Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Hurry now," Grandmother said, opening her door before the sedan had come to a complete stop. "There's much to do and this rain will only slow us down."

Her booted feet crunched on the gravel as she hurried out of the rain, gesturing for Aunts Eranthis and Hyacinth to quickly join us. Dad remained in the car with me as I coaxed Sawyer into my foraging bag. There wasn't much room in there with all my witchy bits and bobs, including the Hunting Spell crystal and the black tourmaline, but the tomcat was still small enough to fit. He wouldn't look me in the eyes and adjusted the scarf that hid the bulk of him from sight over his head so I couldn't see him.

"I'm sorry about before," Dad said as we hustled under the eaves of the massive red barn. "It's just common procedure—"

"Well we're not at Hawthorne Manor, are we?" I said cuttingly. "We're in Redbud. Things are different here. You can't come barraging back into my life and hurling my cat out car windows!" I clutched my foraging bag with said cat to my chest.

Dad eyed the leather bag, probably still not convinced about the validity of the cat, then lifted light brown eyes. He nodded once, either in acknowledgement or understanding, then gestured for me to follow the female members of our family and go inside.

The little bell above the door chimed at our arrival, the roar of the rain on the roof snatching the cheerful noise and throttling it.

"He has a brownie helper," I informed quickly, "so nobody freak out if you hear little feet scurrying about but don't see anything. It's not mice. It's Monkfoot. And he's nice, so keep your magic to yourselves."

Grandmother pursed her lips at that, mildly insulted that I'd felt it necessary to remind them of magical etiquette. After that fiasco in the moonflower grove, and in my own car, I was prepared to give that reminder a lot . Redbud was an open magic town with a decent population of supes and fairies who hadn't done anything to anybody, and I didn't want my family antagonizing them. The Hawthornes weren't staying in town long, but Misty Fields had a reputation here. One I still felt the need to protect and uphold, even though my life here seemed to be coming to an end.

"Menswear's to the left in the back," I said, pointing, "and, um, I actually don't know where the womenswear is."

"Hello?" Grandmother's voice echoed louder than the thunder outside. "Is there an owner or manager about?"

"You don't need to shout, Grandmother," I admonished lowly. "Emmett's usually at the checkout counter if he's not helping a customer. It's right over—"

But Emmett had already come hurrying at the sound of Grandmother's commanding resonance, hastily wiping away the fog from his wire-rim glasses. It was quite cool in here and his frosting breath misted on the glasses the moment he replaced them.

Grandmother gave the proprietor of the Barn Market a slow up-down glance, no doubt assessing the clean, pressed overalls, the checkered shirt—now in flannel for the winter, instead of cotton—and the royal blue shawl-collar cardigan he had bundled up around the jowls of his throat. His white hair, which still bore the comb strokes of his morning hygiene routine, had started to become unruly with the static.

His eyes widened behind his fogged glasses, his mouth going a little slack, and Grandmother lifted her chin.

Then, Emmett Trinket bowed .

As much as his old back allowed him, of course, and Aunt Eranthis smothered a girlish giggle behind the back of her hand. Aunt Hyacinth nudged her in the spine to hush up.

"Hi, Emmett," I said quickly, stepping forward.

"Why, Miss Misty Fields," he greeted, once again wiping his glasses clear with his handkerchief. "Who're these fine folks you've brought with you today?"

"Emmett, this is my g-grandmother, um—"

"Irene Fields," she supplied, extending her hand.

He actually lifted it to his lips to kiss her knuckles instead of shaking it.

"And these are Misty 's aunts, Erika and Helena, and her father Thomas." She used the aliases so easily I wondered if they used them regularly outside the Hawthorne estate, or if my grandmother was really that good of a liar.

"A-and this is Emmett Trinket," I mumbled the rest of the introductions.

"Lovely to make your acquaintance, sir," Grandmother said smoothly. Then she gestured to the indoor flea market. "And where might one find women's clothes amidst all this… variety?"

"Right this way, ma'am." As he began leading the way to a corner of the store I didn't know existed, he stopped short and turned. "Miss Misty—"

"I remember where the menswear section is," I answered, flashing him a smile.

He bobbed his head with a goofy grin and gestured for the "lovely, regal ladies" to follow after him. Nudging my elbow, Dad prompted me to show him the way. After all, a witch separated from her coven was weak. Or so I'd been led to believe.

As he systematically went through every piece of clothing, choosing functionality over fashion, I perused the red plaid flannel shirts, looking for one with the tiny yellow stripes I liked.

