Page 82 of Woods of the Raven

“I don’t know, perhaps a week.”

“Wow,” Lorne sounded both impressed and sad. “So time moves real slow in the fae realm.”

“That’s true, it does.”

I said, “Which is probably why everyone thinks I’m my grandfather. Sola thought I was him when he met me. Rulaine thought the same… This is good information to have. I should write this down.”

“Aha!” Lorne announced, and closed the diary. “This is what this is about: the cottage wants you to start keeping a journal.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You,” he said, motioning at me, “have a lot of knowledge you’re keeping in your brain, but you’re not putting it down on paper. I have a feeling this is what the cottage wants from you, hence the diary flying at me.”

“Which means what?”

“What do you mean, what? It’s a lesson.”

“I don’t have time for lessons.” I got up and began to pace.

“Yeah, but the cottage doesn’t know that. Time is relative to a building. It doesn’t know you won’t always be here.”

“How do you know that? Did it tell you?”

“No, it didn’t tell—how would it even do that? Are you listening to yourself?”

I threw up my hands in defeat. “But if you think about it logically, the cottage must experience time, since it sees people age within the walls.”

Lorne glanced around. “I don’t think it works like that. I think the cottage is aware of you like you’re aware of a picture on the wall. If it’s crooked, if it gets knocked down, sure, you notice. But otherwise, years go by without you even looking at it.”

“Fine,” I said to the cottage. “I will begin journaling right away.”

“Oh, you made it so happy,” Declan stated, smiling at me. “And is there lemon cake in here somewhere? I’d love to get the recipe.”

A drawer rattled at the opposite end of the kitchen, and Declan got up to look.

“Can you finish telling us about who Rulaine was?”

“Was?” he asked absently, opening a drawer to reveal a long, narrow box that looked like it belonged in a card catalog at the library. “Is it all right to go through these?” Even as he made the inquiry, he was picking it up and walking it back to the table.

“Of course.” Because that was clearly what the cottage wanted. “And Rulaine is dead.”

His head snapped up, and he was staring at me with wide eyes. “What? How?”

I met his gaze, not knowing what on earth to say.

“Xander is a very powerful witch, that’s how,” Lorne told him. “He’s the…raven of the woods.”

I did a slow pan to him. “I’m the what now?”

“You’re not the witch of the woods, you’re the raven. That makes sense, don’t you think?” He smiled at me. “That’s more you. Kinda quirky, a bit aloof until somebody really knows you, but strong when you need to be and a very pretty bird.”

I shook my head at him. “You can be so cheesy.”

He shrugged. “So what. You like it. You like me.”

Oh, I really did, and the thought of him not being in my home the next morning was going to make me hyperventilate.

I had a very strong feeling I was supposed to keep him. And from the gust of warm breeze through the house, with a trace of verbena and vanilla, I was guessing the cottage agreed.