Page 96 of Freed By the Witchbone Knife

I turned to find Iris hurrying toward us, weaving through the crowd. She wore a cute flannel dress and boots, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. Her face was bright with excitement—until she got close enough to see Axel beside me.

Her smile flickered. Just for a second. Then it was back, wide and warm.

“You made it!” She pulled me into a hug, squeezing tight. When she stepped back, her eyes darted to Axel again, then to our joined hands. “Oh! You brought... Hi, Axel.”

“Iris.” A short nod. Nothing more.

“I didn’t realize you two were coming together.” She gestured vaguely between us, that bright smile still firmly in place. But something underneath it felt brittle.

“He insisted on coming,” I said, trying to smooth over the awkwardness. “He didn’t want me driving back alone in the dark.”

“Right. Of course. Safety first.” Her laugh was a little too high. A little too sharp. “Well, since you have someone to keep you company, I should go find my friends. They’re saving me a spot near the stage. But find me later, okay? We should dance!”

“Definitely,” I promised. “I’ll come find you.”

She gave us a little wave and disappeared into the crowd.

I watched her go, guilt settling heavy in my stomach. She’d been looking forward to tonight. To hanging out together. And instead I’d shown up with Axel on my arm without even warning her.

“She’s upset,” Axel observed.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “I should have texted her. Told her you were coming.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

Probably not. But it still felt crappy. I’d find a way to make it up to her another time, somehow.

“Come on.” I tugged his hand, pulling him toward the craft booths. “Let’s explore.”

We wandered through the festival, and I let myself sink into the magic of it. The crisp autumn air. The golden firelight. The smell of cinnamon and apples and woodsmoke. This was my season. My happy place. And sharing it with Axel made it even better.

I dragged him through the craft booths first, making him hold my cider while I examined handmade candles and knitted scarves and little ceramic pumpkins. He grumbled but complied, standing like a grumpy sentinel while I chatted with vendors about their work.

Whenever I bought something, he put it in the handmade tote I’d purchased to carry everything, his wrist threaded through the loops. When it was full, we made a quick walk back to the truck to stow it. We got apple cider donuts from a stand near the pumpkin patch. I watched in amusement as Axel devoured three in quick succession, powdered sugar dusting his neatly trimmed beard.

I wanted to lick it off. “Thought you were a chocolate man,” I teased, reaching up to brush the sugar away with my thumb.

His eyes softened at my touch. “I contain multitudes.”

We picked out pumpkins—two big ones for carving, a handful of small decorative ones, and a warty gourd that I insisted on because the colors were perfect.

“We’re carving these together,” I informed him as we loaded them into a wagon and toted them back to the truck. “It’s tradition.”

“Never carved a pumpkin.”

I stopped dead. “What?”

“Wasn’t exactly a thing in medieval Scotland, lass.”

Right. Sometimes I forgot exactly how old he was. How much of life he’d experienced—and how much he’d missed.

“Well, it’s a thing now. I’m teaching you. Consider it part of your modern education.”

His lips twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”

As the sun sank lower and the string lights grew brighter, the music from inside the barn shifted. Something slower. Sweeter.

Through the open barn doors, I could see couples drifting toward the cleared area inside, swaying together under the exposed beam rafters and more strings of lights.