"Red attracts too much attention," he told me. "I need drab, forgettable colors."

"I'm not picking it out for you," I replied, my attention still fixed on the shirts. "I need a new nightshirt."

"Nightshirt?" The hangers he'd been clacking through became eerily silent. A moment later, he was right next to me, clothing for him, Otter, and Uncle Badger draped over his forearm. He thumbed the shirt next to the one I was examining. "This looks similar to the shreds of fabric I found in the woods where the bear shifted."

"Cool coincidence."

" Misty ," he admonished. "Has that bear—" His mouth grappled for a phrase that would both convey his question and not destroy the image of his innocent daughter. " Slept over? "

The memory of my hand reaching out and touching the depression in the bed where Arthur had slept beside me threatened to unleash other memories, specifically the ones that had led him to my bed to begin with. But I refused to blush in front of my father.

"Don't you mean have I mated with him?" I asked, flinging back the words he'd used in the moonflower grove. "Yes to one and no to the other."

" What? "

Without replying, I pulled an acceptable nightshirt replacement from the hanger and began the zigzagging path back to the checkout counter, shoving thoughts of the lumbersnack shifter from my mind. Thistle thorns, why can't I stop thinking about him?

You are mine, Meadow , a wicked part of me recounted his words.

There was a nuance there my mind was missing, even as my body reacted shamelessly to those four little words.

I needed to talk to Cousin Lilac as soon as possible. She knew more than anyone else about shifters and their effects on… whoever and whatever they were affecting. And as if I had any time to think about these things with Marten in a demon prison! Or rather, an Unseelie prison, if Arcadis could be believed.

Lost in my worried thoughts, I wove through the familiar stacks of knickknacks and oddities to the checkout counter. I'd pay for my new nightshirt and then go wait in the car and wrap my head around, well, everything . Just as I was approaching the shelves with all the antique green- and rose-colored glass, the little bell chimed over the door again, announcing the arrival of another customer.

I knew the sound of that proud gait, even though those feet had swapped out their kitten heels for stylish suede boots.

"Misty," my father began chastising me again, having caught up with me.

"Get down," I whispered, yanking him into a crouch behind the shelves of glass. Sawyer squirmed in the confines of the foraging bag as it got squished between my stomach and thighs.

Dad shucked the clothes and drew his knives, yellow-green magic writhing down their blades. "What?"

I shook my head. "Who."

He rose slightly, just enough to catch sight of Grandmother by the jewelry display cases. Though no longer in sight, the elderly gentleman had every piece of opal and moonstone in stock out on a piece of black velvet for her inspection, which she was doing with her own jeweler's loupe. That was just for show, of course, but it masked the careful probing of her magic.

The crystals could be boobytrapped, of course, without the human even knowing, and the last thing she wanted to do was blow up the indoor flea market. Not because of the destruction, but because of the scene it would cause. The Hawthornes, just like Misty Fields, needed to keep a low profile until their work in Redbud was complete.

"Mr. Trinket," Ms. Charlotte Harris trumpeted, her suede footfalls carrying further into the store. "Christmas is upon us, and I will not be outdone by Mayor Robert's sister Rosalie at this year's Winter Fete. She believes herself the queen of Redbud, though everyone in town knows that title is rightfully mine. The fete's theme is frost and ice, and I want diamonds , Mr. Trinket. Barring that, anything large and sparkly. No doubt she'll already have cleared out Bianca's Bling Boutique to spite me, and I am not paying those exorbitant prices in Evansville or Indianapolis, so you're my only hope. Mr. Trinket!"

She came into view then, and I snuck a look at my father to see if he had the same first impression I'd had when I'd first met her. His face was stoic, though his light brown eyes watched her like a hawk, no doubt gauging if she was a threat or not. Probably not, what with her done up in her customary pearls, two the size of marbles drooping from her earlobes, and a full-length fur coat of some white animal. White hair, swept into a French twist and pinned under a pearl-studded hairnet, white gloves, white suede boots… the only splash of color on her was the cranberry-colored lipstick on her pinched mouth.

"She's just a human woman," Dad murmured to me, though he didn't take his eyes off her. His magic winked out and he replaced his knives. "What threat can she be?"

"Only that we'll certainly be memorable to her and she'll set the town gossip mill working overtime," I answered. "You wanted us to be as unmemorable as possible, right? Then keep your head down."

