Robin continued on to stop in the bathroom, abruptly aware of the need to.
Splashing water on his face did not banish the lingering fuzziness at the edge of his awareness, and it made him shiver more. Glancing up into the mirror above the sink, he saw shadows beneath his eyes and a startling growth of stubble, two days’ worth at least.
Marise, hanging on the longest of all of them, had teased Robin about his five o’clock shadow since puberty. Robin, fussy eventhen and still fussy now, was never satisfied with how it looked and inevitably shaved it off. It was a soothing ritual anyway, using the cup and kit his grandfather had given him, old-fashioned though it was. Robinwasold-fashioned, probably a consequence of being raised by those in their twilight years. Or maybe he would have been regardless.
The shaving kit was nowhere to be seen in the downstairs bathroom, although Robin’s toothbrush was by the sink, along with a boar bristle brush for his hair. He frowned at his reflection after drying his face, and ran the brush through his short, loose curls once before it stuck in the tangles.
He tugged it free and set it down it by the sink. Then he left the bathroom in search of something to eat.
Actually, he might get a drink first. His throat was as parched as the rest of him, so much so that it burned when he swallowed.
He passed the small tapestry hanging beneath the stairs without looking at it, or at any of the framed vintage photographs around it, or at the crocheted lace on the cabinets and tables down the rest of the front hall. He barely looked up at all, and was grateful for it when he flicked the kitchen light switch and was nearly blinded by the sudden influx of close, brilliant light.
He blinked away stars for several seconds, seconds spent shivering as well, since the kitchen was much colder than the rest of the house without the stove or oven in use, and the tiled floor was mostly bare.
He went to the sink first for a glass of water, taking a careful sip as he peered out the window into the dark of night. There must have been heavy clouds since he couldn’t see the moon or any stars. He couldn’t see much of the yard, either, though someof the smaller sheds and one of the old sheep pens were not far from the back door.
The weather, he remembered belatedly, had been a special concern of late. Amy Parris, the last of her generation with remarkable Sight, had anticipated this and set things in motion with the two kings. But, from what Robin had gleaned, Ravenscroft was not immune to the hazards of the outside world, and even powerful forces like Holly and Oak could not entirely protect them. Robin was certain, though no one had said—not to him, anyway, insignificant as he was—that even the Kings of Winter and Summer were struggling.
They were only human, after all. Coven members often forgot that fact, concerned with their needs and fears. They were right to worry. Ravenscroft had tourists but was still essentially a farming community. But Robin had always thought that those working so hard for them, the kings, the Widow Parris, the marked ones, had worries too, not that the coven seemed to care much.
A bitter thought that his grandmother would have tutted over without actually disagreeing and his grandfather would have stated in much more direct terms. The Blessings and then the Redfernes had originally built this house out here for the acreage and the sheep, but most of them had stayed out here to avoid dealing with town, and coven, matters.
The ones that hadn’t stayed had left the area, never to return.
Robin jumped at a flare of lightning in the distance, revealing thick, rolling clouds. The third storm in as many weeks. Farms would be damaged and that mattered. Maybe the coven was right to be alarmed. Without anyone as strong as Amy Parris to help guide them, they might get desperate.
He dropped his head, staring at the dishes in the sink for several moments before recognizing the bowl he’d used that morning for his breakfast, along with his coffee mug and a spoon. Nothing else. Had he not eaten lunch? Or dinner?
The water in the bowl was clear enough to offer a reflection. Robin blinked away clouds and did not look.
Another shiver ran down his back, strong enough to almost knock him off his feet.
“Tea,” he decided hoarsely. To warm him up. Maybe he’d put in honey to ease his throat.
He filled the kettle, keeping his gaze away from the water pooled in the bottom of the bowl he’d used for his oatmeal. That had taken the last of the oats, Robin remembered finally, as well as the last of the honey.
He sighed heavily but went to the stove to get the water going for his tea.
He opened the cabinet where the more popular tea blends, both blessed and unblessed, were stored, and then several tins that didn’t have enough tea in them to make even a single cup. He left the cabinet open to cross the kitchen to the pantry at the other end. There, he stopped, staring for far too long out of gritty, dry eyes.
There should have at least been some packets of teabags that vendors sometimes sent as gifts or in sample packs to sweeten their offers. He saw no teabags… or much of anything. He considered a jar of pickles so old and unwanted that the date on the label was faded and unreadable, and then the rest of the bare shelves. Salt. He had salt and old pickles and—he double-checked—some confectioner’s sugar.
He wondered if that would dissolve well in tea. Maybe in coffee?
He took it with him as he shuffled back toward the stove, shivering as he went, and set it on the island in center of the kitchen when the weight was too much. At least he didn’t have the urgent press of a Christmas deadline. He hadn’t taken on clients like that in ages. Just commercial stuff these days, rugs and pillow covers for hotels that wanted to be different, but nottoodifferent. And personal items for coven members—who didn’t pay and rarely offered. Knitting wasn’t even Robin’s art of choice, although he liked it well enough for side projects. But that was what they usually asked for. Plenty of those in the coven and in town could knit for themselves, but the label of Blessing-Redferne still meant something in some places.
Yule was less about the giving of gifts, although some in the coven still exchanged presents with those who celebrated the other holiday. Robin was not sure for which holiday, if any, Persephone Greysmith had requested a shawl from him. But he liked her, so he had worked on her order first and finished her shawl the day before.
Oh. He had been going to clean up and take the shawl over to the Greysmith house tonight.
Maybe tomorrow.
He rubbed his stubbled cheek, certain he looked ridiculous with it and not sexy as some did. Yes, tomorrow, he’d take it over. Persephone, at least, had offered to pay him for the work. Robin had said no, as was expected, but Persephone remembered the old ways and had promised him some carved cedar statuettes for the closet shelves.
She wouldn’t carve them herself. It would more than likely be done by one of her adopted brothers. Persephone had so farshown little interest in any of the Greysmith trades and lines of work. That was another reason Robin liked her. She worked the front desk at a nail salon in town while she figured out which craft called to her, if any. She and Robin had the bond of the ‘not especially magically gifted in a well-known witch family.’
Persephone was at least out enjoying herself. But Robin wasn't the sort of witch to get a job among the outsiders any more than he was the sort to go play in a storm. He was boring compared to some of his notorious, and often executed, ancestors, on either side of the family. Even if the last few generations had settled down some, or at least learned to keep their idiosyncrasies confined to the farmhouse, Robin was still staid in comparison. No secret lovers. No witch trials. No desperate flights to the New World. No scandalizing small towns on the East Coast before sneaking off again. Not even any college or student protests and arrests like his great-aunt in the ‘60s.
