Nodding, I step back and study him.
If he’s this fussy as an owl, I imagine he must have been an insufferable man, and therefore, it probably rankles him quite a lot that he needed my aunt’s assistance.
“How long have you been like this?” I ask.
“I’ve lost track of the years.”
A long time then. Laverna was eighty-seven when she passed. Rowan said they were friends. That means he’s probably close to the same age, though who knows how long that is in bird years.
Chester whines, eager to be off his leash.
“I have to walk the yard and make sure it’s safe to let you out,” I tell the dog. Then to Rowan, I say, “I’ll be back.”
“You don’t have to report your whereabouts to me.”
Choosing to ignore that, I head for the door. “Do you want to come out with us? How long have you been trapped in the house? I imagine your cage must be a mess.” I shudder, realizing I’m going to have to clean it.
“I don’t have a cage, and I come and go as I please,” he says disdainfully, following us out anyway.
Nearing evening now, the sun is lower in the sky, and the light is becoming golden. I pause once I step onto the garden path, enchanted by the flowers. They’re messy, and many desperately need deadheading. Masses of peonies topple over without proper staking, and there are more than a few weeds hiding amongst the perennials.
I sigh, momentarily content.
“You’re a summer,” Rowan says when he alights on the branch of a nearby maple tree, affected by my magic like Hudson was.
“So was Laverna,” I point out.
He makes a noise, this one in owl. It’s a soft, haunting “hoo.”
“Is that a problem?” I push through the flowers, taking the path that leads around the side of the house.
“No.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate because my focus is on my new home. The yard is large by today’s standards, probably half an acre, and it’s full-to-bursting with trees, shrubs, and more flowers. There’s an old garden shed in the back that’s built from the same rock as the house, a greenhouse that could use a good scrubbing, a birdbath, and a freestanding porch swing between two massive lilacs that are covered in fat, elongated clusters of perfumed purple flowers.
The fence is short, only about three feet tall, but the white-painted pickets are in good condition. Beyond it, there’s forest. Maples are mixed with birches, alders, hemlocks, and oaks. Though it’s beautiful now, it’s going to be stunning in the fall.
A house is just visible to the west, peeking through the dense trees. It’s far enough that you couldn’t yell to your neighbor and hope they’d understand you.
The solitude is welcome, even if it feels like I’m trespassing in someone else’s yard. Eventually, it will feel like mine. At least I hope it will.
Deciding the area is secure, I let Chester loose. He takes off like a furry rocket, running down the path and disappearing into the flowers. He’ll be happy for hours.
“What is the point of a dog the size of a cat?” Rowan asks. He’s been following me from tree to tree, watching me with his disconcertingly intense gaze.
“He doesn’t need a purpose.”
“His ancestors pulled sleds, but humans have bred him to be so tiny, he’s useless.”
“Chester could pull a small sled. A gnome sled, possibly.” I smile at the image of a pack of pomskies dashing through the snow, pulling a tiny fae musher.
Rowan looks away—the owl version of an eye roll.
“I take it you don’t like gnomes any more than you like pixies?”
“I never said I don’t like pixies.” He pauses. “Or gnomes for that matter.”
I laugh, watching Chester chase a grasshopper.
