Page 10 of A Wolf for Winter

“It’s a bunch of bottles and some bars of soap,” Rose supplied with a mischievous snicker.

Lilac whacked her sister in the arm, hard.

“Ow.”

Ha! Lilac gloated as Rose rubbed her arm. Not just a pretty face, am I?

“Ugh, Lilac,” Boar groaned. “Not this again. Grandmother said—”

“Grandmother doesn’t know what she’s talking about. None of you do! And she’s not here, and—”

“And you will do nothing to shame the Hawthorne name,” he interrupted harshly. “That includes peddling chintzy beauty products. Don’t you girls get it? We’re going to be under the scrutiny of the entire town. And Prue Stonewell, as well as all the other supes who owe us fealty tithes. We can give them no reason to gossip, to think we are anything less. The minute we get settled, you’re pouring that all down the drain, Lilac.”

Pour the work of the last four months and all the time she’d spent over her entire life honing her craft down the drain? “Make me.”

Boar yanked so hard on the reins that the goats bleated. He shifted in his seat and set the full force of his brown gaze on her. He was physically intimidating, his thighs as big as tree trunks, his biceps larger than grapefruits, his shoulders like a mountain range. But she held no fear of him. He’d never hurt her, unless they were in the sparring ring.

“Is that a challenge, sister?” he hissed.

Lilac swallowed but continued to hold her head up high. He was talking about a witch duel. While female Hawthornes tended to be the stronger witches, Boar had stamina from all his years of hard physical training. His spells might not have the power hers had, but he was quick despite his size, and he could outlast her.

But his question was more than that. The Hawthornes functioned on a hierarchy, much like a military, for there was no other way to successfully manage forty-something powerful witches all living under one (albeit massive) roof. With her father’s proclamation, he had set Boar above both Lilac and Rose in terms of authority. To disobey would be met with dire consequences.

“No,” she forced out.

He continued to drill her with that fierce glower until she looked away, gritting her teeth.

“I thought not.”

The wagon squeaked as he swiveled his bulk back around and picked up the reins. The snap he gave them had the goats bleating again and jumping in their harnesses.

“Yeesh, Boar, ease up,” Rose muttered. “The goats never did a thing to you.”

Lilac continued to look straight ahead, her back ramrod straight, as the wagon trundled ever onwards to Hawthorne Hall. It was agonizing to sit here, embarrassed and belittled, and knowing it would be childish and fruitless to just spring off the box seat and run the rest of the way. She’d just have to face them again when they arrived, and if she ran, she would be leaving all her hard work—her future—behind. She wouldn’t put it past Boar to just shot-put the entire crate off the side of the road in her absence. So she stayed, clinging to the minuscule hope that perhaps her brother would forget all about it by the time they reached the Hall and other duties demanded his attention.

Though, knowing Boar, probably not. She might call him a meathead sometimes, but he was anything but.

A silent tear slipped down her cheek, freezing into a little diamond against her skin. Followed by another. And another. By the Green Mother, she wanted to sprout wings like the barn swallows she used to watch growing up and just fly away.

“Lilac,” Rose whispered so Boar couldn’t hear her. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean— I didn’t know Boar would—”

“How about you shut your mouth before you ruin my life some more?”

Lilac didn’t look at either one of her siblings the rest of the way, her attention fixated on the Hall. She imagined casting a line, hooking one of the spires, and reeling it closer at double time.

The Hall was three stories tall, not counting the four spires that rose another twenty feet above the roof. Great double doors of polished rowan wood decorated with an embellished H opened up to a hardwood function hall that dominated most of the ground floor. There were a few other rooms there, mostly offices where Grandmother could conduct business, and a sizable hearth. The caretaker, Mrs. Hollyoak, whom the younger Hawthornes affectionately called Nan, kept the hearth smoldering year-round, rousing the flames to their full height and power during Gala week.

Stairs in the back led to the gallery-style second floor with a wrap-around balcony overlooking the function hall and the sleeping quarters of whichever Hawthornes were in residence. The third story was just a glorified attic, though it had also served as a playroom for any Hawthorne youngsters. Oftentimes a young squirrel would find its way inside and make a nest in the bay window seat; it was Lilac’s favorite pastime to befriend the little creature for the week before removing it to a more appropriate nesting site in the woods.

The kitchen and pantry were in the cellar, along with the caretaker’s suite and all the other appliances necessary to run the building. That’s where she’d go when they arrived. While her siblings were greeting Mrs. Hollyoak, Lilac would snatch up her crate, circle around to the rear of the Hall where the walk-out cellar door was, and hide it somewhere down there. It would be the last place Boar looked because it would be the last place he’d ever suspect. While she was a hearth witch, yes, that didn’t necessarily mean she enjoyed cooking.

“What’s this?” Boar muttered as the wagon arced around the circle drive.

A white delivery truck, Homegrown Roots Grocers printed on the side in bold green letters, blocked the driveway directly in front of the path that led to the front doors. Its driver was missing, its wares unpacked. Mrs. Hollyoak, who always met them without fail under the awning, was nowhere to be seen.

“On me,” Boar ordered.

The grievances of the past fifteen minutes were momentarily forgotten as the three siblings silently dismounted from the wagon. Lilac set the wagon’s parking brake as Rose tied the goats’ reins to the hitching post; Boar moved to the front doors, a glowing green hand raised in front of him.