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CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Lilac felt dead inside.

And it had nothing to do with the raw egg/blueberry/spinach/oatmeal protein shake atrocity Allen had “cooked up” for breakfast. Even Rose, who would eat anything, had had her misgivings and promised to provide him with a list of her favorite meals if she didn’t die from food poisoning or lack of will to live, whichever came first.

After that initial outburst of tears when Allen had hurled her crate outside and she’d heard it shatter against the walkway, she hadn’t cried. Emotions were for the living, after all. Not even Edith’s gift, Forgotten Lore of the Arcane , with its fascinating Celtic witch’s knots, witch groves, ill-wishes, and green sparks of destiny could perk her up.

She knew, deep down, Allen hadn’t been able to help himself—as caretaker he had to obey any direct order given him—and if she was being truthful with herself, she’d admit it had meant the world to her that he’d actually tried to fight back. But she’d wanted him to fight harder.

Allen Sharpe was a true man , as much as she was loath to pay him a compliment, someone confident and mature and unfazed by others’ opinions. He knew his worth and his morals—while they didn’t align with hers, since he was definitely hiding something from them—and that deserved her begrudging respect. And (still loathing to compliment) he had stood up for her against Prue Stonewell. If any man could’ve truly resisted Boar’s command, to safeguard her future, it would’ve been him.

But it was not to be.

Everything she had worked for, her chance for validation and turning over a new leaf—gone. Poof. Like it had never been.

This had been her only chance, for Boar would surely tell the elders what she had planned when they returned to the manor at the end of the week and she’d probably be forbidden from going anywhere near a cauldron again. That was not her role. She’d been na?ve to even think she could break free of the mold in which she had been cast.

“Earth to Lilac,” Rose said, nudging her as she walked past. “Finish growing that last booth or set up these cookies, but both gotta get done in the next five minutes!”

The function hall no longer resembled a vast ballroom. In preparation for today’s Craft Faire, the official start of the Yuletide Gala, the three witches and their caretaker had risen before dawn to transform Hawthorne Hall.

Three rows of covered booths, each grown from poplar seeds, were separated by two wide avenues. The poplar saplings were strong and supple, allowing the three green witches to weave them into whatever they wished—walls, arched ceilings, display tables, stools for the vendors. Brilliant yellow-orange leaves crowning each booth gave the illusion that someone walking into the Hall had instead accidentally wandered into a forest realm .

It was truly something to behold, but Lilac felt no joy in its creation. In a dull voice, she told her sister, “You do the booth, Rose. I’d only grow something with thorns and nightshade, anyway.”

That wasn’t entirely true. Lilac had decorated the one she knew Edith would occupy with dozens of lily-of-the-valley stems, knowing they were the faun’s favorite. It was her own way to thank the bookseller for the thoughtful gift. The booth had been beautiful, until Boar had ripped out all the flowers. “They need to be identical, Lilac, you know that,” he’d told her. “No favoritism, remember?”

Her stickler of a brother had helped them with the bulk of the construction before moving outside to decorate the front of the Hall with wreaths and oversized ornaments, plus shock the yews into a more vibrant green. Allen had been his gopher, running everything up from the cellar or down from the attic as necessary. When he wasn’t doing that, he was hustling out to the woodshed for more fuel for the hearth fire. The ziiiip and twang of his trusty multi-tool cutting through tape or severing through twine mingled with the popping of dried pine.

She barely saw either of them—avoided them—and she was glad for it. While she was dead inside, there was still a spark that could rouse into an indignant conflagration if necessary.

She let her sister finish the construction and headed over to the table at the far end of the function hall. It took up nearly the entire width of the room, which truly wasn’t enough space for both Stag Hawthorne’s baked goods and all the kegs and pub grub Sam Barley would be bringing up from the Cat it only reminded her that she could only be trusted with the most mundane tasks. But the refreshment table looked truly spectacular after she was finished: columns upon columns of beautifully decorated cookies, brioche wreaths, sweet buns, miniature coffee cakes in every flavor imaginable, a massive punch bowl of a spiced cranberry-apple concoction, an ice sculpture carved to resemble the same embellished H that marked the front doors. Rose would be the one running it when the Craft Faire opened, Lilac delegated to mingling and giving the villagers the correct (and beautiful) impression of the Hawthornes.

