Page 13 of The Witch’s Spell (Season of the Witch #4)

Aurora

“IT HAS SOMETHING TO DO with him ,” Faolan growls, blue eyes pinned on Thorne.

I glance at Thorne. He’s standing in the trees with us, leaning on his cane. In the daylight, his white hair shimmers, not so unlike the ice and snow piled around us. But his silver eyes burn.

“I had nothing to do with this,” he retorts firmly.

Not for the first time, I’m impressed by how fearless he appears despite Faolan’s snarl. I know he saw Faolan and Cathal transform earlier today, but he seems to have no apprehension around them, even knowing they’re wolf shifters.

Add it to the list of things that seem just slightly different about him.

“What makes you think he’s responsible?” Alden asks. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, brow furrowed as he looks from Faolan to the dense fog drifting through the trees.

“It smells like him,” Cathal says matter-of-factly .

We all turn to look at him. He’s standing a short distance from us, Orla at his side. I know he and Faolan are twins, but I still find their mirrored appearances uncanny. If not for Cathal’s short hair, it would be a challenge to tell them apart.

Unless they’re shirtless. Then Faolan’s scars are on full display, and it’s impossible to forget what Cathal did to him.

A bit of heat flares to life in my belly, and I tear my eyes away from Cathal as anger crawls up my spine.

Now Thorne looks a bit different. His eyes are still narrowed, mouth pressed into a firm line, but there seems to be a hint of curiosity in his stare.

“Well?” Faolan growls. “Care to explain?”

Thorne shrugs one shoulder. “I can’t. Like I said, I had nothing to do with this. I was caught in the storm and needed a place to stay. I know nothing else.”

Faolan’s fingers curl into fists. Through our bond, his frustration burns.

I’m about to try to distract him, to pull him away lest he try to attack Thorne, but Alden interrupts.

“What do you think, Aurora?”

I blink and look up at him, realizing for the first time that I haven’t said a single word since Faolan guided us into the woods and pointed out the strange fog.

“Well...” Everyone stares at me as I tip my head and regard the fog. “It’s obviously not natural. But if it’s of a magical origin...”

If it’s of a magical origin, how will we do away with it?

I sigh. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen something like this before. ”

Stepping forward, I reach for the fog. Faolan and Alden tense behind me, and Thorne watches closely as I reach out a hand and trail it through the mist. It’s cold, much colder than the winter air surrounding us, and there’s an energy to it, like a soft vibration.

Magic indeed.

Seated on a boulder near me, Harrison cants his head and says, “I believe Rowan is home. Perhaps he knows more.”

Again, everyone looks at me, waiting for the translation.

“Rowan’s back. Let’s ask him about it.”

We all trek back out of the trees, and though his cane slows him down some, Thorne keeps pace with us.

Given how deep the snow is where Alden and Faolan have not yet had a chance to shovel, I believe it would be exceedingly difficult for Thorne to make it all the way to Faunwood.

Later, I’ll invite him to stay a few more days, at least until the snow is gone.

As for Cathal and Orla . . .

My eyes flick to Faolan, who’s walking at the front of our group, shoulders bunched with tension.

If he wants them gone, I’ll ask them to go stay at the Golden Lantern.

They’d be able to traverse the deep snow with much less trouble.

But they’ll need eldertokens for that, and I don’t believe they brought any currency—or anything —with them.

What a conundrum this has become.

When we step out of the trees and round the front of the cottage, Rowan is standing on the porch, looking for us. He sees us and immediately heads in our direction. Faolan launches right in before Rowan can get a word out .

“What do you know about this?” he asks, voice rough. He points toward the trees, other hand still balled into a fist.

Rowan looks just as confused as the rest of us. “I don’t know. But Faunwood is surrounded. I checked the entire perimeter. There’s no way in or out.”

No way in or out . . .

With a jolt, I realize what this means.

