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Sometimes I have very little common sense.
He might be strange, and rude, and more than a little frightening - hell, he didn’t even show me respect by meeting my gaze - but Rafe Gallagher intrigued me.
“Move, now,” he repeated. From this close he smelled of smoke and burning herbs, though I saw no evidence of fire.
Gathering my courage, I looked directly into those amber glasses, and though it might have been a trick of the light, it seemed his eyes were wholly black.
I got out of his way, though it may have been closer to a jump than a dignified step. He brushed past without another word. I stood, my witchlight dwindling, until I could no longer hear his footsteps through the brush.
Rafe Gallagher was not a boy and he possessed more power than the Witches’ Council knew. And unless I was very wrong, something almost demonic had stared at me through his eyes.
Could he have the Ferox Cor?
As his footsteps faded, the normal music of the forest resumed, the fluttering and crackle of birds and small creatures creating a reassuring counterpoint to what I had experienced. The rain resumed in earnest, giving me little choice but to return to the house. As much as I dreaded it, I couldn’t stand out here in the woods until Monday.
Once I’d cleared the forest, I let the witchlight go out completely. Either the sun set early here or I’d spent more time outside than I’d realized. An oil lamp shone through the house’s windows, a comforting beacon, even as the intermittent light from the tower pierced the gloom.
With luck, I’d be able to talk to Miss Barnes alone. A weatherwitch would likely have with a better understanding of earth magic than I did, and while she couldn’t tell me what Rafe had been doing out there in the woods, she might have some rational explanation for his eyes.
At the very least, I needed to warn her.
Luck was with me. I hung my wet coat and hat in the bedroom, angling the armoire door so the jacket wouldn’t drip on the bedclothes, and found her alone in the kitchen. She had her back to the door and stirred something that smelled like chicken soup.
“Miss Barnes?” I kept my voice pitched low. “I’ve just had the most disturbing experience. Do you know where Mrs. Gallagher is?”
“Aren’t we passed the Miss Barnes and Mr. Fairchild stage?” She spoke without turning around. “You’re welcome to call me Margaret if I may call you Vincent. After all”—she shot me a smile over her shoulder—“we’re stuck here for the time being.”
Smiling at her unexpected offer, I came further into the kitchen. My boots squelched on the linoleum floor but at least I didn’t leave a trail of mud. “All right, Margaret.” Her name felt comfortable on my tongue, as if we’d known each other longer than just these few days. “You’re right. High time we became more familiar.”
She raised an eyebrow and her tone had some starch in it. “Notthatfamiliar, I hope.”
“Oh no.” I held my hands up, appalled. “I don’t mean to be disrespectful.”
Margaret’s laugh was closer to a snicker. “Hogwash. Now what is it you wanted to tell me?”
I took a seat at the small kitchen table, tracing the outline of a squirrel that had been carved lightly in the wooden surface. “I’d hoped to find a path through the woods, you see,” I began, then told her what I’d witnessed. “I’ve never studied earth magic. There was no need in the city. Have you? And does any of this make sense?”
She stared soberly into the soup, stirring more slowly as if the action allowed her mind to go free. “A weatherwitch must learn earth magic.” Her words were thoughtful, carefully chosen as if I’d judge her for them.
“But it sounds more like he was looking for something,” she said, “rather than trying to pull power from the ground.”
“That was my impression, yes, but the power seemed to come whether or not someone called it.”
“Hmm.” She stirred more quickly. “I wonder if he can see. The glasses, the blackened eyes, the way he had you find his cane make me think he might be blind.”
“He moves around easily enough, but he does seem to look past the person he’s talking to. It makes you wonder..”
“Wonder what?” Mrs. Gallagher strode through the kitchen door. Her hair and her shoulders were damp, as if she’d been outside without a coat.
I smiled up at her, thinking quickly. “Whether it ever does stop raining here.”
“You should have planned your visit for July,” she said, dismissing me with a glance. “I hope that soup didn’t burn.”
“No, ma’am,” Margaret said. “My mama still has a wood fired stove, so I’m used to the peculiarities.”
“We’ll eat, then.” Mrs. Gallagher went to a cupboard and pulled out four generous-sized bowls, the four spoons. She took one of the loaves of bread – a lovely San Francisco sourdough – and put it on a cutting board. “You can serve yourselves and cut your own bread. Rafe and I will eat later.”
On the one hand, her plan made sense. There were only two chairs, and all four of us wouldn’t have fit around the table even if there were more. How had they managed when Martin was still alive?