She was putting the finishing touches on the display when something suddenly knocked into her from behind.

Her knee buckled, and she caught the edge of the table for balance. Then she whirled around, preparing to rip into Rose for mucking up her outfit—that and her hair and makeup being the only things going right in her world today—and discovered a little boy instead.

Apparently she’d been so lost in the doldrums of her own self-wallowing that she hadn’t heard the Hall open to the public. The villagers who had rented booths from the Hawthornes flooded inside with the morning light to set up and make ready for the official start of the Craft Faire. The Faire would be opening to the full public in just a few minutes, so the Hall was filled to the second-floor rafters with all the last-minute hustle and bustle.

And playing children, too.

The boy had a cold-nipped nose and wide blue eyes. Straw-colored hair was stuffed under a knit hat; red mittens matching the color of his flushed cheeks covered his hands. He stared up at Lilac with those big blue eyes, his mouth dangling open in fear. A soccer ball currently rolled idly under the refreshment table .

“M-mistress Lilac,” the boy sputtered.

His playmates had already vanished, but she saw their hatted heads peeking out from around the nearby booths. The boy clearly couldn’t think of anything else to say, so frozen in fear he was, so he just gulped. One never disturbed a Hawthorne, especially not ice queen Lilac Hawthorne or her stern matriarch of a grandmother. Only adults were brave enough to do that.

In the face of his fear, Lilac realized she had a choice. She might not have her potions to prove she was worth something, but she did have her true personality.

“Who’s winning?” she asked.

The boy simply gulped again.

Bending, Lilac slipped her leg under the table until her foot found the soccer ball. She rolled it out, keeping it trapped beneath her foot. She and her siblings and cousins were no stranger to sports, though they had been exchanged for combat training when they were ten.

“Who’s winning?” she asked again, as patiently as before. She crossed her arms over her chest in mock sternness. “You don’t get a cookie until you tell me the score.”

“C-cookie?” The boy’s eyes darted to Stag Hawthorne’s legendary confections. Normally you had to pay a pretty penny for those.

Lilac picked up a sack of cookies that resembled wreaths with crushed pistachios for the greenery and diced dried cherries for the holly berries. She dangled it, suppressing a smile as drool appeared in the corner of the little boy’s mouth. “All yours. When I get a score update, that is.”

The boy wiped his nose with the back of his mitten then turned to glance as his friends hiding behind the booths. “Joey and Kev are up by two. Me and Sally are losing. ”

“Sally? That your sister?”

He nodded.

“You let her play?”

“’Course. She’s my sister. She might be little, but she’s real good at body-checking.”

Lilac arched an eyebrow. “I didn’t think body-checking was allowed in soccer.”

The boy grinned, showing a smile with a missing front tooth. “It is how we play it!”

“I see.” Lilac handed him the package of cookies and kicked over the soccer ball with a light tap. “Share those with Sally. I need my team full of energy to win.”

“You’re rooting for us? But Joey and Kev are winning.”

“I have a thing for underdogs. But take that soccer ball outside, okay? I’ll give you all another package of cookies when you’re done playing, but only if you keep that ball outside. Deal?”

“Deal!” He clutched both cookies and ball to his chest, realized he couldn’t hug her with his arms full, so he just rushed forward and leaned against her leg. “Thanks, Mistress Lilac!”

He dashed to join his friends, the other boys and his little sister crowding around to congratulate him on not dying after encountering a Hawthorne. Sally had cookie crumbs sticking to her cheeks as she rushed out of the Hall to finish their game.

The smile on Lilac’s face didn’t last. At the sight of all the booths now full of vendors proudly displaying their wares, and the knowledge that she couldn’t join them, her heart sank back down into her toes.

She was in the middle of contemplating how she was going to disappear upstairs when she caught Boar’s warning side-eye. No Hawthorne was allowed to leave the Faire. And not because they were the family’s representatives, but because of the Rule of Three. If any hinkery arose, their power was stronger when used together.

And she’d truly lost her chance to escape, anyway.

The village’s bachelors had found the jewel of the Hawthorne crown and were flocking her way.

Beyond them, Boar signaled for her to smile.

And so begins a week of smiling hell .