Page 22 of A Wolf for Winter

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“That’s not Prue Stonewell,” Boar muttered under her breath. “As leader of Cailleach Lodge, she should greet us first, not this faun.”

That was the custom: the strongest supes and Fair Folk greeted the Hawthornes first as a sign of reverence and fealty and to set the example for all the rest. The faun was breaking protocol, but she had good reason.

“Prue’s had long enough to show up,” Lilac hissed. “Edith’s got a business to run, just like the rest of them. Cut her some slack.” She whipped her attention to the faun as she reached the table, Lilac’s irritation evaporating at the sight of her friend. “Miss Edith, so lovely to see you.”

Half woman, half goat, the faun wore a bright red coat that contrasted beautifully with her charcoal-colored skin and silky back fur. Sprigs of holly decorated her horns, and fog clouded her gold-rimmed spectacles.

“Mistress Lilac,” the faun said, curtseying. She was beaming a smile, too, before she remembered she was addressing more Hawthornes than just her. The black faun quickly sobered. “Master Boar, Mistress Rose, good day. The Fireside Tales Book Shoppe greets you and wishes you a prosperous yuletide.”

She produced a brown-paper package from the wicker basket on her arm and slid it onto the table. Then she turned back to Lilac. “This is for you, mistress. Per your request, of course,” she added hastily.

Of course. And of course she’d made no request. This was a gift masked as a transaction.

The faun bookseller handed her a smaller package, this one wrapped in a little green ribbon. “Let me know what you think,” she whispered.

“The Hawthornes accept your gift,” Boar said, taking the first package and setting it away from the food but still within sight. “May Fireside Tales be evergreen.”

The faun curtseyed once more, flashed a quick smile at Lilac in farewell, and hurried off with little clip-clops of her cloven hooves.

With Edith’s disappearance, it was like the proverbial plug on a tub drain had popped free, and a deluge of visitors flooded to the corner booth to pay the Hawthorne family their respects. Most were other, but there were some humans in the mix, particularly practitioners. They each brought some kind of gift, always wrapped in nondescript brown paper. As head of their little Circle of Three, Boar received them politely and respectfully, always sending them on their way with a reverent, “May be evergreen.”

“Are these . . . tithes?” Allen whispered in one of the lulls between supplicants.

Lilac would’ve replied with something smacking of sass, something about how as the servant he need only bother himself with figuring out how he was going to carry it all to the Hall instead of wondering after their identity, but she couldn’t stop fingering the ribbon on the little book Edith had given her. What treasure had the little faun gifted her this year?

Rose leaned in and whispered to him, “We Hawthornes are kind of a big deal.”

“And so modest too,” he replied, earning him a light jab to the ribs. Chuckling, he turned his attention back to eating the portion of bread bowl and soup he’d ordered on Lilac’s behalf. But his golden-brown eyes marked everyone who approached.

He ceased chewing entirely when Prue Stonewell appeared.

Lilac dropped the packaged book on the leather seat between her and Boar, keeping her hands under the table. Rose stopped chugging her third beer and wiped her mouth with her wrist, never once taking her eyes off the leader of the hedge witches.

Wavy gray hair tumbled loose from an honest-to-gods witch hat made of tanned hide. She wore brown robes, belted at the waist, a half-cloak of autumn orange, and a bandolier of charms, vials, and other witchy bits and bobs strung across her chest. The rowan besom clutched in her hand shed some of its twigs along the floor.

Coven witches and hedge witches didn’t normally get along—a difference in orthodoxy—and the Hawthornes particularly didn’t like how Prue Stonewell preferred to dress in the stereotypical part. It seemed to undermine their legitimacy, that what they were wasn’t much more than a bit of hocus pocus, a penchant for forest things, and a fondness for black cats.

“Prue Stonewell,” Boar said, breaking the established protocol by addressing the supplicant first. Unlike with all the rest, there was no warmth in his tone. “You should’ve been the first to greet us.”

“I had other matters that needed my attention,” came her crisp reply. “By Mab, Boar Hawthorne, contrary to what you might believe, your family does not command the minutes of my day. Here.”

She thrust a poorly wrapped brown-paper package at them. When none of the witches moved, none of them liking her attitude and blatant disregard for protocol, Allen reached up and took it with a mild, “Thank you.”

“Allen Sharpe.” Her hawkish hazel eyes snapped to him. “I thought you had more sense than embroiling yourself with the Hawthornes. Unless, that is, it had been your plan all along.”

“Pardon?”

“I heard what happened to Zofia Hollyoak today. Simply dreadful.” She looked down her long nose at him. “Or convenient.”

Allen Sharpe’s polite demeanor vanished. He stood, his powerful body seeming to expand and take up all the air in the booth. Prue Stonewell craned her head back to look up at him, and while she stood her ground, Lilac noticed the hedge witch tremble.

“Don’t ever insinuate such a thing in my presence again, Ms. Stonewell,” Allen growled. “If you know what happened to Zofia this afternoon, then you know what I did to protect her. What I would do for any of my charges. Including the Hawthornes. And yet, I assure you, that was nothing compared to what I’ll do to the next person who threatens her or the Hawthornes, or insults my honor.”

Prue Stonewell’s tongue swiped nervously over her chapped lips, then she straightened her spine and changed tactics. “That girl already has you wrapped around her little finger, doesn’t she?” she hissed, pointing at Lilac. “What did I tell you about my poor Ethan? Heartbroken, he was. Completely shattered. And it is all her fault!” she shrieked.

For a second, Lilac was convinced Allen was going to bite that accusing finger clean off the hedge witch’s finger. And for some reason, that idea sent a thrill racing through her.