Mallory gave him the same study she’d given the house and probably for similar reasons. She spoke to her children without looking at them. “I’ll talk to Janie, see about scheduling.”
For which business, she didn’t say. The Greysmiths worked in home restoration but also some construction. Actually, Robin wasn’t sure the two businesses were separate, but their trucks did have the distinct names on the side. Lucas didn’t technically do that work. Lucas helped where it was needed, as far as Robin could tell, but the actual heavy work was done by others.
The raven on Lucas’ shoulder took off again, and it must have pushed hard for lift because Lucas paused to readjust his armfuls. Both birds flew to the other side of the porch to land on the railing and stare at Robin with beady eyes. Robin stared back until Mallory came up the steps to lead him inside with her arm in his.
She was tall, of course she was, with long dark hair, worn up, that wasn’t nearly as gray as her son’s. She was busty, her flannel straining a little over the buttons, something Flora had often complained about with store-bought clothes, and she had a friendly but knowing smile. The sort of smile a parent got, Robin imagined, from dealing with a house full of smart, often mischievous, but well-loved children who could light fires or summon storms if they really felt like it.
Well, Lucas could summon storms, conceivably. He probably wouldn’t, though. It took a lot, from what Robin understood,unless a storm was on its way already. And anyway, the avatars of winter and summer might not appreciate it.
“Hello, Mallory,” Robin finally remembered his words, although it was still difficult not to call her Ms. Greysmith.
Mallory stopped once inside the house to swoop down and pull Robin into her arms for a tight, tight hug. Robin closed his eyes without meaning to and swallowed until the urge to cry was gone. He turned away when she let him go, but he doubted he’d fooled her.
“Mallory,” he said again anyway, “Thank you for coming, but you know you didn’t have to do this.”
Mallory took Robin’s arm again to lead him down his own hallway. “Glad you got that out of your system, Blessing, but yes, we did. Lucas?” she called without turning around.
“Because of Christmas and Yule, firewood deliveries are a little behind,” Lucas said, passing behind them to the living room to put down both the box and the logs he’d been carrying. “So I brought some more logs from the house. And I asked her about Yule. I hope you ate something, Blessing.”
He grabbed the box again and went around them to the kitchen. He was back and empty-handed within seconds, heading toward the front door. Robin watched him go, but Mallory paused by the living room doorway so Robin had to pause too, then face her.
She looked over the couch and the blankets and clucked her tongue.
“I’ve got Lucas’ stuff and the other bag,” Persephone practically sang it, sweeping past them as well. “Lucas is getting the rest of the firewood.”
The fire in the living room fireplace, which had been low and close to burning out, flared back to life.
“So many rugs,” Robin breathed in realization, then frowned at Persephone. “Show-off.”
The fire was still going to need more fuel, in any case. Something that took no magic.
Mallory pressed on, peering through each open doorway and likely seeing every dust bunny and scuffed trim and stretch of sun-faded wallpaper. The dining room had been a makeshift bedroom for a while, and the wheels of a hospital bed had marked the floor there.
Mallory paused at the end of the hall, at the last door to the workroom, but made no move to go in.
The dog that strolled into the house, at that point, was almost to be expected. Stromwell, Mallory’s familiar and a shaggy mutt that gave the Sibleys and Brunswicks fits, came padding down the hall before going immediately into the living room and probably curling up on a pile of yarn.
Some familiars were sharp enough to pretend to be obedient around others, which was why one or two of them could be spotted in town with their witches. Stromwell was not one of those familiars. He went on work trips with Mallory but otherwise kept to the Greysmith house and property.
The ravens did not come in, as far as Robin saw before he was swept into the kitchen and once again deposited in the desk chair.
“I don’t understand,” he managed at last, watching Mallory and Persephone go through the box and the bag they’d brought in, while Lucas passed in and out of the room on the errands each sent him on. “Don’t you have work?” he asked Persephone whenshe started to make tea using a blend from a container that was not Robin’s.
“Next few days will be busy with the holiday rush.” She shrugged. “But the storms make it slow, so the owner told me to go home if I wanted, and this is more fun.”
“What is?” Robin looked between the two of them, then up to the ceiling when Mallory glanced up there. “What’s more fun?” He understood that they thought someone should keep an eye on him, and he was too weak to even attempt to stop them, but he didn’t understand this.
“Baking day,” Mallory declared with satisfaction, taking her attention away from whatever the restless spirits in the house were doing. “Ridiculous,” she went off, quietly indignant, “that the others in the coven would expect that much of you with you out here all alone except for the cobwebs.”
“I’ll take care of those,” Lucas promised, coming in the side door before vanishing again.
Robin watched him go, then turned to find Mallory’s eyes on him, sharp and interested.
He sat up. “Baking day?” he echoed innocently.
They did not mean bread, although some rolls were made, and Robin had slowly eaten two of them while sipping a constantly refilled cup of tea. Energized from this bit of food, he had tried multiple times to get up and help them and been sent back to his chair by Mallory feeling his forehead for more fever or tutting over his complexion.
He spent several hours feeling silly and useless watching the two of them set to work in his kitchen making treats for theMidwinter revels that apparently Robin had been supposed to make. At least he wasn’t expected to provide all the refreshments, just contribute, and the choice of what to make was up to him. Or would have been.
