Page 29 of The Witch’s Spell (Season of the Witch #4)

“What’s next?” Thorne asks from where he’s still seated on the stump, drawing a hand gently down Harrison’s spine while he purrs.

“Now,” I say, a twinge of nervousness creeping in, “we find out if this is going to work. Can I have the singing bowl?”

Thorne nods and retrieves his satchel from the ground beside him, from which he pulls a bowl wrapped in thick fabric. With my bag full of crystals, I needed him to carry Auntie’s old singing bowl, and as he passes it to me, I feel a tingle of anticipation in my fingertips.

“Sound can help harmonize chaotic energy, guide it and calm it,” I explain while slowly unwrapping the bowl.

It’s made of pure copper and gleams beautifully when the sunlight strikes its gently curved walls.

The mallet is made of wood with a fiber-padded surface, and when I hold it in my hand, I imagine Auntie sitting in the deep grass, eyes closed as grasshoppers leap around her, making the bowl sing as if it’s doing so just for her.

“I’ve never been very good at playing the bowl,” I tell Thorne, “but I know the basics.”

“I believe you’ll do a wonderful job,” he says softly.

“And I believe he’s flirting with you,” Harrison says in response.

My cheeks warm despite the cold air, and I turn away from them and move to the center of the clearing.

There, I tuck my thick cloak beneath me and take a seat on the snowy ground, getting into as comfortable a position as I can manage with my belly now so large.

I sit up tall, close my eyes, and calm my breath.

If my energy is leaping all over the place, this ritual will be of no use.

If I want to encourage calm energy, I have to exude it myself.

With the flat bottom of the bowl balanced in my left palm, I hold the mallet in my right.

After taking another calming breath, I strike the side of the bowl lightly with the mallet, warming it up.

The sharp contact causes the bowl to vibrate, and before the vibrations cease, I begin using the mallet to circle the rim of the bowl in a clockwise motion.

Auntie taught me to use my whole arm, like I’m stirring a big cauldron of soup over a fire.

That’s what I picture as I brush the mallet along the rim of the bowl and the overtone starts to build.

It vibrates into my chest and radiates out around me.

As I continue to play, I picture the raw energy of the fog gathering into calm fluffy clouds and dispersing into the blue sky. I imagine the crystals glowing with golden light and stabilizing the portal, allowing the fairies to travel between realms once again.

And as the bowl sings, I feel the energy starting to shift. It’s drawn to the vibrations and to the crystals, and it has a tangible longing to be comforted and calmed, to release its chaos and find the stability needed to reactivate the portal.

The energy draws nearer; it makes my chest tight, like how I feel when Harrison curls up atop me and tucks his head under my chin for an afternoon nap. But I don’t stop playing. I don’t stop visualizing serene golden light filling the grove and shining down upon all the fairies gathered within it.

Something is happening—I’m sure of it.

All is silent but for the beautiful singing of the bowl.

A swelling of intense energy washes over me, stealing the breath from my lungs.

And then I hear a crystal crack, the sound so loud it jolts me from my focus.

Like ice fracturing atop a lake or a great heavy bough splintering from its trunk, the crystals crack under the pressure of the energy, their structure too weak to contain the wildness that is fairy magic.

With every splintered crystal, every echo through the clearing, I feel a greater and greater sense of despair .

This was supposed to work. It was supposed to stabilize the chaos energy and allow the portal to open once more. It was supposed to fix everything.

But it failed. I failed.

With one final shattering of crystal, the clearing falls silent, just like the tears that gather in my eyes and drip slowly down my cheeks to plink against the copper bowl still held in my palm.

Harrison and Thorne are there a moment later. Harrison crawls into my lap, pushing his head against my chin, prompting me to lower the bowl and mallet.

“It’s all right,” he purrs soothingly. “You’ll figure this out. I know you will.”

Thorne kneels in the snow in front of me. He takes my face in his mittened hands and tips it up so I’ll meet his eyes, even as mine still swim with tears.

“It didn’t work,” I say. “I’m sorry . . .”

“There’s nothing to apologize for.” His voice is sturdy, firm. “This is my fault; I’m the one who brought the storm through and caused the portal to malfunction. The responsibility is mine. And I’m sorry I’ve sought to place it upon your shoulders.”

Another tear streaks down my cheek, and the cold wind makes it sting my skin. But Thorne’s mitten is there a moment later, dabbing away the moisture, his eyes soft and swimming with emotion.

“What now?” I whisper. Reluctantly, I pull my eyes from Thorne’s and look out over the fairy hollow.

The gathered fairy creatures look upon me with sorrowful expressions.

I’m sure they long to return home, to be able to travel freely, as they typically do.

“I don’t know what to do next. I really.

..” I sniffle. “I hoped this would work.”

I think of Rowan’s parents, who’ve agreed to visit us for Yule, trapped outside Faunwood, unable to make it through. I think of Faolan and Cathal and the bitter feelings swarming between them. I think of Niamh, unable to get home, and of all the villagers who’re depending on me.

Suddenly, my eyes fill with a fresh storm of tears, and I pull away from Thorne’s gentle touch to bury my face in my hands. “I wish Auntie were here,” I say between tears. “Sh-she’d know exactly what to do.”

Thorne sighs softly as he takes a seat beside me, and Harrison continues to purr, trying to comfort me as best he can.

“Is this the same aunt who showed you this place?” Thorne asks after giving me a moment to shed my tears.

This question makes me smile. “Yes. And hers are the spellbooks we went through in the cottage.” I sniffle again and scrub my mitten across my cheeks.

They’re already starting to feel sensitive in the cold.

