Page 17 of The Witch’s Spell (Season of the Witch #4)

Rowan

THE INK ON THE PAGE in front of me swims in my tired vision, and I try to suppress a yawn. We’ve been reading by firelight for hours, and I think Aurora must’ve brewed at least four batches of tea. But so far, none of Lilith’s spellbooks have mentioned anything related to magical fog.

I reach for another blackberry cookie only to find the platter empty. When I glance up, I discover Alden has snagged the last one. He catches me looking and waggles it in the air. I narrow my eyes.

In the rocking chair, Aurora closes the book she’s been reading with a gentle thump and sets it on the low table. Her hand goes to her head, and she massages her temple. There are dark circles beneath her eyes. It’s clear she’s stressed and exhausted.

I mark my page with a strand of ribbon, push up off the floor, and reach a hand out for Aurora. “Time for you to get some sleep. ”

Her brow furrows. “I’m fine. And I should really keep work—”

In her lap, Harrison lets out a sharp meow, cutting her off. The crease in her brow only deepens. He meows again. Hopefully he’s telling her to go to bed. And hopefully she’ll listen to him.

She lets out a conceding sigh. “All right. Bedtime.”

Harrison hops down. As he trots past Faolan, who’s sprawled out on the floor in front of the fire, he flicks the shifter in the face with his silky tail, making Faolan jolt awake.

“Damn cat,” he grumbles sleepily.

And I’m pretty sure Harrison smiles before padding up the stairs.

Aurora puts her hand in mine, and I help her to her feet.

It’s my night to sleep with her—finally.

I want to be beside her every night, to keep her wrapped in my arms until the sun kisses the sky, but I have to share her with the others.

And somehow, we’ve developed an arrangement that works, at least for now.

Though I don’t know how things will change once the baby arrives, which is only a couple months away.

My gaze goes to Aurora’s belly, swollen beautifully beneath her woolen dress. Suddenly, her eyes widen, and she snatches my hand before I know what’s happening. Placing it to her stomach, she says, “Do you feel that?”

I hold my breath. Alden, Thorne, and Faolan watch with interest.

And under my hand, I feel a pulse, a flutter beneath Aurora’s skin. Then it happens again, harder this time .

I flick my gaze to Aurora’s. “Was that . . . ?”

Her smile is sleepy and peaceful. “The baby.”

There’s a sudden rushing in my ears. My son or daughter is in there, wrapped in the safety of Aurora’s belly, biding their time before entering our world.

Suddenly, I feel like I might cry.

But all the others are watching me, so I clear my throat and blink the moisture from my eyes. I think Aurora sees, because she lifts a hand to my cheek, her smile softening.

“I want to feel it,” Faolan says.

“Me too,” Alden announces.

I move aside, and they take turns putting their hands on Aurora’s belly.

As I stand back, Thorne catches my eye. His silver eyes are both curious and calculating as he observes me and the others, still gathered around Aurora.

Then a look of comprehension crosses his face.

Perhaps he just figured out that I’m the father.

I’ve barely spoken with Thorne, except to exchange niceties. He’s so quiet it’s almost easy to forget he’s in the room. But those gleaming eyes of his are always watching.

Faolan thinks he’s keeping secrets from us, and though I typically don’t agree with much that Faolan says, I’m inclined to side with him on this front.

There’s something... other about Thorne, a strangeness he’s yet to explain.

If not for the storm and now the magical fog, I’d probably have tried to drag the truth out of him, but my focus can only be split in so many directions at once.

And right now, the only thing I want to focus on is climbing into bed with Aurora .

She yawns, and I take that as my cue to shoo the other two away and usher Aurora toward the bedroom.

“Good night,” she tells them.

There’s a chorus of “good nights” in return. Then I guide her through the doorway, hand on her low back, and close the door behind us.

As we lie in bed watching the fire dance in the hearth, Aurora’s head on my chest, she asks, “What are we going to do?”

I don’t need her to clarify that she’s talking about the fog.

Though no one has yet said it, I’ve been thinking about the potential long-term effects should this magical mist choose to hang around.

If we can’t leave—and no one else can enter—we could quickly find ourselves in a bad position.

It’s early winter, and though all the villagers prepare stores for the cold months, they, we , rely on traveling merchants as well.

Completely cut off from the other small villages and from Wysteria itself could potentially be dangerous.

And what of the birth? I know some women in Faunwood have experience in midwifery, but I wanted Niamh here as well, just in case. But now she’s trapped on the other side of the veil, unable to return.

The arm I have draped around Aurora’s shoulders tightens, tugging her more firmly against my chest.

“I don’t know yet,” I say truthfully. “But I intend to figure it out.”

Aurora wiggles herself up under my chin. My lips press a kiss to the top of her head, and I notice the scent of pine and woodsmoke still clinging to her hair.

“Everything will be fine,” I tell her, but I think I’m trying to soothe myself as well. “There’s nothing else we can do about it tonight, and tomorrow is a new day. For now, sleep.”

“Okay,” she whispers, voice barely audible over the crackling of the fire, which keeps the room warm, warding off the chill as the wind taps against the window.

It doesn’t take long for Aurora’s breathing to deepen, and she softens against me.

