Page 9 of A Spell for Midwinter’s Heart

The day had been crisp, but when the sun set, the temperature plummeted.

Every bit of heat escaped into the clear sky as exhaled breaths clouded and tinkled with ice.

Rowan had long since lost her resilience to the cold, and though she’d layered a jacket over a sweater and put on a hat, gloves, and scarf, it was proving woefully inadequate.

Elk Ridge Winter Fest stood at the north end of town, surrounded by a low fence on which hung the names of local sponsors.

The grounds hosted permanent structures that provided space for food, drink, and entertainment, all styled to the winter wonderland theme with dramatic filigree swoops and rough jutting icy spears that would have made Rankin-Bass proud.

A chorus of cheers erupted from the Ferris wheel that stood high above the rest, its seats meticulously hand-carved to resemble snowflakes.

Rowan lingered at the base of the massive Yule tree planted at the entrance.

It had been strung with lights and colorful balls and topped with a brilliant orange metal sun.

As a liminal space of giving and receiving, all Yule trees were magically potent sites, and the coven had bound this one in a spell of joy that affected every visitor to the festival.

“How do they get the decorations all the way up there?” asked a bespectacled little boy, who peered at the top of the tree through Coke-bottle lenses.

“A very, very tall ladder,” answered his mother.

Rowan smiled secretly, knowing that wasn’t the answer.

Just inside the gates, children spilled out of the craft area, hoisting tissue-paper Solstice lanterns.

Lights were everywhere for the Solstice.

While most of them clearly dangled from something, some appeared to hang entirely in midair.

Most visitors presumed there was a complex system of tiny wires holding them in place, but those who saw the world with eyes attuned to unreasonable possibilities recognized it for what it truly was—magic.

A massive straw Yule goat held court just beyond.

He was sporting a blue-and-white scarf today, matching the menorahs that could be found around the festival grounds to mark the seventh day of Hanukkah.

While the goat was fated to burn in the final days of Yule, for now, children swarmed up and down his back, and people wrote out their regrets on pieces of paper to slip into his mouth.

She paused, picking up a small piece of paper from a basket at the goat’s feet.

“What’s that for?” asked the same curious little boy from before.

“You write down what you want to leave behind,” answered Rowan, not giving time for his mom to guess again. “Regrets, bad behaviors…So you can start fresh next year.”

“I’d need a whole lot more paper than that,” murmured his mom.

“Honestly, same,” said Rowan.

The paper hummed with the promise of a spell, and Rowan’s fingers leaped apart, letting the slip flutter back to the basket.

She pressed on to Merchant Alley, where German-style holiday stalls had been arranged in narrow alleys.

While there were some unfamiliar faces, she recognized most of the stalls.

There was the Lonely Goatherd with its delicious farm cheeses and foraged berry jams, and Queeriosity, an outpost of an Elk Ridge boutique that specialized in gender-affirming clothing.

She passed the vibrant red and brass of Turkish Delights, where the Adivar family sold the so-named candy under a sign proclaiming The real Aplets & Cotlets.

They had put out a platter of watermelon and pomegranates and nuts to mark Yaldā, the Persian celebration of the Solstice, as well as papers with poems by the poet Hafiz.

Rowan picked one up, scanning the familiar poem before finding her favorite line. “?‘Let’s plot to make the moon jealous,’?” she murmured, and tucked the paper into her pocket with a smile.

Her brother’s booth, Guardians of the Wood, came into view at the far end of the marketplace.

It was bigger and more open than the other stalls, which allowed it to hold a workspace where its chain saw artists showed off their craft for curious onlookers.

Assorted wooden statues—the so-called guardians—had been arranged around its exterior.

She found Stephan Midwinter kneeling in a pile of wood shavings behind a fat wooden bear, carving a symbol into its rump with a fine metal tool.

“There,” he said. “As long as this one’s standing watch, dogs’ll think twice about crapping on your lawn.

” Her brother was exceptionally tall and broad, with blond hair and a thick, well-kept beard.

Handsome the same way the Cascades were, craggy and rough, but solid as hell.

The odor of gasoline and fresh-cut cedar clung to his plaid and Carhartt ensemble as he projected the appearance of full “mountain man” for the tourists.

“I see,” said the customer with a bemused smile. “Thank you.”

It was clear the woman didn’t believe it, but Stephan was skilled with protective magic. The stall radiated his power, and a sense of safety overcame Rowan when she stepped inside.

As the woman moved on, Stephan called out, “She’ll ship out Monday.” Then his eyes caught Rowan, and he ambled over with a grin.

