Page 9 of The Witch’s Spell (Season of the Witch #4)

WHEN I AWAKEN, THE WIND is still blowing outside, making Brookside groan. The fire has burned low in the hearth, though the embers still glow, casting a dim orange light through the room. It’s still nighttime, then. But what woke me?

Beside me, Faolan shifts, sitting up in bed. The blanket pulls away from my shoulders, making me shiver, and I cuddle closer to him and his body heat.

“What is it?” I ask.

He tips his head, listening. “It sounded like someone knocked.”

My brow furrows in confusion. “On the front door?”

As if answering my question, footsteps pad through the parlor, growing quieter as Alden heads for the foyer. The knock must’ve woken him as well.

“But,” I say sleepily, still trying to wake up, “it’s the middle of the night.” My bleary gaze flicks to the window. Between the thin gap in the drapes, I can see dense snow still falling. “And it’s a blizzard.”

Faolan’s voice is a low rumble as he says, “I know. Stay here.”

Then he slips out of bed, leaving me cold in his absence, and tugs on his trousers before stalking toward the bedroom door and pulling it open. It clicks closed behind him.

I sit up in bed, straining to hear. Faolan’s footsteps follow Alden’s, growing quieter as he moves away from the bedroom through the parlor.

For a moment, all I hear is the howling wind and the creaking of the cottage. Maybe it was just the wind. Who would be out in a storm like this ?

Then come low voices—Alden’s, Faolan’s, and . . .

I listen closer just to be sure.

There’s a third voice, but it’s unfamiliar—and undoubtedly masculine.

Someone’s here.

Despite Faolan telling me to stay put, I slip from bed, pull on my knitted socks, and fetch my heavy dressing gown from the hook behind the door.

The air is chill enough to make goose bumps dance across my skin; it seems the fires are struggling to keep the cold at bay.

We’ll likely need to rekindle them before morning.

I tug the front of the gown closed and tie it snug over my round belly. Then I pull the bedroom door open and step into the parlor.

The voices are clearer now, though they’re still quiet, making it difficult for me to discern what’s being said. I walk across the parlor, enjoying the heat from the low fire as I pass by, then peek through the doorway.

And gathered in the foyer are Alden, Faolan, and a stranger. When I step through the doorway, they all turn to look at me. But it’s the unfamiliar face I focus on.

In the darkness, it’s hard to make out his features with any clarity, but what I do see is skin so pale it almost appears silver and a shock of shaggy hair.

At first I think the stranger is covered in snow, but I quickly realize that no, it’s just the color of his hair—snow white, as if all the color has been leeched from it.

His eyes appear pale as well, though I can’t tell if they’re silver or blue.

He’s strangely beautiful, even in the shadows .

And he’s still bundled in a cloak, the shoulders of which are heaped with ice and snow.

“Says he got caught in the storm,” Alden says, keeping his voice low, likely to avoid waking the others.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Orla and Cathal were listening to us right now, given how impressive Faolan’s hearing is.

But I don’t hear any movement from the other bedroom upstairs, so Rowan must not have been awoken by the knock. I’m glad. He needs his sleep.

“But won’t tell us why he was in it in the first place,” Faolan continues, voice gravelly. He has his arms crossed over his bare chest, and with Alden beside him, they fill the narrow hallway.

The stranger, who must be about Rowan’s height, tilts his gaze up to meet Faolan’s. “I’m a traveler, like I said. Storm came out of nowhere, and I got turned around in the woods. This is the first residence I’ve come across.”

His voice has an oddly lyrical quality to it, like he’s singing even when just speaking. It makes me want to step closer, to listen to him recite poetry or read ballads. His eyes meet mine again.

“Come in, come in,” I say. “Hang your cloak there. You can warm up by the fire.”

“Aurora,” Alden and Faolan say together, tones a mix of warning and caution.

I hold up both hands, one toward each of them. “Look at him, he’s frozen.”

As if to prove my point, some slush slips from the man’s cloak and splats onto the wooden floor.

“I’ll make tea. Would you like some, Mister . . . ? ”

His lips, which appear as pale as the rest of him, though I’m not sure if they’re usually that way or if they’re just cold, quirk up on one side. “Blackveil. Thorne Blackveil. And tea sounds lovely.”

He unclasps his cloak and hangs it up alongside his satchel while Alden and Faolan give each other looks, which I choose to pointedly ignore.

They step out of the way, making room for Thorne.

And that’s when I notice a cane clasped in his right hand.

He leans on it as he passes between Alden and Faolan, his gait somewhat unbalanced.

