Page 32 of A Wolf for Winter

“Thank you, mistress,” he said, jovial once more. Then he smiled at the rest of the assembled woman. “If not for you, ladies, get it for your men.”

When he turned to Lilac to hand her a wad of cash, he caught the witch suppressing a smile. He fought the urge to smile himself and bustled off into the crowd, making a full circuit to confirm Rose was still shirking her duties and Boar was occupied at the other end of the fair. He snuck around behind Lilac’s booth on his way back to the refreshment table and slid the brown tote across the floor so it shored up against her feet and she could sell it all for real.

Back at his post, he sold baked goods, made change, distributed punch, and did it all over again. The process required a fraction of his brain power, allowing him to mull.

He wasn’t so far into his own head that he didn’t smell her approach, and his golden-brown eyes lost their characteristic warmth.

Acrid woodsmoke, old parchment, and blackberry, those were the scents of Prue Stonewell.

“Cookies, cakes, sweet buns, or punch?” Allen said without any inflection.

The hedge witch waggled an empty punch cup. “I came by for some earlier. When you were shilling for Lilac.”

“Cookies, cakes, or sweet buns?” Allen repeated flatly. “And that’s ‘Mistress Lilac,’ by the way.”

“She doesn’t deserve the title. None of them do.”

“I’d consider your next words very carefully, Ms. Stonewell.” Behind him, the flames in the grand fireplace flared with heat.

At any other time, Allen would’ve turned around in wonder or even glanced down at the opal ring, but his attention never wavered from the hedge witch.

Prue sniffed, gaze flicking from the flames to their caretaker. “The Hall is truly obeying your commands now. Or at least your mood. I suppose it’s safe to say that you’re well and truly cursed now.”

“Cursed?” Allen kept his alarm in check—he’d had his moment of panic last night. Now he was focused on action instead of speculation. He flicked an invisible mote of dust off the fancy vest that had appeared in his closet. “Never heard of curses providing perks before.”

“The Hall ruins every good man and woman who comes in contact with it. It infects—”

“Ethan and Zofia?”

Prue’s eyes blazed. “Zofia became nothing more than an indentured servant, and Ethan—”

“More punch?” Allen said flatly, holding up a fresh cup.

The flint in his eyes must’ve convinced her that the rest of her accusations would fall on deaf ears. She snatched the cup from him and gave it a large gulp, most likely so she could spew it in his face.

But she didn’t, her anger transforming into something more like alarm. It had been his job to read people—the better to manipulate them—and he could find no other word to describe the way her eyes had widened.

Without another word, and before he could stay her, the hedge witch twisted away and wormed back into the crowd, nudging people out of her way with her besom like a shepherd herds sheep with his staff.

On edge, Allen watched her disappear and wondered if it was a mistake to let her go. Frowning, he checked in with the Hawthornes. Boar and Lilac hadn’t left his field of vision, and a deep whiff told him Rose was by a leatherworker. There was no stink of fear on any of the three—Boar was a little nervous because he was desperate to impress; Rose was enjoying herself; Lilac had the anxious/happy jitters. Even the Hall seemed at ease—which Allen was startled to realize he could sense—the fire popping merrily at his back, the magical barrier shimmering easily as it detected nothing nefarious coming or going.

So far, everything had been easy. Textbook. While Prue Stonewell obviously had some grudges against the Hawthornes, she wasn’t the underhanded, malicious type. His intel convinced him that she only had the best interests of the village and the safety of her beloved Cailleach Lodge at heart. Other than Zofia, there had been no true attacks, so what had the Coalition been worried about?

Then, the screaming began.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“There you go,” Lilac said cheerfully, handing the last of her sellable inventory over to an elderly couple.

News of Allen’s purchases, and why he was so enthusiastic, had spread like wildfire. Lilac didn’t want to assume anything, but she wondered if the older woman’s desire for arthritic cream and the man’s need of Follicular Elixir was more than coincidence.

Now all she had to do was wait for everyone to try her products and give her (hopefully good) feedback. She’d already separated the ruined bottles and jars by product in the leftover totes and would work on relabeling them tonight in her room. Perhaps she could sell the rest over the course of the week. Then maybe, just maybe, with the villagers endorsing her, her Grandmother would realize Lilac’s true talent. And accept it.

After hiding the totes under the display table, she extracted a poplar seed from the vial in her pocket. A spurt of green magic grew a Sold Out sign, and she erected it on the tablecloth before excusing herself. She had precious minutes before the bachelors found her again, and she was eager to see Edith.

The faun bookseller had fresh holly nestled by her horns and wore a white cable-knit sweater . . . that matched the little vase of white lily-of-the-valley flowers on her display table. She recognized the vase immediately—it was a familiar orange juice glass.

Allen, she thought fondly.