Page 27 of A Spell for Midwinter’s Heart

At the parking lot, a man in a bright red-and-black parka decorated with various white crosses walked up to greet them—ski patrol. He gestured to where a pair of humming snowmobiles waited nearby. A second person waited in the same uniform, mounted atop the other snowmobile.

“Thanks, Rich,” said Gavin, giving the man a quick embrace.

“Not like it’s one of the busiest days of the year or nothing,” said Rich with a grunt. “Come on.”

“Are we snowmobiling to breakfast?” asked Rowan.

“You are being snowmobiled to your breakfast,” corrected Rich. “You don’t get to keep these. And if we get a rescue call in the middle of the ride, you’ve gotta come along. So…” He patted the seat behind him. “Hope you’re good with blood.”

The snowmobiles took off into a torrent of cold, skimming over the snow.

Rowan clung to the passenger handles with a white-knuckled grip.

The machine hummed between her legs as the oddly comforting aroma of burning diesel filled her nose.

After a bumpy section, she threw her arms around Rich’s thick middle and clung to him with all she had. The big man’s body shook with laughter.

They reached their destination without making good on the threat of impromptu rescue efforts.

It was a modest brown lodge with a green aluminum roof covered in solar panels, surrounded by a small village of rustic cabins.

Smoke curled from the chimney stack, and skis and snowshoes were stuck in the snowbank outside.

“What is this place?” asked Rowan, climbing off the back of the snowmobile with her legs quivering. Ski patrol was off in a flash, promising to return later to take them back down.

“Alvehjem.” Gavin said the name affectionately. “Or Aelfhome, as they started calling it after realizing no one could pronounce it. Most of the cabins are completely rustic, but the main lodge has power.”

“And they serve breakfast?”

“For guests.”

Pausing, she gave him a look. “You didn’t book us a spot just to skip breakfast lines, did you? Because I should warn you now that pricey gestures are the opposite of my love language.”

“Oh, I figured that.” He chuckled. “No—my grandparents manage this place.”

The interior was all pale wood patterned with small black knots. A rainbow of Tomte gnomes sat on the hearth, enormous noses peeking from beneath stocking caps that covered their eyes.

On the mantel were small ceramic statues of thirteen mischievous figures—Icelandic Yule Lads. It was said they stole through children’s windows with mischief on the brain, but if the children had been good, they left small gifts instead and moved on. Wild Hunt figures. Just like Santa.

There was a long communal table positioned next to a galley kitchen opposite the entry—empty.

The definition of “morning” for the sort of people who stayed in a rustic lodge on Christmas Eve had long since come and gone.

But an older woman wearing a red-and-white knit sweater was still finishing up dishes in the kitchen.

At the sound of footsteps, her head popped up, and when she caught sight of Gavin, she beamed.

“Gavin!” the old woman cried out in delight.

Her hair was short and dark gray, her form slender, and there was a whisper of Sarah McCreery to the old woman’s face.

Rowan was vaguely aware of Sarah’s parents, the Larssons.

She had certainly seen them around town, but they had never actually met, and she hadn’t realized they lived up this way.

Had Dennis and Sarah known each other as kids on the mountain? Did that help explain their attraction of opposites?

“Grandma,” said Gavin, giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

“I was just reading your last letter!” said the old woman, gazing at her grandson with clear adoration.

“Letter?” asked Rowan.

He nodded. “It’s a bit of a hobby. I write to stay in touch but also keep a few pen pals I’ve never met.”

Rowan leaned in. “Gavin McCreery, do you own a fountain pen?”

He mirrored her, leaning in with his eyes dancing. “?‘A’ fountain pen? Nooo…”

She gasped. “Do you have a fountain pen problem ?”

He crossed his arms. “It’s only a problem if it’s out of control.”

“What’s the most you’ve ever spent on a pen?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“He has beautiful penmanship,” said his grandmother with a chuckle. Her eyes slid to Rowan, and the old woman seemed to finally take a good look at her. As she did, her eyes went wide.

“Lili?” The old woman’s voice shook.

Lili? Did she mean Rowan’s mother?

She supposed it made sense that Liliana would have played out here with Sarah when they were young. Rowan glanced around the lodge, imagining echoes of her mother’s much younger self running through the halls with Sarah-then-Larsson.

Gavin touched his grandmother’s arm briefly and said, “This is Rowan, Liliana’s daughter.”

“Thank you for having me up,” said Rowan.

“Of course,” said the old woman, her expression clearing. “Welcome, Rowan. I’m Ana. You must think I’m completely addled. You remind me so much of her.”

“I get it,” said Rowan.

It was a white lie. While their physical similarities were there, they were such different people that the idea they could be mistaken for one another was difficult to fathom.

If she’d had even an ounce of her mother’s focus, control, and resilience, maybe she’d have done something worthwhile by now.

What’s more, if she’d inherited her mother’s magical affinities, she would never have to question whether using her powers was a good idea.

Her heart stuttered at the thought. Something must have shown on her face, because a touch on her arm alerted her to where Gavin stared down at her, brows knit in concern. She drove back the feelings, brightening her smile.

The old woman’s eyes flicked between Rowan and Gavin, appraising. “I saved kransenkake for you.” Ana retrieved a dish of what had once been a tower of pale brown almond cookies laced with white icing. “And there’s plenty of tekake and hot coffee.”

“Oh, thank goodness,” murmured Rowan, accepting a checkered mug. Her stomach let out a sound like a baying hound.

Ana caught it, laughing. “I can make more. Do you want anything else?”

“You have been busy all morning,” said Gavin, steering the old woman to a cozy spot in front of the fire. “I’ll cook.”

“Are you sure?”

