Page 48 of A Wolf for Winter

“I’ll take the ring back when I’m able, boy, don’t fret.”

She would? It was as simple as that? Allen nearly sagged in relief at the promise of freedom, then his heart stalled. He wouldn’t be as free as he thought. His body might be free to leave the valley, but his heart . . . well, that was becoming a stickier situation by the minute.

“And you three can quibble outside,” the tiny woman was saying, thumping her cane, “but I’m going inside.” Zofia shuffled out of Kalina’s grip and let herself into her friends’ home. “James, the boilo. And some sardines for Hobbles.”

“Fifi!” Kalina exclaimed, chasing after her.

The door slammed shut behind her, only to open again so Zofia could stick her head out. “Boy, you can extend the wards, you just need to concentrate and visualize. But it’ll come at a cost—your own energy. So either put some more fat on that six pack or get used to taking three naps a day. Bye now.”

She plucked her head back inside and shut the door. The click of a latch sounded a second later, leaving Allen and Prue on the sidewalk.

Allen just stared at the closed door, wondering how on earth Zofia had known that’s why he’d come to see her. Prue must’ve seen the question on his face and answered simply, “She does that.”

He flicked his attention back to her, face hardening. He’d unpack his warring thoughts about his upcoming freedom and extending the wards later. “What happened at the Craft Faire, Prue?”

“I’m quite sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m sure you heard all about the ill-wish, and know a thing or two about them too,” he pressed, withdrawing the handkerchief from his pocket. She extended only her neck like a curious turkey to see what he revealed when he flipped back the corners of the cloth. “What can you tell me about this?”

“Looks like a splinter to me,” she sniffed.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

“Your ego is massive, Allen Sharpe, thinking someone like you can order a hedge witch like me around.”

“Whoever is targeting the Hawthornes might very well be after you and your flock next. Unless it is you behind these attacks.”

“How dare you—”

The was a sudden rapping of knuckles against the bay window, and Zofia stood there as if she could hear the entirety of their muted conversation. Cradled in her arms, Hobbles gave them a sour look, tail flicking. Zofia snapped her fingers at Prue then pointed to Allen.

Allen tried—and failed—to keep the smug satisfaction from his face.

Smacking her lips in displeasure, Prue flicked her fingers over the splinter. It rose on an unseen current, fizzing and popping like a miniature firecracker before dropping back onto the handkerchief. Allen barely noticed the reaction, his gaze riveted on Prue’s face. The old witch gave nothing away . . . except for her mouth. The thin line of her pursed lips turned down in either confusion, concentration, or recognition.

“It’s made of rowan wood,” the hedge witch said. “Quite common around these parts, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Anyone could get their hands on it.”

“Anything else?” he pressed. That fruity scent still nagged at him. It smelled so similar to her blackberry scent, but not quite. Though, its integrity could’ve been compromised by environmental factors. It worried him, to think that he couldn’t fully trust his nose. Was he slipping?

“The spell was rudimentary. Basic. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Prue squared off in front of the bay window and lifted her besom.

He snatched her broomstick before she could utter whatever enchantment she had planned and wrenched her to look at him. To her credit, she didn’t let go. Allen’s attention drifted from the ire on her seamed face down to the bandolier of charms strung across her chest, to the one that looked like a knot. “Fascinating charm you have there, Prue.”

It seemed woven from a single sapling, four points ringed by a circle. It was a much more elegant design than the crude one he’d discovered in the center of the tumbleweed ill-wish . . . or the one fashioned to resemble a harmless spice.

“It’s a witch’s knot, something you’ll find in every hedge witch’s arsenal, and if you don’t remember your manners, Allen Sharpe, I’ll use it to knock you clear across the street.”

His gaze sharpened on her. “I have no doubt that whoever placed these ill-wishes is either wholly responsible for what happened to Zofia in the hospital, or at least an accomplice, and when I find out—”

“You think Zofia would let me ward the Roots’ home if she suspected it was me?” Prue tried to yank her besom out of his grip, and when he wouldn’t let go, she slapped him across the face.

He didn’t even flinch. “Well, she was just in a coma, so who knows if she’s in her right mind?”

“I heard that!” Zofia rapped her knuckles against the bay window again. This time, her irritation had a different target. “Let her do her job, boy. Shoo.”

“You heard her,” Prue said triumphantly. “Shoo.”

Allen kept his grip on the besom for a second longer before releasing it with a sneer. “Don’t make me regret this.”