Page 26 of Twisting Twilight (Homesteader Hearth Witch #9)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“Misty?” Shari was the first to wake the next morning, her voice rough from sleep. She lifted from Daphne’s thigh and adjusted her wing-tip glasses from where they’d smooshed lopsided across her face. Apparently the baby luachra hadn’t minded sharing Daphne’s lap. “Your eyes… Didn’t you sleep?”

“No. But the water canteens are full. And there’s some leftover, um, veggie porridge.”

Last night had proved fruitless in summoning forth a bead of water to my fingertip. Using magic always made me peckish, but the strain of learning such delicate control had left me frustrated and with a snarling stomach. Abandoning Shannon’s exercise, I focused on satiating my hunger.

Now there was some motivation.

After quietly removing the skillet from my pack, I upended half a pouch of grain and an entire package of dehydrated vegetables and herbs. I wasn’t going to tap into our canteen reserves, already perilously low, so if I wanted to eat, I had to summon water.

The pressure of providing for my friends, for saving Sawyer, for protecting us all encroached on my mind. Plucked at the edges of my concentration.

I couldn’t help them if I couldn’t help myself. First things first, after all. Betrayal and selfishness left a sour taste in my mouth, but I shoved my responsibilities to everyone else aside and focused solely on my needs and desires.

It’s only for a little while, I consoled myself.

Miraculously, though tinged with a smidgeon of guilt, I felt a weight lift from me. It was just me, my stomach, and my magic. So simple. So effortless. Looking inward, the oak tree was all a-twinkle, ready to serve. Ready to embrace whatever challenge, no matter the size.

The fire aspect of its nature offered itself first, fire being my second-strongest element as a hearth witch, but I wasn’t going to toast the grain and vegetables.

I had to fatten them up with water, make a porridge so my stomach could get nice and full and leave me alone to practice my magic without nagging me like a toddler desperate for a sweet treat from the ice cream truck.

Make it small. Make it manageable , came Sawyer’s voice. His steadfast confidence in me, even from a memory, bolstered my resolve.

I needed water’s life, its nourishment, not to provide for my friends—not now—but for something as mundane as cooking a simple meal.

Cooking. The one word brought on a slew of memories of me barefoot in the manor kitchen with Aunt Peony: standing on a three-legged stool to stir the cauldron full of beef Stroganoff, mashing tomatoes through a food mill to sieve out the seeds for sauce, shaping rolls in the cage of our hands against the wooden work table.

Uncle Stag letting me dump the chocolate chips into the cake batter—that cascading sound of chocolate promising an ooey gooey bite in the very near future.

More recent ones emerged too, and not all of them laced with the danger that hounded me since fleeing to Redbud: simmering bone broth for the pixies, cutting apple butter cinnamon rolls for the bakery stand at the end of the country lane, making Shari’s birthday cake.

Stinking up the kitchen to make those tuna treats—the stench worth it to see the joy on Sawyer’s face with each one he devoured.

All that food had nourished more than my body, but my soul, too.

The fire frog had brought delight, but the water would bring the peace of sustenance.

Water , I called.

A droplet condensed in the air above the skillet, then another and another.

A gentle rain pitter-pattered against the dry grain and confetti-like vegetables.

They jumped around like little crickets under the splashing drops, some almost flinging themselves out of the skillet.

My hungry stomach did not like that one bit.

Smiling at the joy in my heart and the beautiful display of magic before me, I quickly trained the water to create a gentle corkscrew and funnel less rambunctiously into the skillet. The grain and vegetables now floated like tiny boats in a marina, and gradually absorbed the water.

I’d had cold-soaked oats before, but why settle for those when I could apply heat? But first, salt.

Cupping my hands around each side of the skillet, I called upon the fire I’d used to cook the ink bulb beetle. There was no struggle this time—heat bloomed instantly from the nostalgia in my heart.

Magic was indeed linked to emotion, but it didn’t have to be the stressful emotional turmoil of perilous situations.

Or the desperation to discover what kind of curse was embedded in a grimoire.

Or the righteous indignation of defending your home against faelight coyotes and magic hunters.

Somewhere along the way, I’d forgotten that.

I could’ve kicked myself for not realizing and embracing the connection sooner. I had bonded my magic like a fae—had reveled in the connection—but circumstances had made me treat it like a tool instead of a true extension of myself. Of who I really wanted to be.

