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CHAPTER TWO

PRESENT DAY.

Flour coated every surface in the Hawthorne Manor kitchen like a fine layer of snow. It had even managed to find its way on the bundles of herbs drying from their pegs in the rafters. Spilled granulated sugar lent an icy wonderland effect, and through it all, Lilac’s father rampaged like an abominable snowman with his furry butt on fire.

She sat on a bar stool on the opposite side of the island, where it was safe, and supervised the enchanted dandelions decorating an entire supermarket’s worth of sugar cookies. Lilac wasn’t allowed to touch them until the royal icing had dried, and then only to package them in cellophane and twine. Despite being a full-grown woman, she was to sit there like a pretty little doll on a shelf that was never played with until instructed otherwise. So she waited, keeping one eye on her frazzled father and the other on the dandelion helpers and feeling next to useless. It was a persistent emotion.

Stag Hawthorne was the baker of the family, but this was his wife’s kitchen, and if Mom had been around to see the mess he was trekking everywhere, she’d string him up outside on the garden trellis with the pole beans. But she wasn’t—she and the rest of the Circle of Nine, the robed elders of the Hawthorne coven, were halfway across the country and handling the issue of a runaway witch.

Meadow.

Lilac’s cousin, the brightest of their generation, the Hawthorne matriarch’s protégé. The very witch who had stolen their grimoire for some reason the older witches wouldn’t explain and leaving them open for an attack. But no one outside the manor knew that, nor would they ever know. Which was exactly why Dad was using up all the flour, sugar, butter, and eggs—he’d sent his bodybuilder of a son Boar outside to the coop to intimidate the hens to lay more—to bake all the sweets needed for the Yuletide Gala. The Hawthornes hosted the week-long celebration every year in the village at Hawthorne Hall, and they weren’t going to break a century-old tradition over a stolen spell book.

The show, and the lie that nothing was amiss, had to go on.

“How’s Rose doing with the wagon?” Dad asked for what had to the be the tenth time.

Her outdoorsy sister had prepped the wagon over an hour ago but had wisely not returned to the baking maelstrom inside. Always never around when there’s work to be done , Lilac mused. No doubt Rose was frolicking about in the snow like a husky without a care in the world. “We’re just waiting for the cookies, Dad.”

Her ivy-green eyes slid to the wooden crates stacked on the floor at the end of the island, each waiting to be packed with Stag Hawthorne’s baked delights. Except the bottom one. That one was an extra crate she’d hidden in plain sight just that morning. It was stuffed with potions, creams, and homemade goat-milk soap, all shrouded from sight in gingham. She’d left enough room to cover the bottles and bars with a layer of baked goods to prevent suspicion before smuggling it onto the wagon with all the other supplies.

Her father glanced at the clock on the wall and swore. With a flurry of practiced movements, he finished braiding a brioche dough into a wreath, jammed a motley assortment of spiced dried fruits into the plait, slathered it all with egg wash, and slid the tray onto the hearth stones of the kitchen fire. It would only take minutes to cook in a hearth witch’s fire.

Then, with a wave of his hand, he dismissed the dandelion helpers. The enchanted plants bolted, hauling their icing bags and jars of sprinkles with the same frenzy as if they’d just robbed a bank. Lilac knew what was coming—her father was a weather witch who had married into the Hawthorne family—and slapped her hands down on anything she didn’t want blown away. A second later, her father summoned a wind to blast the iced cookies completely dry. Lilac got to work, her slender fingers slipping six sugar-cookie masterpieces into each bag and tying it closed with a pretty bow of twine.

“Don’t cut yourself with the scissors,” he reminded her as she snipped the twine free of the spool.

What was she, eight again and not twenty-eight?

He didn’t notice her left eye twitching with irritation as he bustled around the island to the back door. Her eye continued to twitch as he hollered for her adult siblings to come in from outside and help her.

“No,” she protested immediately, packaging frantically. “I’ve got this.”

Boar would notice the heavier crate the second he picked it up, and Rose was nosier than a bloodhound. None of them could know she was smuggling her own products down to the village until it was too late for them to turn back. This was her chance to prove not only to her family, but to the outside world, that she was more than Peony Hawthorne’s pretty daughter. That she was just as clever at potion-making as her mother. That she had worth .

“I can do this, Dad,” she insisted.