Slowly, as gently as I can, I slide my arm out from under her.

Thankfully, she doesn’t awaken as I move her to her own pillow.

I can tell she was exhausted; her mouth is hanging open, and she’s already snoring, a sure sign she needed sleep, badly .

I wiggle down under the blankets beside her, watching her sleep, thinking of our child still growing inside her, wondering and worrying about the future.

It seems like the bigger her stomach gets, the more tension I feel gathering along my shoulders and the base of my neck and the more pressure I feel on my chest when trying to fall asleep without her beside me.

But for now, for tonight, she is here, the fire is warm, and we have all that we need.

And that thought is what I repeat in my head until I finally fall asleep.

I’m standing in a meadow. My vision is a bit blurry and twinkly around the edges, like I’ve just awoken and haven’t quite gotten my bearings. The air is warm and smells of honeysuckle, and when I tip my head back, a summer breeze caresses my face.

Ethereal laughter whispers in my ear, and I turn, looking for the source of the sound. Instead, what I find is Aurora, standing in what I now realize is the fairy meadow in the woods behind Brookside.

And at her feet is a small red-haired child.

My child.

Aurora beckons for me to come closer. Her cheeks are pink from the heat in the air, and her hair hangs loose about her shoulders, strands drifting in the breeze like petals floating gently across a peaceful pond.

I walk to her. Beneath me, the grass is soft and a bit spongy. I realize I’m not wearing any shoes, and my trousers are rolled up to the ankles. My tunic is light and airy, the sun beaming down on my skin.

Aurora says something to the child, though I can’t hear what. It seems they’re playing with flowers and long pieces of grass, perhaps trying to twist them into something resembling a braid. Still, the child doesn’t turn around. They wear a long cotton tunic, and their hair kisses the collar.

I still can’t tell if I’ve a son or daughter.

“Rowan,” Aurora says. Her voice has a shimmering quality, like a windchime of crystals tinkling together in a sunlit window. “You’re here.”

I want to tell her that of course I’m here, I don’t want to be anywhere except where she and my child are. But no sound comes out .

And then the ground beneath my bare feet rumbles. Somehow, I know it’s about to split open, to swallow them whole.

Like the ice.

I try to reach for them, to grab them both and carry them to safety. But I can’t move.

When I look down, my feet are stuck in mud, and no matter how hard I try to pull them free, they are shackled deep within the earth.

With a mighty grumble, a crack splits the ground.

“Run!” I yell at Aurora. “Go! Hurry!”

But she doesn’t seem to hear me, though I’m screaming at the top of my lungs.

The crack rends the earth open, heading straight for Aurora, for our child .

Finally, the little one turns around, as if just realizing I’m there.

Except, it’s not my child.

It’s my sister, Lucy. She looks exactly the same as the last time I saw her: green eyes, pale skin flushed with pink, gaze curious and wondrous.

As the earth splits, it’s like a maw of darkness reaching up to take her from me, to pull her down into its fathomless depths. And as the ground opens up beneath her small feet and sends her plunging into the darkness below, I hear a small splash of water, then silence.

Terrible, gut-wrenching silence.

“Rowan!”

I jerk awake. My heart is racing, and my skin is covered in a clammy sweat despite the chill in the room. It’s dark, with just the low fire in the hearth to see by. And next to me, her hand on my bare arm, is Aurora.

It wasn’t real , I tell myself. Aurora is right here. She’s okay.

But part of that is a lie. Yes, Aurora is here, but Lucy isn’t. The quiet splash echoes in my memory, punctuated by the quiet afterward.

Lucy is gone. And at least part of that responsibility rests firmly on my shoulders. I won’t ever forget that.

Aurora squeezes my arm, bringing me back into my body. “Are you okay?”

Her voice is edged with sleep.

Shit. I know how tired she was.

“I’m sorry,” I say, lifting a hand to my head. “Did I wake you?”

She hums softly. “You were tossing and turning, then thrashing about. Was it a bad dream?”

I think of telling her, remembering Niamh’s words and our brief conversation at the harvest festival, but I don’t wish to burden her with such darkness. It would just fill her head with fearful thoughts, and that’s not what I want for her.

When I imagine Aurora’s dreams, I picture fields of wildflowers stretching as far as the eye can see, rivers twinkling beneath summer sunlight and fairy creatures peeking up from beneath red-topped mushrooms. In her dreams, the earth doesn’t open up to swallow everyone she holds dear.

No, this is not her responsibility. It’s mine, and I’ll handle it on my own .

“Something like that,” I say softly, patting her hand on my arm in an effort to reassure her that all is well.

Typically, Aurora would press me, asking for details, but I think she’s still half asleep. Her hand softens on my arm, and she settles back down onto her pillow with a quiet yawn.

“Okay.” Her voice is already lilting with the return of her slumber. “But if you need me, I’m right... here...”

And then she’s gone, having already drifted back off into dreamland.

But I’m still awake, lying there in the dark, watching my sister fall through the ice, then the earth, over and over again. At some point, her face changes, becomes the face of what I imagine my child might look like.

The ice splits. They fall. Silence.

It plays on repeat in my head.

And it takes a very, very long time for sleep to find me again.