Ms. Harris paused at the checkout counter, seemingly bewildered that Emmett was not perched on his stool and polishing this or that and prepared to wait on her hand and foot. When she craned over the counter to see if he was sprawled on the floor, not a hair slipped out of place, though the fur collar at her throat rippled with the movement.

"I say, Mr. Trinket, where are you? You've not collapsed under one of these stacks, are you? That simply won't do! Hurry now, Mr. Trinket." She kept up with her half-hearted search, looking for him under a stack of newspapers set on the end of the counter, as she said loudly for anyone within range to hear, which was the entirety of the barn, "You have no idea the rush I'm in—I've been behind all morning. There are newcomers in town, yet again, and yet again , they are upsetting the natural order of things.

"One woman and her hippie son—though he could be her lover; she looks the cougar type, if you ask me, what with that gypsy shirt and tight leather pants—have been buying out all the before-noon deals at Galloway's as if they were preparing food for an army! I almost lost a finger just getting a small pork loin for the bridge club's Sunday luncheon. While in the checkout line, Millie Fairbanks told me that the hippie son/lover had already been to the Magic Brewery and had the indecency to purchase an entire keg, not to mention place an eight-drink order where none of them were the same, then had the audacity to ask the elder Lancaster boy if he wouldn't mind delivering the keg to nowhere other than the cider farm on Apple Blossom Lane! If you ask me, that birdhouse-stealing hussy Misty Fields has brought more of her ilk to town. Or she's hosting a kegger. Maybe an orgy. It's impossible to tell." With that, she'd run out of air and sucked in a massive gulp, only to trumpet once more, "Hang it all, Mr. Trinket! Where are you?"

Great, so now I was no longer a birdhouse-stealing hussy, but a boozed-up debauchee. Possibly a nymphomaniac. I rolled my eyes.

Frowning, Dad whispered to me, "Who is this woman?"

"The queen of Redbud, weren't you listening?" I said it only half-jokingly. She was indeed the town matriarch, and no one crossed her unless they wanted to be the subject of her ire in her latest Talk of the Town issue.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Emmett called a moment later from somewhere in the back. "One moment, Ms. Harris."

Ms. Charlotte Harris was not known to wait for anything, so she took off once again in the direction of his voice. Dad and I shifted our hiding spot from the green- and rose-colored glass to the racks of singing jewelry boxes, collectable beer steins, and decorative plates and watched as Emmett appeared with a mug of coffee.

Which he placed in front of Grandmother, who looked up from her gem inspection to give Ms. Harris one of her customary up-down glances. But Ms. Charlotte was the self-professed queen of Redbud, and knew how to give an assessing glance of her own. Especially since—to my limited knowledge—Emmett Trinket had never offered her a cup of coffee while she was perusing his wares.

They were on two opposite sides of the spectrum, at least in appearance. Grandmother was all in black, her shortened battle robes lending her a queenly air, her steel-gray hair streaked with brown in an immaculate bun on the top of her head. Though she had wrinkles, they were distinguishing like Daphne's. Her eyes were bright, her tan cheeks tinged with rose from the chilly air. She was curvy and sensuous where Ms. Harris certainly was not. The human woman was a stick of wintery paper birch compared to my lively grandmother, pale and stiff and afraid to let her hips sway in any fashion.

And as always, the recipient of their twin evaluations was found wanting.

Maintaining her judgmental stare, Grandmother lifted the mug to her lips, blew off the steam, and took a nice deep sip. Then: "I'll be happy to let Emmett assist you after I'm finished here."

That was a loaded sentence. First was the let , which implied Emmett was at her express beck and call, then Emmett , the familiarity of his first name implying they went way, way back, and finally, the summation of the words conveyed that Grandmother was not going to let Ms. Harris get one look at those jewels until she had finished first. Which was an indefinite time frame. Which meant Ms. Harris would have to wait.

The Harris Harridan was not accustomed to waiting.

Her puckered lips took on a sour twist. "And you are? Some kind of dominatrix?"

"Irene Fields," Grandmother answered smoothly, setting down her mug and flashing Ms. Charlotte Harris a lovely smile. Emmett Trinket broke out into a profuse sweat. "That birdhouse-stealing hussy's grandmother."

The elderly gentleman yanked out his handkerchief and started dabbing his face, neck, and behind his ears so forcefully I thought he'd bruise.

Ms. Harris straightened her spine and lifted her chin. She was one who stood by her words, whether they be verbal or printed.

"Thank you for the coffee, Emmett," Grandmother said. "I think I've selected all the moonstones and opals I need."

