Page 27 of The Witch’s Shifter (Season of the Witch #3)

Aurora

“WELL,” I SAY, STEPPING OUT in front of my family and Harrison and gesturing to Brookside with a flourish, “here it is!”

“Oh my goddess,” Selene whispers, lips parting as her dark blue eyes track across the cottage’s exterior. “It’s just as I remember it.”

She steps forward, her long black cloak dragging softly over the fallen leaves, Harrison padding alongside her. Behind them, my mother stands with her hands clasped before her, lips twisted into a scowl. Wyland stayed at the cottage with Fletcher, so it’s just us Silvermoon women tonight.

The sun is setting, and the golden rays of autumn light strike Brookside, turning its cheerful yellow paint an even warmer shade, like it’s reaching out its arms to wrap travelers in a comforting hug.

I’m still so pleased with the color I chose for the exterior; looking at my mother, though, I imagine she’s probably underwhelmed.

Not that I’m surprised. It seems everything I do displeases Evelyn Silvermoon. Only Selene can ever do right in her eyes.

Selene drifts toward the cottage. When she gets to the veranda—which Alden so graciously repaired this past spring—she reaches out to trail her lithe fingers across the railing.

“I remember sitting on these stairs with Auntie, crying over a boy who’d been mean to me in the village,” Selene says, voice breathy.

Her eyes get a bit glassy in the falling light, and she doesn’t bother wiping her tears away when they streak down her moon-pale cheeks.

Next, she walks around the side of the cottage, and her tears dry when she sees the big garden and chicken coop.

The chickens are staring up at the kitchen window intently, where I see Rowan moving about.

He’s probably preparing their dinner: a mix of cracked corn, wheat berries, barley, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, and green peas.

When he sees us standing outside, he flashes us a bright smile, and it warms something inside me.

Then I’m reminded of Faolan vanishing in Faunwood, and I wonder where he is. When I step into the cottage, will I find him in the parlor before the hearth? Or perhaps lingering in the kitchen? Or has he disappeared into the woods? That last possibility pulls the smile from my face.

I wish there were something I could do to make him feel more comfortable. But perhaps I’m just being selfish, wanting him to meet my family so soon after meeting me . It’s a lot—I understand that—especially for someone not used to being around so many strangers.

Selene squats down, her dress whispering around her, and she holds out a palm toward the three chickens. The hens approach her immediately, no fear or trepidation, as if they know she’s a good person, someone they can trust. Selene giggles as they peck at her palm lightly.

“They’re wonderful,” she says, looking back at me over her shoulder. “I’ve always wanted chickens.”

Behind us, Mother sniffs disdainfully. Selene and I exchange a look but choose to ignore her—it feels familiar, like most of our girlhood.

The kitchen door opens, and Rowan appears atop the stairs, long hair falling loose about his shoulders, the golden stitching in his emerald tunic gleaming in the rapidly fading sunlight.

He is absolutely beautiful, my red-haired knight.

“Ladies,” he says, flashing us a smile. He’s still wearing his polished boots—if my family weren’t here, he’d likely be barefoot right now—and the soles thump lightly on the wood as he descends the stairs and steps into the side yard. “I see you met our girls.”

Selene stands and nods, long silver hair bright in contrast against her dark cloak. “They’re lovely. What are their names?”

Rowan points to each hen individually as he says, “Lucy, Marigold, and Whisper.” Then he holds out the big bowl of chicken feed. “Would you like to feed them?”

Selene appears to swell with delight. “I’d love to!”

Rowan laughs, and he steps closer to Selene, guiding her toward the chicken coop, the hens trotting along behind them.

With them off at the coop, I turn to my mother.

Her gaze is faraway in a manner I’m not used to, and it gives me pause.

Her eyes—deep purple with hints of silver, like the storm clouds she can summon from the sky—sweep across the sunny yellow cottage.

There’s a slight furrow in her brow and a pucker to her lips.

What’s going on in her mind? Is she thinking of my auntie, her elder sister?

Is she regretting the rifts between them, the wounds that were left unhealed?