You are becoming , Violet’s voice sounded.

Even more , I added, smiling wryly.

My family had stunted me. Ossian had curbed me. My own worries had hobbled me.

But this little thing, this simple act of cooking, suddenly shuttled everything into perspective. Into its rightful place.

Grain and vegetables bubbled and steamed, and suddenly I realized I was being watched.

The baby luachra’s yellow eyes gazed steadily at me. Roused from the scent of food and curious to the magic on display.

“Want a boost?” I whispered.

It must’ve sensed the intent in my words—to truly help it, not just seal its wounds so we could have the cave to ourselves—so it didn’t hiss at me. It didn’t accept my offer, either, tucking its snout into the corner of Daphne’s elbow and returning to sleep.

Shrugging, I returned to my meal.

It was way too hot to eat, despite my stomach urging me to risk it and my tastebuds pleading for me not to listen to my stomach.

Air, please.

The most fickle of my elements appeared like a whisper of white vapor. It twisted and spun like a river otter through water, playful. Fiercely independent. Free.

Yet able to be coaxed to swirl about my porridge to cool it down to a tastebud-approved level. And take the scent up against the ceiling of the cave instead of blowing out into the forest where anything might smell it.

“Who needs to call a bead of water to your finger when you can have more fun cooking?” I muttered aloud, pleased at my own self-discovery.

Then I tucked in, tamed the beast of my stomach, spooned the leftovers into one of the earthenware bowls, cleaned the skillet with more water and air magics, and filled our water canteens.

I should’ve rested then, but I’d been too inspired to stop.

“Watch this,” I told Shari.

In the valley of my skirt between my knees were my rations of the dried foodstuffs, mostly empty pouches now.

Only the seasonings packets, the jar of salt, and one-quarter full pouch of grain remained.

I poured the last of the lentils, barley, and some kind of wild rice into my palm and made a fist.

“Oops. Almost forgot.” Salt was the flavor of life, after all. A moment later, my fingers popped open to cup a handful of salted puffed grain still steaming.

“Could use some butter,” I said, tossing a few kernels into my mouth.

Shari’s brown eyes tracked the arc of the puffed grain from my hand to my mouth, her expression neutral. She was quiet a long moment, then: “You seem different.”

“Apparently I needed to cook out my feelings.”

“That’s good. But we’ll get him back too.”

Deflating, I shoved the rest of the “popcorn” into my mouth and looked away, grinding the kernels to pulp between my teeth.

Could we spare the time? We’d already spent two of the nine days we had and were seemingly no closer to the Blighted Court of Shoals.

The map was in Kian’s head, and he hadn’t shared anything beyond escaping this forest and avoiding the Path of Gulls and taking a ferry crossing somewhere—and all of that was only what I’d overheard him and Shannon discussing before she’d cut him off.

Sawyer was far to the west, inland, and beyond feasible reach.

Still alive, thank the Green Mother. Agitated but not imperiled.

There was a very real chance that I would have to abandon my familiar, my feline soulmate, in order to save my brother. To save Redbud. Could I sacrifice our bond for the greater good, like Great-Aunt Fern had done with Ame?

Not yet.

“Everybody—”

But everybody already was up, watching me with expectant if bleary eyes.

Shari had roused them while I’d tormented myself with speculation.

The baby luachra was still content in Daphne’s arms, yellow eyes half-lidded.

Its wing had mended itself, the new connective membrane the bland color of weak caramel.

It would be a little while yet before that membrane toughened enough to be flight worthy.

“Hey,” Emmett exclaimed softly as he uncapped his canteen. “I’ve got water again.”

“Did someone cook?” Cody popped his back then shuffled forward, sniffing. I handed him the bowl of leftover veggie porridge; he scraped some out with two fingers and spooned it into his mouth.

“Well?” Kian asked, his stomach rumbling.

“I’m hungry so I’m eating.”

That wasn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but at least it was edible.

“You can eat and walk, right?” I asked the junior scholar. “Or will you need the tow rope?”

He caught himself almost sticking his tongue out at me and wrinkled his nose instead. “I’ll be just fine, thank you. Though, I will need a utensil.”

“That’s what these are for.” Cody thrust his fingers under the fae’s nose, a grain of wild purple rice and a red lentil sliding down his knuckles.

The fae actually gasped and Fiachna hissed. “Eat with my hands ?”