“More than sure,” said Gavin, planting a kiss on his grandmother’s forehead.

“Well, I suppose I’ll join your grandfather on the trails then,” said Ana, glancing between them again with an evasive look. “Give you two some privacy.”

With that, the old woman was off, and they were left alone. Rowan leaned against the counter as Gavin scanned the cabinets and fridge, taking stock of what was available and what he might do with it. Rolling up his sleeves, he threw a skillet onto the stove to begin heating it.

“So, when you say you can’t cook,” he said, pulling out a bag of onions, “what does that mean? You don’t know many recipes, techniques or…

?” He paused briefly to fill the pan with oil before moving on to a heavy wooden cutting board.

His knife flew over an onion, cutting it into tidy pieces of uniform size with crisp efficiency.

Rowan put up her hands. “All the above? I mean, sure, I can follow basic recipes, but they need to be specific. If it says to do something ‘to taste,’ be prepared for the taste in question to be ‘rancid.’?” He laughed and tossed the onion into the already hissing oil before moving on to cutting potatoes into even chunks.

“And that magic you’re doing there where everything’s uniform—forget about it! Gonna be big old ragged hunks.”

“Well, that’s a matter of patience.”

“Exactly the problem.”

“Also, practice.”

Rowan sighed. “Problem number two. My mom dominated the kitchen growing up. It’s…her thing. And since going away, I haven’t had a lot of excuses to practice. Cooking for one is expensive and depressing.”

He nodded and started arranging the potatoes evenly around the pan. “I hear you. I had to learn to cook for my father and me, otherwise I might not have either.”

Rowan didn’t bother to disguise the judgment in her voice as she said, “Your dad never considered maybe he should rise to the occasion and learn?”

Gavin shook his head. “Too busy working. I took care of myself a lot after…we lost her.”

“Sounds like you took care of him too,” muttered Rowan. Gavin opened his mouth to protest but closed it, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “It wasn’t fair you had to do that,” she added, digging in.

He shrugged. “It wasn’t, but it had to be done.

There was no food, so I cooked.” Potatoes in place, he moved on to smashing garlic with the flat of the knife blade.

“Garbage and dishes piled up high enough to attract rats, so I cleaned.” He moved to the sink, releasing hot water in a spray to cleanse the knife blade before returning.

“Things need done, people do them—that’s how we survive and move forward.

” Gavin stopped then and took a long deep breath, and she studied him, eyes pricking at the corners with tears, thinking of the child he didn’t get to be.

“It still wasn’t fair,” she murmured.

His eyes danced with a smile. “?‘Life isn’t fair, it’s just fairer than death.’ Anyway, that’s why it was so nice to come out here—get taken care of for a few days. Even if it meant composting toilets.”

“You know, I don’t actually hate composting toilets?”

“You would if you had to do the upkeep.”

Rowan drifted around the counter, sliding between him and the stove. He peered down at her with a quirked brow.

“Show me something,” she said. “Let me help.”

“Well, it’s time to add the garlic…Think you can handle that?”

“Yes,” she said, reaching over for the pile he’d readied before sprinkling the garlic evenly around the pan.

He stepped away for a moment, gathering spices, and on his return settled in close—close enough to detect the way the sharp scents of garlic and onion clung to his skin and mixed with his own musky aroma.

Close enough that the firm line of his hips trapped her against the counter’s edge, before he noticed and settled half a step back.

She shivered as his hand slid down her arm, depositing a jar of smoked paprika in her hand.

His voice was close to her ear. “How about seasoning?”

“Not so confident,” she whispered, mouth dry.

“That’s why I’m here.” He guided her hand, leading her as she shook the paprika over the skillet.

Its earthy aroma joined the delectable smells coming from the pan, and they followed it up with cayenne, salt, and pepper.

Each time he let her apply the spice, gently indicating when she should stop.

When she’d finished the pepper, he leaned down and snaked around her body to pick up the skillet and give it a quick shake, tossing the potatoes to mix it all together.

“Wise not to trust me with that part,” she murmured as he released the skillet. “We’d have ended up with potatoes all over the place.” Her stomach growled at the delicious smells coming out of the pan.

“Why don’t you get started on the pastries?”

“You’ll have to let me out,” she murmured, gesturing to the way his arms had boxed her in against the counter.

He pulled back but lingered at her ear, hot breath tickling.

Her eyes shut at the sensation, neck arching in unconscious invitation, and he pressed his lips to the most sensitive place behind her ear.

Rowan gasped, everything in her body coiling deliciously. He released her, stepping away. She was left wobbling, weak in the knees, as she moved to a spot at the counter where the pastries were waiting and slid into a chair. His face was shockingly neutral as he finished cooking up the potatoes.

How had he found that spot so quickly? She shoved tekake into her mouth to stop thinking about it.

The cake melted against her tongue, filling her senses with an explosion of butter and nutty brown sugar.

Ravenous, she continued to stuff her mouth, washing the pastry down with the coffee.

It was only when she started eating that she realized how hungry she’d been.

The trip up the mountain hadn’t been short, and they’d gone straight past brunch and well into lunchtime.

Gavin flipped the potatoes and let them settle, joining her for a piece of cake. He leaned down to wipe some crumbs from her face. “You’ve got something here…”

His hand lingered, his thumb trailing across her lips.

Her tongue flicked to taste him—salty and sharp with spice.

She wondered what the rest of him tasted like, and with the way he looked at her, warm gaze serious with intent, it was easy to imagine he was thinking something similar.

The gap between them narrowed as he leaned in, and her stomach gave a tumble.

But he only whispered, “Food’s done,” and his coy smile confirmed he was aware of exactly what he’d been doing.