Page 49 of Raven in Midwinter

“And do you give him a list?”

“No. Never. I tell him the same thing every day, which is that after I eat, I need to go check on everyone in the mansion. I start on the bottom floor and work my way up.”

“Why do you think he’s always here?”

“Same as with locking me in at night, he’s trying to show he has some kind of power over me.”

“That’s so petty.”

He shrugged.

“So we should go downstairs and get something to eat?”

“Yes. I’ve been cooking for myself and Argos, but now that you’re here, it’ll be nice to share the duties.”

“It’s how we do it at home.”

“Yes, it is,” he agreed, reaching out and slipping a stray piece of hair around my ear.

“Then we should go and⁠—”

“Look,” he said, tipping his chin at a large tray that had been carved from a single piece of cherrywood. I knew that because it was mine, or more precisely, belonged in my home and normally lived above the refrigerator.

My grandmother had named it the “near death” tray, the one she used when my grandfather was allegedly too sick with a fever or the flu to help her with chores. Because he was so “near death,” so dying of some communicable disease, she would leave it at the door with his food on it and walk away. Eventually, he understood she thought he was a hypochondriac, and worse, simply a man.

The tray reminded me of them and made me smile. It did the same for Lorne as I told him the story.

“There’s coffee.” I pointed at the mugs on the tray.

“Yes, there is,” he said, crossing the room to the blanket chest the tray was on. “You want to check that for me?”

“The cottage conjured that tray for you.”

“You’re right,” he said with a sigh, picking up the large mug of steaming coffee. There was nothing small, nothing dainty, none of the tiny coffee-service cups I’d seen carried around last night by servants. There was no cream and sugar, as he preferred to drink it black. And the mug was his too—one of his many ugly mugs—this one emblazoned with the words Osprey Police Department in the most revolting shade of blue known to man. Not navy, not royal or peacock blue, but instead a sickly color no one liked.

“This is mine,” he said, then took a sip. “And this is excellent coffee. Thank you, my cottage.”

The special smell the cottage had adopted for Lorne wafted through the room.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” he apprised me as I picked up the other mug, full of Irish Breakfast and cream, a stoneware one in the shape of a cauldron. It had been purchased by Amanda, and on the other side, in gold metallic script, were the words Witch, please.

“Caffeine to start the day is always helpful,” I told him, just as four men strode into the room ahead of Giles and Ilara.

“Drinking what another has made for you?” Giles said to Lorne, his tone snide. “How brave of you, MacBain.”

Lorne ignored him. “Lady Ilara, this is my husband, Xander Corey, and, Xan, this is Giles’s companion, Lady Ilara.”

She didn’t address him or even acknowledge he’d spoken to her, instead narrowing her eyes as she sneered at me. “You’re the witch,” she said disgustedly. “Giles thought you were dead. He threw you into the deep snow after cutting your throat and left you there.”

“Well, I suspect Corvus loves me more than he knows,” I said, studying her. “Tell me, lady, what kind of witch are you?”

“Witch?” she asked, noticeably offended from her sharp tone and the furrowing of her brows. “I am no witch.”

“Why lie? I can feel the magic on you.”

“Blasphemy,” she screamed, striding toward me, only to have Giles grab her arm, yanking her close beside him.

“She has no magic. She’s a mundane,” Giles assured me, “just like your man. I would know if she had any power.”