“She left me Brookside when she passed away. If not for her, I’d probably still be living with my mother in Wysteria. ”

“Wysteria,” Thorne says, rolling the word around in his mouth as if unsure of it. “This is the nearby human city?”

I snort out a laugh. “Well, mostly human, yes. But plenty of others live there as well. Witches and warlocks, shifters, vampires, probably even some orcs. The big cities attract all kinds of people.”

“And do you like it there? In the city?” He readjusts himself in the snow beside me, wincing slightly as he moves his hip and knee. With one knee propped up, he drapes his arms around it, elegant even under the bulk of his long woolen cloak.

“No,” I say quickly, looking down at Harrison where he’s now lying in my lap.

I scratch him behind the ear, and he tips his head back so I can scratch his chin.

“I’ve never liked the city. I was always made for open spaces, like this.

” My eyes trace the tree line, then rise to the pale blue sky.

“I don’t do well in places where I can’t put my bare feet on the ground or smell the forest after a big rainstorm.

” I breathe in, and the cold winter air helps calm me.

Letting out the breath, I turn to Thorne.

“What about you? What’s it like where you live? You’ve not spoken much about it.”

“There’s not so much to tell. We’ve cities and villages much like yours. I come from a place called Eldrasyl.”

“Eldrasyl.” Even the word tastes like magic on my tongue. “What is it like there? Is it where you grew up?”

“It’s...” Thorne thinks for a moment, then shakes his head and laughs.

“It’s where I grew up, yes. At times it felt more like a prison than a home, but now that I’m older, I appreciate it for what it is.

” He casts his gaze to the sky. “It’s larger than Faunwood, though perhaps not by much.

And it always smells of flowers, no matter the season, like the air doesn’t care whether it’s winter or summer.

” A smile captures his mouth as he continues to speak.

“And at night, if you listen closely, you can hear the trees speaking to one another.”

“The trees speak?” I ask, eyes widening. “What do they say?”

Thorne shrugs one shoulder. “I can’t say. They speak a language far older than ours. Even our most ancient texts are younger than the trees. They were the original inhabitants of our lands. We have reverence for them.”

Without meaning to, I find myself scooting closer to Thorne, Harrison still curled in my lap. “Tell me more,” I say softly. “Tell me of your childhood.”

I wish to know everything about him, wish to understand the strange language he speaks and trace every facet of crystal in his eyes. I wish to let his stories allow me to forget my failure here today, if even for a moment.

Again, Thorne laughs. “I am the youngest of six siblings, so you can imagine how busy our home was, with someone always coming or going, tears and laughter and yelling I could hear through the walls. A normal family, I think. Or normal as families can be.”

He looks down, the smile leaving his mouth as he begins to trace shapes through the snow with one fingertip.

“But being the youngest, and with my disability, there were certain... challenges that I found difficult to overcome. So I’d often run away.

I’d never make it far—into the gardens or the woods, usually—but as soon as I left the castle, I’d be able to breathe again.

I’d forget about my siblings and how accomplished they all were, would forget about the ways in which I felt I’d never measure up, and I’d stay out there for hours, until my father eventually sent the dryads to find me or came to fetch me himself. ”

Thorne flicks snow from his fingertip, and a softer look comes over his face.

“I think that’s why I find such fulfillment in traveling.

While I enjoy home, it’s always felt..

. confining. As soon as I was old enough to leave home alone, I began journeying, exploring new places and learning along the way.

” His eyes flick to mine, and I realize his glamour has once more fallen away, allowing me to see him as he truly is.

“That’s how I ended up here, in Faunwood, in your cottage. ”

There’s so much I want to ask him, but the first thing that comes out is, “You grew up in a castle ?”

“Oh, yes.” Thorne glances away, looking bashful for the first time since I’ve known him.

His profile is sharp, and the sunlight reflecting off the snow makes his silvery skin shimmer with that subtle glow.

“My father is the lord of Eldrasyl. My family, the Blackveils, have stewarded the land for many generations. But as the youngest child, I have very few responsibilities, apart from attending feasts and being at my eldest sister’s beck and call.

” He laughs. “I wonder if she’s even noticed my absence—if any of them have. ”

“How could anyone not notice your absence?” I ask, my tone perhaps a touch sharper than I intended for it to be.

But I can’t imagine it, being indifferent to Thorne’s presence.

When he’s around, my skin tingles like there’s a storm in the air, and my eyes find him even without me meaning for them to.

He draws my attention like I’m a moth to his ethereal flame.

“If you knew my siblings,” he says with a hint of humor, “you’d understand.

And I don’t mean to say they’re unkind, because they’re not.

But they have big personalities, and I’ve always been quiet, more adept at listening than throwing my opinions around.

Faelynn, my eldest sister, is the first born and will someday take over Eldrasyl’s responsibilities from my father.

We get along well, she and I, but she has many duties to attend to.

” He lifts one shoulder in another shrug.

“So I would not be surprised if it took her some time to become aware of my not being there.”

“Will they come looking or you?” I ask. Then hope beams inside my chest. “Might they be able to assist in mending the portal?”

Thorne’s smooth brow furrows. “I don’t believe they will. It’s not uncommon for me to go traveling for weeks at a time. They’ll simply think I’m off on another journey and will expect me to return home in due time.”

The hope dims and flickers out. And it reminds me that I’m seated in the snow in a forest in a tiny village that’s surrounded by fairy fog that refuses to let us pass.

And I’ve still no idea how I’m going to fix the problem, or even if I’ll be able to.

Reaching into the snow, I retrieve Auntie’s singing bowl and the mallet. Eyes still cast down, I say, “I think I’d like to return home now.”

When I look up at Thorne, he’s frowning, and his face is glamoured once more.