If no one can leave or enter Faunwood, we’re all stuck here. And if this is still around come Yule, the Highcliffs won’t be able to visit. No one will.

My stomach twists into a knot. I’ve not had morning sickness in some time, but right now, I’m feeling a touch nauseated.

“The villagers are in a panic,” Rowan continues.

“What of Lydia and James?” Alden asks from behind me.

“They’re fine. James helped me check the village boundaries today while Lydia tried to comfort the others.”

“And what about Niamh?” I ask, voice quiet. As our oracle, she may have more information. Perhaps she’ll know how to do away with the fog.

Rowan shakes his head. “She’s not here. She left for Wysteria a few days ago, and she’s yet to return.”

Without Niamh here . . .

I swallow hard.

Am I the only person left in Faunwood who has any understanding of magic? And even then, my knowledge of the other magics—anything apart from earth magic—is shaky at best. I wasn’t exactly a star student at Coven Crest Academy .

I’d hoped Niamh would help us solve this, but without her here...

I might actually be sick.

“I need to sit down,” I say. Alden, Rowan, and Faolan all make to step forward, but I hold up a hand. “I’m okay, really. Just feeling winded.”

The others follow me into the cottage, and I take a seat in the rocking chair next to the softly burning fire.

Harrison jumps into my lap, his paws cold from being outside.

Alden pours me a cup of tea and brings it to me on a baby-blue saucer while the others hover around in the parlor, expressions ranging from curious to angry—the latter being Faolan, of course.

He’s been so prickly since Cathal showed up.

It reminds me slightly of his behavior toward Rowan in those early weeks of knowing him.

Cathal and Orla sink onto the couch, Cathal’s arm around Orla’s shoulders.

Faolan crosses his arms, looking grumpy, while Alden pours another cup of tea and Rowan paces in front of the hearth.

Thorne hangs back, lurking in the doorway, leaning against the frame.

When I look at him, his silver eyes flick to mine, looking equal parts intrigued and troubled.

I don’t blame him. He’s stuck here now, in a house so full of people we’re nearly spilling out the windows. I offer him a small smile, but he doesn’t offer one in return, instead moving his gaze from me to the fire.

“So, what do we do?” Faolan asks.

Rowan continues pacing, one hand stroking his clean-shaven chin. As one of the king’s knights, he’s seen his fair share of combat and oddities, but even so, he doesn’t respond to Faolan’s question, doesn’t even seem to know where to begin.

We all look around at one another, probably hoping someone else will come up with an answer so we won’t have to.

It’s Alden who finally slips past Thorne and steps into the parlor, announcing, “What if we try to burn it away? Heat should disperse the moisture, right? We could take up torches, light bonfires...” Trailing off, he shrugs. “Might be worth a shot.”

“Fire,” Rowan murmurs, slowing his pacing as a hopeful look overtakes the one of concern. “That might just work. How much firewood do we have?”

Faolan and Alden share a look, and Alden reaches up to scratch his beard as he says, “We got the woodshed almost full.”

“Good. Let’s give it a try. Cathal, Orla,” Rowan says, turning to regard them. “You start a wood pile on the north side of the cottage. Alden and Faolan, you take the south. I’ll take the west.”

Oddly, there’s no fog to the east, which is the direction of Faunwood. It’s as if the fog has a mind of its own, or is at least aware enough to have enclosed Faunwood while not cutting us off from the village.

Small blessings, I suppose.

Rowan stands straighter, and I see the years of training he went through, the brave leader who lurks just beneath his armor, the man he is when he’s not feeding the hens or licking blackberry cobbler from his fingers.

How could his parents have let so many years go by without reconnecting with him?

It’s a terrible shame they don’t know the man he grew into.

And how unfortunate it’ll be if they don’t get a chance to join us for Yule, all because of this fog.

“All right, let’s go,” Rowan says, trying to rouse everyone and usher them toward the door. “We’ve got fog to clear.”