“We’ve got to stay on schedule, honey,” her father replied, shaking his head. “Can’t give the villagers any more feed for the rumor mill than we already have.” Then he turned to his other offspring, the two of them laughing like teenagers and traipsing snow into the kitchen. They sobered immediately when he barred them further entry. Rose wiped her red nose on her sleeve and Boar stood up straight. “You two wildlings better wash your hands before you even think of touching anything in this kitchen. Boar, where are those eggs? Rose, I don’t see the goats hitched to the wagon.”

“Like I’m gonna make them wait in the snow?” Rose replied, inching past him to the washroom. Their father let his youngest’s snark pass without comment as he always did.

“Sorry, sir,” Boar said. “It’s December, they don’t lay much—”

“Did you try the Feathered Fertility Spell to encourage those with eggs to lay?”

Her brother’s brown eyebrows winged up into his knit hat. Their mother had always insisted they let certain natural occurrences take their proper courses, such has hens laying and bees’ honey production. Apparently with her gone and their father under a baking deadline, these rules were allowed to bend. “I-I didn’t think of that, sir.”

Dad tsked and turned back to his kitchen with a disappointed huff, letting Boar shuffle off after Rose to wash his hands. Lilac hurried to finish the packaging as Dad removed his brioche braid from the hearth fire. Another wind cooled it completely, then he was hollering for the rest of Lilac’s siblings to come and help her already.

It was always like that—someone help Lilac. Someone get that book down for her. Someone open that peanut butter jar. Someone lift that bag of compost. In a manor where forty-something relatives all lived under one roof, there was always someone to do something for her. As if she didn’t participate in the same rigorous physical training and magical education everyone else did around here.

Not even her own siblings were immune to it. Instead of begrudging her for the preferential treatment she received because she was “the pretty one,” they treated her just like everyone else did. Like she was made of glass.

It was Grandmother’s fault, putting her on a display pedestal like this, using her for her looks instead of her talents, and everyone toed the line where the Hawthorne matriarch led. They had no idea the strain it put on her—how she could never eat until she felt fully sated, how she always had to run the extra mile to remain leaner than her curvier female relatives, how she was expected to behave like a demure Southern belle. When she was younger and na?ve, of course she’d enjoyed the pampering and the attention, but as a woman, she found it infuriating.

“I got this, Li,” Rose said, shouldering her out of the way. She shuttled packaged cookies and sweet breads into the wooden crates, the full ones immediately being hauled off by their brother outside to the wagon. “Wouldn’t want you to chip a nail.”

It was said in Rose’s customary jesting way, but with Lilac’s teeth already on edge from fear of discovery, she couldn’t brush the remark aside. Not this time. Yet she couldn’t snap, couldn’t break the serene facade that hid the woman inside just screaming to be seen for what she was instead of what she looked like. She had to stay cool so they wouldn’t suspect.

Lilac plucked the packaged brioche wreath from her father’s stunned hands, plopped it down on the gingham cloth covering her smuggled potions, and said in a forced singsong, “And I’ve got this one!” She hoisted the heavy crate up against her stomach and hustled out of the kitchen before anyone could stop her, nearly colliding into her brother on his way back in. “One side, meathead!”

Boar sputtered and twisted to one side to let his sister pass. Lilac shoved the crate onto the wagon with all the other supplies they were carting in for the Yuletide Gala, hoping no one heard the rattling of little glass vials. She risked a peek—none were broken—then rolled the heavy canvas cover down to protect it all from the snow. With brisk steps, she hurried off to where the pack goats were tethered and grabbed the horn of the nearest one. The manor didn’t keep horses, mainly because they couldn’t be milked, but these wether goats were tough and suited for their task.

“C’mon, sweetie,” she said, enticing him forward with a palmful of grain. The goat eagerly followed after the treat.

“Let me do that,” Boar said.

“Why?” In her frazzled, anxious state, the snappish question had slipped from her before she could tighten her lips down around her tongue.

He didn’t provide a reason, just gave her a scrutinizing frown and curled his hand around the goat’s other horn. Of course, she knew why . He was the strong one, Rose was the wild child, and she was the pretty-pretty princess. They each had their roles.

“Of course,” she relented immediately, lowering her eyes. “How silly of me.”

Releasing the goat, Lilac spun on her heel and hoisted herself onto the box seat, settling her little drawstring purse on her lap and wrapping her wool cloak tightly around her shoulders. All she wanted to do was hunch over and glare out from under her hood like a surly troll, but someone was destined to pester her about her posture and then notice the tic in her left eye and release a barrage of questions until —

Lilac released that train of thought before she could spiral and just sat up straight, drumming hers fingers against her knees. She checked that her satin purse hadn’t moved from its perch on her lap; it had a boundless rune sewn into it, enabling her to carry a dozen spare potions bottles, vials of common ingredients, and her entire life’s savings without the little satin purse appearing larger than a vintage reticule or weighing more than an orange. None of her family was the wiser to the rune and what her little purse held, which was exactly the point. It was her Plan B if the Gala failed.