“Hey, dork! Welcome home!”

The russet flash of a baying hound beat him to the punch.

Ozzy, Ozzy Dogbourne, slammed his face into Rowan’s hands, licking and demanding pets.

She scratched and rubbed at the many folds of his face, dodging his swaying elephant ears.

The dog wore a tartan coat with a fluffy sheepskin liner, and the hair around his droopy eyes was graying.

“Chill, Ozzy,” said Stephan.

The hound obeyed, heading into the booth to claim his spot on a well-worn checkered blanket. He landed flat, head between his front paws, gaze fixed on them. While his body was calm and obedient, his tail had zero chill, continuing to wag his rump back and forth.

“Did you really develop a charm to keep dogs from pooping on lawns?” asked Rowan.

Stephan grinned. “I cut her a general protection charm. Anyone who looks at that bear with mischief on the brain’s gonna think twice about it. Won’t affect the dogs. They’re just doing their business, but their owners’ll feel guilty as hell.”

Leaning against the side of the booth, Rowan traced the grooves on an eagle in flight with a finger.

“So,” she said, “you work here full time now?”

He shrugged. “Only full time during the holidays, otherwise part time.”

“Do you do anything full time?”

“What would be the point of that?” he asked with a wink. He was her big brother, but his life almost made the hot mess of her own look settled. Almost.

“So,” he said, “you here to appease your Anglophilia?”

Rowan rolled her eyes at her brother’s gentle teasing of her love for the Dickens carolers that would be performing soon. “Yes, yes, I know you think the Wassailers are corny.”

“Eh, they’re not so bad.” At Rowan’s surprised look, he added, “I’m getting way less cool in my old age.”

“Dude, you wield a chain saw for your job.”

“Even so…I’ve come around to ‘embrace the cringe and be free’ philosophy of living.”

Rowan leaned in. “Does that mean you’re finally owning up to liking My Chemical Romance?”

His face went blank. “Don’t know what you mean.”

“I found their CDs under your bed.”

“Must’ve been someone else’s bed.”

“Hmm. Maybe not so free.”

“We’re all works in progress.” He studied her for a moment. “So where’s your head at about tonight?”

She let out a low groan. “Did Mom pay you to ask me that?”

“You know Mom doesn’t have money.” Rowan winced. “Besides, I’m your big brother. No one’s gotta coerce me to hold your feet to the fire.”

Twisting and untwisting a curl around her finger, she looked at the ground and said, “I’m surprised you guys even want me there. After what happened?”

Stephan snorted. “You really dragging yourself around for that still?”

“Um. Yes…?”

He sighed. “Come on, Rowan. Did you let people down? Sure. But was Grandma’s house your fault? Hell no. No one’s got that much control over fate.” He nudged her with his elbow. “You’ve so done your time for that one. Besides, if there’s one way not to make up for leaving the coven high and dry—”

“It’s doing it again,” finished Rowan. “Literally, in this case.”

“Bingo. All we’re asking is you be our eighth.”

A swell of anxiety rose in her throat. “But I haven’t cast in years.” Intentionally. “And this is important. If I mess it up—”

He held up a hand. “We’ll never know it was you, because we were all involved, equally capable of fucking it up. Besides, once we put the spell out.” He waved a hand. “What happens, happens.”

She stared at him, both impressed and annoyed. “How did you end up so chill about everything? We were raised in the same house!”

A flicker of sympathy passed over her brother’s face. “But with different expectations.”

Her heart swelled with gratitude at his acknowledgment.

“So…?” he asked.

“So,” she said with a sigh, “it’s a lot harder to storm away when someone’s nice and understanding, instead of harsh and judgy.”

“Mom’s under a lot of pressure.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Stephan raised his arms. “She’s thinking about it! We’re on!”

“I just said I’d think about it!”

“Yeah, and you overthink things, which means when you lay out the facts, you’ll realize you’ll never know what would’ve happened if you tried.

And you don’t like not knowing things, so…

” Her mouth dropped at the infallible logic, and her brother grinned in triumph. “Now, go enjoy your Victorian cheese.”

Stephan waved her away, discarding his flannel overshirt and starting up the chain saw with a yank and a whir.

As he resumed excavating a raven from a stump of Western red cedar, a gaggle of college girls came to a stop, not so subtly recording him on their phones.

He hoisted the chain saw in a dramatic and unnecessary effort, flashing his muscles to his admirers.

“Oh, Stephan,” Rowan said with an affectionate eye roll.

Some things never changed.