I can’t tell if he’s injured, but I know it’s not my place to ask.

“Lavender? Licorice? Mint?” I ask, already reaching up to tie my hair back. It’s still tangled from Faolan’s grip on it, and I settle for securing it into a knot at the base of my neck. I’ll comb and wash it tomorrow.

With my hands raised, my dressing gown tugs at my belly, and Thorne’s gaze flicks down quickly. He then glances toward Alden and Faolan, and I can only guess what he must be thinking. I suppose we all have our fair share of curiosities.

“Mint would be wonderful,” he says at long last. His cane thumps softly along the floor as he follows me into the kitchen.

“Alden, Faolan,” I call, trying to keep my voice as low as I can. “Can you feed the fires please?”

They seem uncertain but don’t give me any trouble. Once Alden has tossed another few logs into the kitchen hearth and has stirred the embers back to life, I get to work heating water and mixing herbs.

Thorne pulls out a chair at the table. From my periphery, I see he struggles a bit to sit down. Once he’s in the chair, he sets his cane off to one side, his eyes sweeping across the kitchen.

In the firelight, I can see that his eyes are a pale silver gray. They’re wide, curious, and rimmed in white eyelashes. He looks like he just stepped out of an ice kingdom. I suppose, in a way, he did. My gaze flicks to the window, outside of which the storm still rages.

Alden and Faolan finish with the other fires just as I pull the kettle off the flames. Faolan rejects my offer to pour him a cup, so I just make three.

“Thank you, Miss... Aurora?” Thorne says as I set his teacup on the table in front of him.

“It’s the least I can do.” I settle into the chair across from him, one hand going to my belly. “You said you’re a traveler. Where were you headed?” I ask.

Faolan and Alden both listen intently. Alden is leaning against the kitchen counter, teacup held in one hand, and Faolan is slouched in the doorway, his wide shoulders taking up the entire frame.

“I’m... not sure,” Thorne says. “I didn’t have a destination in mind. I knew there was a settlement around here, but the rest I left up to chance.”

“Up to chance?” Faolan grumbles. His blue eyes meet mine, and our bond tingles with his distrust of the stranger. “Sounds like a good way to get lost.”

Thorne shrugs, not bothering to look back at Faolan. “It’s usually not a problem, so long as a blizzard doesn’t hit. And besides”—his pale lips turn up in one corner—“getting lost isn’t so bad. You never know what you might find.”

I’m not sure if it’s his intention to suddenly meet my gaze when he says that, but it makes a surprised tingle go through me.

There’s something peculiar about him, but I can’t yet put my finger on it. I can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but Faolan, who’s scowling now, seems convinced he is.

“And where are you coming from?” Alden asks. His voice is low, gravelly—I can tell he was sleeping when the knock woke him up.

Thorne sips his tea, then lifts one shoulder in another shrug. “It’s a very long way from here. You wouldn’t know it.”

“Try me,” Faolan says.

But Thorne says nothing further, just sips his tea, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world, even with a shifter lurking over his shoulder. To be fair, he doesn’t know what Faolan is, but even so, his apparent lack of concern almost makes me laugh.

What an odd man.

Alden yawns, and it makes me yawn as well.

“You need to sleep, Aurora,” Faolan says. He straightens up in the doorway, the firelight making his brown skin glow.

He’s right. My body feels heavy and sluggish, and I’m starting to struggle to keep my eyes open.

But where will Thorne sleep? With all the rooms occupied, I’ve nowhere to put him, and I certainly can’t send him back out into the storm.

“I’ll head upstairs,” Alden says, solving my dilemma for me. He finishes his tea, then pushes away from the counter. “Rowan can share. ”

The thought of the two of them crammed into that bed makes me smile. The three of us have slept in that bed before, so there is room, but it’s still funny to picture.

“Thank you,” I tell him. Then I focus on Thorne. “We don’t have much room, but you’re welcome to stay on the couch tonight. There are plenty of blankets, and the fire will keep you company.”

Thorne’s eyes widen. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’d just hoped for a brief respite from the cold, only until the storm lets up.”

I picture him struggling through the deep snow, his journey made more difficult by his use of the cane.

“Don’t be silly.” I wave off his concern and push to my feet. “It’s late, and you were frozen. Take the couch, and hopefully by morning the storm will have cleared.”

Still seated at the table, he looks up at me, damp white hair almost obscuring his pale eyes. He holds my gaze, and that same tingle from before goes through me.

“Thank you, Aurora. Consider me in your debt.”