Page 16 of The Witch’s Shifter (Season of the Witch #3)

Alden

“DON’T HAVE A WINDOW OF that size, I’m afraid.” The glassmaker shakes his head, then pushes his spectacles higher up on the bridge of his nose.

“It’s a common size.” I try not to let my irritation seep through my tone. “You’re sure?”

The glassmaker nods once, and his spectacles go sliding right back down. “Quite. Though we can make one custom. It’ll not be ready until tomorrow though.”

I’m standing in the glass shop, surrounded by glass of all shapes, colors, and sizes. I woke this morning to a clear autumn sky, and even now, sunlight streams through the windows, setting the shop ablaze with rainbows of color.

Hands propped on the front counter, I drop my head and let out a sigh. Seems I’ll be staying in Wysteria an extra day.

“Very well. Can you have it ready in the morning?”

“We’ll do our best.”

The man jots the dimensions of the pane I’ll need down in a leather journal, then turns away from me to help another customer.

I leave the shop and am very careful not to let the door slam on my way out; the last thing I need is a bunch of those blown-glass statuettes falling off the shelves and getting tagged onto my final bill.

Out on the street, it’s a different world from the one I’m used to back in Faunwood.

With the storm having passed and the sun shining down from the pale sky, the city is alive and bustling.

All around me, the buildings are painted pastel shades of pink, yellow, and blue, and autumn flowers explode from window boxes and big planters lining the wide cobbled walkways.

As I set off down the street, unsure where I’m going and how I’ll spend my day, I admire the beautiful aspen trees growing along the roads and sidewalks, ablaze with red and orange and yellow. Carriages roll past, dry leaves crunching beneath their wheels.

I walk slowly, meandering past shops, aromatic bakeries, and pubs. It seems you can buy anything here, from maps to crystals to tinctures and teas. If Aurora were here with me, I imagine her eyes would be wide and bright with wonder. She’d probably want to stop in each and every shop.

One shop in particular catches my eye, and I double back to gaze into the big display window, where baskets overflowing with colorful fabrics and yarns tempt shoppers to come inside.

Aurora has been knitting a lot lately; she can usually be found in the parlor after dinner, slowly gliding back and forth in the rocking chair, Harrison in her lap, the fire crackling softly beside her as her knitting needles clink together pleasantly. Perhaps she could use some new yarn.

The shop door opens with the chime of a bell, and I’m greeted by an overwhelming selection. Shelves stuffed full of fabrics, threads, and yarns line the bright blue walls, and a chunky woven rug covers the hardwood floor underfoot.

A few ladies are perusing the many options, and they glance over their shoulders at me and smile. In response, I cast my gaze away and clear my throat. Where do I even begin?

“Hello, dear,” says a small voice. When I glance to my left, I find a tiny old lady arranging spools of thread on a display. She’s so small, I didn’t even notice her there when I came inside. “Can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I say.

This earns me a few giggles from the other shoppers.

After she finishes stocking the thread, the shopkeeper shuffles over to me, her silver hair glistening in the light streaming through the windows on either side of the door. “What are you looking for?”

I explain what Aurora has been knitting lately: gloves, scarves, winter hats, and teeny-tiny socks for the baby, so small they don’t even fit my thumbs.

Will a baby really be that small? I’ve never been around children—at least, not up close. There are kids in the village, but I don’t know the first thing about babies.

“This way, then.”

She guides me to a wall of yarn, and I’m quite certain there are some colors on display that I’ve never seen before. Some shimmer with iridescence, and others are dark and soft, like you could step through a portal into another world if only you wrapped the fabric about your shoulders.

“If you need anything else, just call.” The woman pats my forearm, then is gone, off to restock more shelves.

My gaze drifts back to the skeins of yarn, and I’m still feeling completely overwhelmed a few minutes later when the door chimes behind me and another shopper steps in.

Reaching out, I lift one ball of yarn from a wicker basket, but I find it feels rough on my fingers—no good for a baby’s soft feet, or even my hands, to be honest. Much too itchy.

Back into the wicker basket it goes. This time I select a dark green color that reminds me of the trees around Brookside in the summer.

The yarn has a much softer texture, a gentle, plush quality that makes me want to run my fingers over it again and again.

I imagine Aurora sitting by the fire, knitting needles clicking as she—

“Alden? Is that you?”

My fingers still on the yarn, but I don’t yet look up. A tightness sweeps over my chest.

I know that voice. I’ve heard it in times of sadness and of joy, in moments of intense conflict and of passionate lovemaking.

Almost reluctantly, I lift my head, and there she is.

Belinda.

She’s beautiful, but that’s no surprise—she was the belle of our little village, the most eligible miss before I scooped her up all those summers ago.

Her skin, a warm shade of copper brown, glows in the autumn sunlight, and her dark brown hair falls in gentle waves around her face.

