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That’s the only way this can end, and the sooner I start behaving accordingly, the easier goodbye will be for both of us.
Shoving my hands into my dress’s pockets, I stroke Wig’s soft fur as I hurry to catch up, passing Declan to walk beside Adrina, pretending not to notice the way his shoulders sag when I ignore his outstretched hand.
This is for the best, my friend.
No matter how much it hurts.
Chapter Ten
Declan
I shouldn’t have kissed her.
I knew that, but I couldn’t help myself. Whenever I’m close to Clara, I always want to be closer, to wrap her in my arms, hold her tight, keep her safe.
And keep myself safe while I’m at it.
I don’t want to imagine a world without Clara in it. I don’t want to imagine my life without Clara. I have questions pouring out of my ears about her mother and family—things I can’t wait to ask her when we’re alone, assuming we’re ever alone again—but learning she’s half witch hasn’t changed the way I feel about her.
But it will make things more difficult.
It sounds like Da’s wards make her sick, and there’s no way he’ll be turning them off any time soon. The wards are the endgame. We all left our homes and families and sailed thousands of miles to start a new life to be safe from the Night Witch and other nightmare creatures.
If he ever finds out what Clara is, he’ll…
I don’t know what he’d do exactly—I’ve never seen a witch or a half witch up close and, to my knowledge, my father hasn’t either. But I know it would be bad for Clara.
But I’ll worry about that, and the strange business of my bonny blue locks, later, once my head has stopped spinning in circles.
And after I’ve had a heaping plate of whatever Adrina’s mother is cooking. Sweet Jesus, it smells amazing.
Garlic and onions and fish drenched in lemon and butter—my stomach snarls as we cross the dusty yard to the clay-walled cottage.
Adrina, her arm now looped through Clara’s, laughs as she turns my way. “Easy there, tiger belly. We will feed you. Don’t get angry.”
My cheeks heat. “Sorry. My stomach has terrible manners.”
“I’m only joking.” Adrina motions toward the cottage door as a woman—crinkles around her eyes and a long brown braid draped over her shoulder—steps into the doorway. “Clara, Declan, this is my mother, Mrs. Barolo. But you can call her Mommy. We all do.”
“Or Sofia,” her mother says, her smile lines deepening as she grins. “We don’t have to be formal at home with friends. It’s so nice to meet you both! And did I hear there’s a tiger belly here, too? If so, you’re in luck. I made enough to feed at least two tigers.”
“Three!” Timon shouts. “I’m starved.” He attempts to dash past his mother, but she catches him around the waist, swinging him back through the door.
“Ah ah! Not so fast, little tiger. Show Declan where he can wash up, first. Then help him get settled in the barn. And wash those paws of yours, too,” she calls after him as Timon sighs and stomps across the yard. “And don’t pet the kittens after!”
“You’ll sleep with me, Clara,” Adrina says, motioning her inside. “There’s plenty of room in my bed. And I have an extra nightgown, too.”
With one last glance at Clara—who is still avoiding my gaze—I jog after Timon. He’s already at the pump in the middle of the yard, dragging up and down on the heavy, rusted handle until water sputters from the spout.
“The soap is there,” he says, nodding toward a hunk of muddy lye sitting in a clay dish on an old tree stump. “But if you don’t want to use it, I won’t tell Mommy. Dirt is not so bad, I think. Not as bad as soap that burns the skin from your fingers.” He lowers his voice confidentially. “The girls have nice soap that mother makes. It smells like olive oil shortbread cookies, but I’m not allowed to use it.”
“Why not?” I ask as I roll up my sleeves.
Timon shrugs. “Because I ate it once.”
I laugh and arch a brow. “You ate it? The soap?”
“Yes. But only a little.” He grins, all sparkling eyes and mischief as he rubs his hands beneath the waterspout. “It tasted pretty good. Like vanilla. But it made me sick after, and Mommy was mad. Soap takes longer to make than cookies, and she’s always so busy since Papa stopped going to the village.” He grabs the handle again, pumping another batch of water for me. “Does your father do work?”
“Yes, he’s a priest and a teacher,” I say, wetting my hands and reaching for the soap, which does sting a little. I lather it between my hands.
“What!” The boy’s jaw drops, but I get the feeling he’s playing at being scandalized. “Priests can’t have wives and babies.”
