Page 49 of A Wolf for Winter

“You take care of yours, Allen, and I’ll take care of mine,” was her reply.

He was itching to return to Hawthorne Hall, and Zofia obviously wasn’t protesting Prue warding her and Hobbles’ new living arrangements, so he turned back (still begrudgingly) to the truck.

“Oh, Mr. Sharpe!” a high female voice called to him as he opened the door.

He recognized the little doe faun as she trotted in between the taller passersby, clutching an envelope to her chest. She wore a blue spruce wreath on her head today, a scarf of a matching pale blue bundled around her neck. Little white snowflakes embroidered along its length gave her the appearance of being caught in a puckish winter wind. The black faun waved a red-nailed hand to get his attention, and he shut the door to wait for her. She arrived a moment later, breathless but excited.

“Mr. Sharpe—”

“Please, call me Allen, Miss Edith.”

She bobbed her head, smiling brightly, and offered him the envelope. It was surprisingly thick. “I saw you from the shop window, and, well, I couldn’t wait until the Hanging of the Green tomorrow. Please, would you give this to Lilac for me?”

“Of course.” He slipped it into the inside pocket of his coat. “Is there a message you want me to give her too?”

Her smile widened as she turned on her hoof. “Not one for your ears. Ta-ta! And thank you!”

With a bemused smile on his face, he watched the little bookseller weave through the bustling streets back to her shop. When she was safe inside, he returned to the truck and headed to Hawthorne Hall.

After the ice skating incident, Lilac had locked herself away in her room. Her refusal to see anyone—except Rose when she brought up tea and soup—had hurt, but maybe she’d open the door for him when she learned he had a letter from her friend.

Then again, maybe not. As he now stood in front of her door, knocking gently a second time, there came no sound of movement from within. He could tell from her heartbeat and the rhythm of her breathing that she was physically fine, but he and his wolf were desperate to put eyes on her. To see the color in her cheeks, smell that fresh waterfall scent of hers . . . and maybe even receive a little reassurance?

With a sigh, he told the door, “Edith gave me an envelope for you in town. I’ll slip it under the door.”

He did then walked away. Misery—a feeling he was startled to recognize—threatened to rise, but Allen tamped it down like he did with every other useless emotion.

You don’t need her to like you, remember? In fact, jobs get more complicated when you do like your clients.

And that was the problem. He did genuinely like Boar, Rose, and Lilac. They’d only known each other for a handful of days, but Boar was already treating him like a trusted friend, Rose, like another brother, and Lilac . . .. She confused him, turned his mission—world—upside down and inside out. There was no reason for him to feel so strongly about her, and yet he couldn’t help it. And so he had opened himself up to hurt. To rejection.

Like it was anything different than what he experienced day in and day out of being a Nemean wolf.

With an angry huff, Allen jogged downstairs to see what he could do about extending those wards.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Huddled in the bay window of the attic overlooking the pond, Lilac clutched Edith’s letter to her chest. Unwilling to socialize, she’d come to hide beyond the maze of boxes in the attic and read more of Forgotten Lore of the Arcane—she’d just finished the section on green sparks and was on to the witch’s knot. But first, the little bookseller’s letter, and now her heartbeat was as erratic as a hummingbird evading a persistent cat. What she had first thought was a commiserative missive had in truth filled her with joy.

Dearest Lilac,

I have done something terribly wicked.

I stole your totes.

Yes, I am the thief who took all those bottles and jars with the smudged labels before your brother could find them, spirited them away to my bookshop, painstakingly relabeled them (I now have arthritis in my right hand, thank you very much), and set them up for sale in the window under a “Potions by Lilac” sign.

Can we still be friends?

Perhaps the enclosed cash earned by the sales (you’ve sold out, by the way) and a waitlist of interested (and very impatient) buyers can persuade you to forgive me?

Yours truly,

Edith

She read the sassy little letter once more, hardly daring to believe that its words were true.

“Oh my Green Mother,” she whispered, “I’ve done it. I’ve finally done it!”