But it won’t. It mustn’t.

“That’s the last of them,” Rose said, securing the tailgate. “Don’t worry, Li, I didn’t touch your trunk. The Green Mother forbid your clothes get wrinkled.” Rose sprang into the vacant spot beside Lilac, jostling her older sister good-naturedly.

If your job depended on your appearance, you’d care too , were the words she didn’t say. Instead, she replied, “You should put your hood up.” There was a wind coming down from the mountains that would soon pepper icy snowflakes against any exposed skin like throwing stars.

“Why? Don’t need to protect my curls like you do.” Rose laughed easily, and Lilac bunched her hands into fists under her cloak so she wouldn’t shove snow down her sister’s throat.

“And that’s the goats,” Boar announced, taking the last seat on the opposite side of Lilac.

Yay, sibling sandwich.

She inhaled, fighting for calm, and wished that instead of fiddling with his gloves, Boar would just flick the reins and tell the goats to make haste to the village. The longer they tarried, the greater the risk Dad would think of “one last thing” and play Tetris with all the crates, trunks, and bags back there and discover her secret .

“It’s cold out here,” Lilac prompted, forcing a lightness into her tone she didn’t feel. “Can we just get going?”

Rose snorted. “What’s the hurry? It’s amazing out here.” She gave Lilac a light jab to the ribs with her elbow. “And it’s not like there are any boys on the road in this weather you gotta primp for, Li.” She leaned across her sister to snicker at Boar, “She doesn’t want her nose to run and ruin her makeup.”

“Because snot-nosed mountain woman with rat’s nests in their hair are so attractive,” she couldn’t help firing back, finally at the end of her rope.

Rose flung her head back with a laugh, not offended in the least. Boar nudged Lilac’s shoulder, mouthing, Good one.

His approval did nothing to assuage her temper. She only let it manifest as that tic in her left eye, the rest of her as serene as always. Despite what her family thought, Lilac didn’t care one whit if there were any boys on the road or in the entire village for that matter. They were needy and self-serving and only sought her attention to stroke their own egos and brag to their friends. She had no time for their games, only for her securing her future.

“Girls,” Dad said sharply. “Boar.”

The three became rigid, straight-backed statues. Their father came around to the front of the wagon in just his flour-coated apron and no coat, his bare arms noticeably unmarked by goose flesh. That was weather magic for you.

“Obey the Rule of Three,” he instructed them. “You three are siblings—your magic is strongest when you use it together in symphony. You will watch each other’s backs at the village. It has been under the care of the Hawthornes for generations, but with the coven gone, some might seek to take advantage. You will not allow this. You will take the fealty oaths, accept the tithes, and host a Yuletide Gala as if the entire coven were running it, not three uninitiated witches. Hawthornes are strong, always. ”

The trio of siblings nodded solemnly.

“Boar”—their father turned to his only son—“you are the eldest, so above all, you are responsible for upholding this family’s name and protecting your sisters. Think with your head, not your muscles. Understood?”

Boar tensed beside Lilac as if he had been slapped, then she heard him grind his teeth before he nodded once.

“Rose, keep your antics and impulsiveness to a minimum. And no palm readings or astrology charts. You’re a Hawthorne, not a hack.”

“Aw,” Rose whined, only partly for show. She’d always gravitated towards the celestial magics, the ones guided by stars and fate.

“Lilac.” Her father’s voice turned soft. Maybe it was affection, maybe he thought the harsher tone he was using on her siblings would somehow break her. Whatever the reason, it had Lilac straining forward in her seat like a crocus after the first rays of spring. “Just be yourself.” “Show them what you can do.” Those were the words she was most desperate to hear, or any variant thereof.

“Smile, Lilac,” he told her, his own lips quirking up. “Pretty girls shouldn’t frown.”

The hope in her died. Smile, Lilac . That was Grandmother’s code, her command, when it was time for Lilac to make her family proud .

Not this time.

At least, not in the way her family expected her to. No, she suspected they would all be shocked to discover she had talents and worth and more to offer this family than her feminine wiles. And if they didn’t accept that . . .. Well, if Meadow could run away and forge a new life elsewhere, then so could she.