

"I thought I'd at least distract it while you took down the magic hunters commanding it," I offered softly. "After stunning it with the Seeking Spell and shocking them all with the Scouting Spell, I figured you could've narrowed in on their positions quickly."

"It was brilliant thinking," my father assured me.

"And perhaps it would've truly won the day had the mallaithe's roots not been venomous," Grandmother said irritably. "The thing is, you cannot know , Meadow. You must rely on proven methods: that we are stronger together."

I nodded. She was right, of course. The Circle of Nine proved it, but I'd also proven it here in Redbud. With the hobs, the Crafting Circle ladies, Sawyer, Arthur. I'd been the better for relying on them, and my magic had flourished too.

Surprised that I wasn't being obstinate or combative and taking my tongue-lashing like a mature adult, Grandmother smoothed out the crinkles in her sweater and folded her hands on her lap. "That all being said, what you did out there…" Her voice lowered to a whisper. "It was incredible. Any doubt that you are Violet's heir is gone. And now the world knows it."

She lifted apologetic eyes. "You're forbidden from leaving this house until we get you back to the manor, Meadow."

"Grandmother!"

"Don't," Dad said, shaking his head. "The entire coven is in agreement on this. With the protection spell gone and you… evolving … and that magic hunter definitely knowing your potential now, it's not safe. This farmhouse isn't even as safe as we'd like it to be, but we can't leave. Not until we contact Arcadis. When we do, you are coming back to the manor with us until we can resolve this issue."

"You make it sound so easy," I countered. "Mom told me what she could about the prophecy, about manifesting it into being. It seems no matter what I do, I am hurtling towards that nexus, and there's nothing any of you can do to stop it."

"Forsythia should not have told you that," Grandmother said tightly.

"Iris," Dad hissed. "We must—"

"To speak his name, to even think about him, draws him closer," she hissed back, flinging up her hand to cut off any further objection. "We retrieve Marten, return to the manor, and pray to the Green Mother he will pass Meadow by."

"I've proven I can fight," I protested.

"It is not just physical prowess you need, Meadow, but fortitude of spirit. You are becoming—"

Though it was Grandmother who'd said the words, I heard them in Violet's timbral voice.

"—and not fully realized as Violet's heir just yet. You are vulnerable."

"Then train me," I pleaded.

Grandmother glanced at my father, then nodded once. "At the manor. We have no choice now."

Instead of protesting again, of demanding to take action now , I truly digested what she, Mom, and Dad had said, and replied, "Thank you."

Grandmother started, jerking as if my words had sent a jolt of electricity through her. She wet her lips and nodded once more, rising from the bed and flicking her fingers at Dad to do the same. "You've slept most of the afternoon and evening, but sleep until dawn if you can. Tomorrow will be… intense."

"Say goodnight to Arthur," Dad told me, taking hold of Grandmother's elbow to usher her away from the hearth room. "I don't want him sleeping out on the porch."

"But," Grandmother objected.

" Move , Iris." That wasn't Tod Hawthorne talking, but a father who was giving his daughter a moment of happiness that no one was going to interfere with, not even the matriarch of his family.

She glared at him and thrust a glowing hand at the hearth fires. They flared a deep green in response, and with an incantation too quick for me to follow, a barrier rose around the house, infused into the walls themselves. "You don't go out, and he doesn't come in this house," she managed to get out before Dad hauled her away.

Kicking off the quilts and clutching the throw blanket to my throat, I rushed to the window and threw up the sash. Arthur shoved off the siding, hazel eyes bright.

"This is some Romeo and Juliet shenanigans," I told him, seizing his sleeve and pulling him close.

"Except it's a porch instead of a balcony." His wry smile vanished as he yanked off his hat and tore off his scarf, unzipping his jacket next.

"I could probably break through this spell like I did with the cuffs, just give me a second."

"And alert everyone in the house? No." He rammed the sash up as far as it would go and ripped the throw blanket away from me, exposing the range of my shoulders and the tops of my breasts above the thin camisole. Amber flashed in his eyes. "This is between you and me. They're not invited."