For as long as I can remember, Mama and Auntie didn’t get along.

There would be arguments and fights, raised voices and cruel words.

I can still recall asking my auntie once when I was still a girl why she and my mother didn’t get along—the concept of not being best friends with one’s sister was as foreign to me as the languages spoken halfway across the world.

We were sitting in her rocking chair before the fire, and I was drawing my fingers through her long silver hair.

The words she said to me have been imprinted upon my heart ever since.

“Sometimes people—even sisters—don’t always get along, despite loving each other deeply.” She cupped my face in her hands and held my gaze. “What’s important is that we’ll always be family, no matter how many differences lie between us.”

Is my mother thinking about those differences now? Wondering if she could’ve handled things in another way?

My auntie’s passing was rather sudden, and we didn’t have much time to emotionally prepare for her departure from this plane.

In the days and weeks that followed her death, Selene and I struggled deeply with her being gone.

But my mother was stoic, straight-faced even as the funeral rites were performed and Auntie’s body was returned to the earth she loved so much in life.

Thinking about it now, I’m filled with a mix of anger and sorrow.

I want to shake my mother and ask why she behaves in this way, why she acts so distant and cold when all we’ve ever wanted is to be wrapped in her embrace, to feel safe and loved and accepted by her.

And maybe that’s all Auntie wanted too, but Mama was never able to give that to her.

As if she can hear my thoughts, my mother turns her face and meets my gaze. The faraway look in her purple eyes shifts into something harder, as if she just closed a window she hadn’t realized had been left open. Why won’t she let me in?

“Would you like to come inside?” I ask.

I’m not sure I’ve ever said this aloud to anyone, except maybe Selene, but my mother terrifies me in a way no one else can.

Maybe it’s because I’ve always sought her approval, her acceptance of me, and when it’s not given, it leaves me feeling crushed, like an absolute failure and disappointment.

The reminder of those feelings—the ones I was running from when I moved to Faunwood—makes my stomach pinch uncomfortably.

I reach down to run a hand over my belly, reminding myself of the beautiful life I’ve carved out here, with Harrison and Alden and Rowan. .. and maybe even Faolan.

My mother nods once. “Yes.”

I lead the way up the stairs and through the side door into the kitchen, and as I step into the house, I’m overcome with the smell of.

.. Is that potato soup? Only now do I realize Alden is stirring a big pot that’s bubbling over the flames in the hearth, and when he looks up, his cheeks are red from the heat.

“Welcome home,” he says. He’s got my apron on, but it’s much too small on him, and the result makes me cover my lips with a hand in an effort not to laugh.

Beside me, my mother arches a brow.

I wouldn’t say she’s ever had much of a sense of humor...

But Auntie did. Goddess, how we used to laugh.

Ignoring my mother’s sharp look, I cross the kitchen and rise onto my toes to press a kiss to Alden’s scruffy beard. He smells like smoke from the fire crackling in the hearth.

“I didn’t know you could—” I start, then spot one of my cookbooks open on the kitchen counter. “Ah, you found my recipes, then.”

Alden gives me a guilty smile. “I hope it’s good, but... I’m better with a hammer than I am a spoon.”

“Well, let’s give it a taste.”

I grab the ladle from Alden’s hand and dip it into the simmering soup.

“It certainly smells good,” I say, then blow gently on the spoonful until it’s stopped steaming.

When it hits my tongue, I’m notably impressed—Alden did a great job following my cookbook.

It’s still missing a little something though.

“It’s delicious,” I say after chewing and swallowing a delightfully chunky potato.

“Just needs a dash of nutmeg and a sprinkle of thyme.”

Alden lets out a breath, looking pleased and relieved. “I think I can do that.” He takes the ladle from my hand, his gaze cutting briefly over my shoulder to my mother. “Why don’t you show your mother the rest of the house?”

What I really want to do is stay right here beside him, using him as an Evelyn Silvermoon shield, but he’s right.

Putting on a smile, I turn to face my mother. “Are you warm?” I ask. “I can take your cloak.”

