My gaze slides to the garden bench alongside my hut, and sure enough, the delicate young flowers have all been transplanted into their own squares of soil, and they stand with their petals reaching for the autumn sunlight.
Suspicious, I shift my gaze to her again. And I watch her. And watch her some more.
A wrinkle forms in her brow, and she crosses her arms. “What are you looking at?”
My eyes narrow. “You’re not sneezing.”
The suspicion goes from her expression, and she smiles at me. No,beams. It lights up her whole face, crinkles her freckles into shapes like constellations in the summer sky.
And it makes my chest feel funny. Not in a good way.
“Nope. No sneezing for me.”
An incredulous breath slips from me, and before I can stop it, I say, “Impressive.”
“You didn’t think I could do it?” She cants her head. The look in her vibrant crimson eyes tells me she likes to rise to challenges. Somehow, I’m not surprised.
“Truly?” I cross my arms. “No. I thought you’d sneeze all the way back to the castle.”
“Well, joke’s on you.”
This time the sound that leaves me is a laugh. And it makes the witch arch a brow. “Joke’s on me,” I repeat, glancing once more at the tray of transplants. “Did you water them?”
“Nope.” She reaches her arms overhead and stretches like her back is sore. “Figured I’d already done enough hard work for today.”
“Huh. Figured.”
The carrot cake I baked sends a delicious cinnamon-nutmeg scent swirling out of the hut from behind me, and the witch sniffs the air.
Immediately, her gaze tries to slide around me, but my frame blocks the doorway so fully that I imagine she can’t see much.
“Hungry?” I ask.
She starts to shake her head, but then her stomach growls. Loudly.
And her cheeks turn a shade of red that reminds me of the chrysanthemums growing in my garden.
With a jut of my chin toward the back of the hut, I say, “Go sit down. I’ll bring you a slice.”
She starts to take a step back. “It’s fine, I’ll just—”
Suddenly, a rat appears from the pocket of her sweater, squeaking up a racket and startling me enough that I take a step back. It sounds like a lecture—and a firm one at that. The witch looks down at the rat, then back at me, then sighs. Her stomach growls again.
“All right. Fine.” Her crimson eyes meet mine and narrow slightly. “But I hope you’re a good cook.”
I huff out another laugh. “Wash your hands in the basin. Can’t have you getting everything dirty.”
Her face contorts into an expression that tells me she’s about to launch another sharp comment in my direction, but I slip into my hut and close the door before it can leaveher lips. And when I hear her grumbling and stomping off on the other side of the door, for some reason, I smile.
Even though I probably shouldn’t.
THE WITCH’S EYES WIDEN AS I settle the platter of freshly frosted carrot cake onto the bistro table in the garden, followed by two small plates—well, small to me, but they look like full-size dinner plates compared to her. I’m around students and faculty often, and yet I feel the small stature of this fire witch more clearly than I do with the others. Maybe because they don’t sit at my table and eat off my plates.
“You made this?” she asks. Her gaze still hasn’t left the cake.
It steams in the autumn air, and every breath I take is scented with spices and sugar against the earthy smell from the forest just behind us.
With a sigh, I pull out my chair and take a seat. The witch’s rat friend pops out of her sweater pocket to look at me.