Her sharp edges have filled out in the time we’ve been apart, and she looks softer now than she did when we were younger. Age suits her, it seems.

“I thought that looked like you.” She shifts, and I notice the child at her feet.

The little girl must be about two years old now, given Belinda was pregnant when last I saw her at Yule a couple years back.

She’s got honey-colored eyes, just like her mother, but her hair is a lighter shade, streaked through with strands of rich gold—a gift from her fair-haired father.

Quickly, I glance out the shop door in search of Belinda’s husband, but I don’t spot him.

“Alden?”

I steal my gaze away from the bustling street and meet her eyes once more. “Hi.”

She arches a brow at me, a smile pulling at her lips. “ Hi? Really?”

On the ride here, I did consider that there was a possibility I might see Belinda, but Wysteria is such a populous city, I thought it a very slim chance.

And therefore didn’t prepare myself.

“What are you doing here?” she asks. The girl tugs on her long skirt, and she stoops to pick her up, propping her on her hip.

“Needed glass. A new windowpane.”

“Oh.” Belinda glances about. “It seems you’re in the wrong shop.”

“Well, no, I—”

Her lips curl into a smile at my expense, and I let out a sigh.

“They’re making my glass custom. Thought I’d do some shopping in the meantime.”

“I see. And you’ve taken up knitting?” Her tone is playful. It reminds me of how much she liked to banter.

“No.” I glance down at the dark green yarn in my hand, then back up. “It’s not for me.”

At this, a slight change comes over Belinda’s face.

If it were any other woman, I’d probably not have noticed, but there was a time when we were in love, when she was destined to be my wife.

I know her facial expressions, the small tells in the way she furrows her brow or tosses her hair.

And for some reason, what I said makes her smile flicker.

“A lady, then?” Her honey eyes avert from mine, though her daughter keeps staring.

I’ve always found that unsettling, the way children stare, unblinking, even when you wish they wouldn’t. Finally, I’m the one to look away.

“Yeah.” I squeeze the yarn in my hand, having made my decision. This one will be perfect. “Her name’s Aurora.”

Belinda skims her fingers over the different bundles of yarn, still not looking at me. “Aurora? That doesn’t sound familiar. Is she new in town?”

“Kind of. She’s Lilith’s niece.”

“The old witch?”

“Mm-hmm. Inherited that cottage of hers.” Now that I’m speaking of Aurora, words are coming easier to me. “She likes to knit. Thought I’d pick something up for her.”

“Well, that’s... thoughtful.” Finally, Belinda meets my eyes again, but I’m confused by what I see there. She looks almost, well, sad. Or what I remember her sadness looking like. But it’s been years.

“Ah, Mrs. Devereux, I thought I heard your voice.” The shopkeeper holds her arms out, and Belinda stoops to give her a hug. “And little Sophie as well, I see.” The old lady runs her fingers over Belinda’s daughter’s cheek, and the young girl giggles and kicks her feet. “Is Mr. Devereux here?”

Belinda angles her body slightly away from me, and I get the hint. Taking a few steps away, I begin perusing a selection of fabrics, and I’m looking at a particularly pink bolt when Belinda reappears at my side.

“Sorry, I’m trying to run a few errands,” she says, then lets out a huff as the little girl, Sophie, wriggles to get down.

After setting the child on her feet, Belinda pushes her hair back over her shoulder and meets my eyes.

“Will you be in town tonight? We could get dinner. I know a great little place. You still like potato soup, right?”

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that she still remembers such a minute detail. It’s like I expected her to forget all about me as soon as her wagon rolled out of Faunwood and down Wysteria Way.

“Oh, uh, yeah. I’ll be here until tomorrow.”

“Great. The restaurant is right across from the statue in town square—Boar and Badger. You can’t miss it. Meet me there just after sundown? My treat.”

The shopkeeper returns and hands Belinda a bag full of yarn and fabric. Belinda thanks her, then grabs Sophie’s hand.

“So, I’ll see you tonight?” She looks at me with her big honey eyes and hopeful smile, and I know I can’t say no. Besides, I’m a bit curious. After all this time, she wants to have dinner? Why?

“Sure. I look forward to it.”

“Great.” Her smile grows. “See you tonight, then.”

Belinda and Sophie leave the shop, and I watch them through the front windows as they head down the cobbled street only to be swallowed up by a crowd of shoppers.

“Have you decided on a color?” the shopkeeper asks from behind me, calling my attention back.

“I think so.” I hold up the dark green skein. “I’ll take this one, please.”

After purchasing the yarn, I step back out onto the street, but Belinda has completely vanished. Sighing, I turn around and make my way back toward the Dancing Kettle, wondering all the while what she could possibly want to say to me over dinner.