Mama unclasps the cloak from about her neck and holds it out to me. “Thank you.”

“Sure.” Goddess, we’re unnatural with each other. “Come this way. I’ll show you the rest of the cottage.”

“I have been here before,” she says, her tone a bit sharp, as she follows after me into the foyer.

It’s a small jab but a jab nonetheless, and I feel slightly foolish as I hang her cloak on a wall hook in the foyer.

From the kitchen, Alden calls out, “But you haven’t seen what Aurora has done with the place. You’re sure to be pleased!”

He sounds friendly, lighthearted even. But I know what she said irked him; he’s not one to speak up very often, so the fact he’s doing so now likely means my mother is putting him on edge. He knows how much this cottage means to me.

In response, Mama just clasps her hands in front of her and casts her gaze about.

I show her into the parlor, and my heart sinks when I find the couch empty. This is Faolan’s spot, the place where I can usually find him if he’s not outdoors. If he’s not here, where is he?

“See the old rocking chair?” I point to the wooden chair sitting beside the fire. “That was Auntie’s, the one she used to rock us in when we were little. Remember?”

My mother’s lips are pressing into a firm line now.

“I remember.” Her purple gaze drifts across the parlor, taking everything in: the lovingly worn couch, the drapes hugging the windows, the basket of knitting supplies nestled beside the rocking chair.

When her eyes land on me, I swear the hair on my arms and the back of my neck stands on end.

I left Wysteria for a number of reasons, and one of the reasons is looking right at me.

I’m not sure why she seems to have such disdain for everything involving her sister—the displeasure is written clearly across her face.

And it makes me sad. Though I try not to let that show. My mother would just find it weak.

I clear my throat and gesture toward the foyer. “Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you the baby’s room.” I start in the direction of the staircase. “I’ve not had much time to prepare it yet, but Alden is going to build the cradle, and—”

“I think I’ve seen enough.”

Five simple words, yet they slice right through me, leaving me almost gasping for air.

I’m standing in the foyer now, and Alden peeks his head through the kitchen doorway, his brow furrowed, dark eyes narrow and angry.

That look and the too-small apron are an odd combination.

And it’s so rare to see Alden angry that the look takes me by surprise.

I can only imagine the thoughts going through his head right now.

Thankfully, for the time being at least, he keeps those thoughts to himself. Instead, he whispers, “Are you okay?”

I give him a small quick nod, the movement so subtle I doubt my mother will notice it, even with her keen perception.

Heart fluttering in my chest and my palms now sweating, I turn to face her. “Why? You don’t want to see your grandchild’s room?”

Mama moves her mouth a bit, as if she’s chewing on a few scathing remarks and deciding which one to spit out.

But she doesn’t get the chance. From here, I can hear the kitchen door open, and Rowan’s and Selene’s laughter fills the cottage. They must be done feeding the hens.

With a sigh, I turn and leave my mother standing alone in the parlor. I want to be with my sister, with someone who cares for me, someone who at least tries to understand me. Mama can spend the entire evening alone in here for all I care.

I step into the kitchen doorway and find Selene shedding her black cloak. Harrison is at her feet, gazing up at her with a soft green stare. When Selene sees me, though, the smile falls from her lips. She can read me better than anyone, so my face must betray how upset I am about Mama’s remark.

Selene crosses the kitchen and reaches for my hand. Hers is slightly cool from the outside air. “Is everything all right?”

My mouth quirks up on one side. “Just Mama. You know how she is.”

Selene’s dark blue eyes shift to gaze over my shoulder, and her lips set in a firm line. “Do you want me to speak with her?”

With a quick shake of my head, I say, “No, not now. Let’s just have a nice dinner together. Alden made potato soup.”

Standing behind Selene, Rowan watches me with a wary expression. I’m glad he didn’t hear what my mother said; I believe it would have hurt him as well.

A brief moment passes in which I think Selene might brush past me and go have a word with our mother, but then she sighs, and her shoulders settle. “Very well.” Then her lips turn once more into a smile as she twirls about to face Alden. “Let’s try this soup!”