"Very good, Ms. Fields," he said quickly, hastening to replace the rest of the pieces back into the display case. "If you'll just follow me, I'll—"

"Oh, I'm not done yet," she interrupted, her voice as rich and luscious as vanilla ice cream melting into a slice of hot peach pie. "I'd like to see your entire diamond selection now. Especially the big ones."

Emmett choked, and Ms. Charlotte Harris's eyes flashed wide, her teeth clicking as her jaw clenched. But protesting Grandmother's request would only make Ms. Harris wait that much longer, something that would undoubtedly haunt Emmett for the rest of his days… or until she found another older gentleman to berate with her strange brand of flirting. Apparently she hadn't given up on Emmett even when her sights had turned to Axel the mechanic.

When he fumbled extracting the velvet tray from the case, Grandmother picked up her coffee mug and said soothingly, "Take your time, Emmett. I've got all day."

Ms. Harris clearly did not, given the way she shifted her weight to take the pressure off one of her hips. But she stood as regally and impatiently as she could, gloved hands clasped in front of her, watching Grandmother nonchalantly sip her coffee, ivy-green eyes staring unblinkingly over the rim of her mug.

"Y-yes, Ms. Fields." His thick fingers shook as he removed another tray of jewelry from the case.

"Call me Irene."

Ms. Harris stiffened even more, if that were possible, since she was already straighter than a flagpole, at the wanton forwardness of my grandmother insisting the honorable gentleman call her by her birth name.

Emmett moped his face again and cleared his throat, only looking back and forth between the two women from under his long and lowered white eyelashes. "Miss Irene, h-here are the diamonds."

Without taking her gaze off Ms. Harris, Grandmother asked, "Is that all of them?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good."

She set her empty mug down, added her opals and moonstones to the diamonds, and picked up each corner of the velvet display swatch like she was about to tie up a gingham cloth around a picnic lunch, and marched for the checkout counter.

Ms. Harris gasped as Grandmother passed, seething, "How dare you, you… dominatrix! Do you have any idea who I am?"

"An old raisin of a gossiping witch who needs more vitamin D in her life?" Grandmother flung over her shoulder, not even bothering to insult Ms. Harris to her face. "I left the whole of his cubic zirconia inventory for you to enjoy, by the way."

Dad nudged me then, urging me to join Grandmother at the checkout counter as it seemed we were going to beat a prompt exit.

"Ladies," Grandmother called, summoning my aunts and proving Dad's instincts correct.

"Excuse me!" Ms. Harris bugled, her suede boots stomping after Grandmother. "Did you just call me a witch? I happen to be—"

"No. But what I called you certainly rhymes with it."

Ms. Charlotte Harris's eyes threatened to bulge out of her head, and Emmett whimpered a nearly inaudible, "Oh mercy."

But the human woman drew herself up short, plucking back the accusing finger she'd thrust in Grandmother's direction as the rest of the Hawthornes surged to her side. There was a sudden wall of black battle robes and leather in front of her, minus me in my canvas parka and fleece leggings. The four Hawthornes had nothing but disdain for the woman who'd insulted their family, but I mumbled a low, "Good afternoon, Ms. Harris."

Behind the checkout counter, Emmett's energy was split between sweating, ringing up Grandmother's many purchases—including all the clothes, extra bed linens, and toiletries the rest of us had amassed—and not getting his sweat on said purchases.

When Ms. Charlotte Harris didn't reply, the muscle in her jaw flickering as she alternated between clenching her teeth and preparing an insult, my father jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "You can queue up behind me."

She let out a queenly, "Hmph!" and marched out of the Barn Market instead, the little bell ringing angrily with her exodus.

Emmett sagged onto his stool, but his hands continued to check tags and carefully package.

"Let me help you with that, Emmett," Grandmother said.

With a wave of her hand, green vines of magic folded and tucked and stacked every item into brown paper totes. When the tote was full, a vine passed it off into the waiting hands of a Hawthorne. Soon, each of us held a tote in each hand, and Grandmother was pulling out her leather billfold from a hidden pocket in her robe. She handed him cash, telling him to keep the change, then led her family through the winding path back to the front door.

"Sorry about that," I whispered to Emmett before catching up after my father. "Bye, Monkfoot!"

If the brownie or the elderly gentleman were worried about repercussions from the Harris Harridan, they didn't show it. They'd just made a killing in sales, after all. Emmett flung up a hand and waved in farewell. "Thank you for visiting the Barn Market, Fields Family. Have a good'un!"