Cairn
AS THE AUTUMN SUN SLIPS lower in the sky and the air grows cold, I stack a few logs in the hearth and light a fire. Immediately, the warmth dances across my face and pulls a contented sigh out of me. There’s something about a warm fire on a crisp fall evening that will always comfort my soul.
After lighting the fire, I put some vegetable stew on the stove to heat up, then fetch my basket of medical supplies and go sit on the plush old couch in my sitting room.
“Come on, let’s see how it looks.” I gesture to the red fox I’ve been nursing back to health, and he yawns before pushing up from the nest of blankets I made for him and hobbling toward me. I found him in the woods last week while I was gathering mushrooms for a big creamy soup, and he allowed me to bring him home.
Many animals sense the nonhuman parts of me, and it helps them to develop trust with me more quickly than theyever would with a human. It certainly comes in handy when wildlife needs a bit of tending to.
The fox lets me lift him onto the couch next to me, and he only growls a little bit as I unwrap the cotton bandage from his paw.
“Looking better,” I say to him as I assess the wound on the pad of his paw. “Shouldn’t be much longer now and you’ll be good as new.”
Using a poultice I mixed up earlier, I apply it to the wound, then take up a fresh roll of cotton and bandage the paw, being careful not to pull it too tight. The fox is incredibly patient with me, and when I’m done, I settle him back onto the floor.
“All finished. But don’t bite at it, or we’ll have to rewrap it.”
He flicks his fluffy red tail at me, then retreats to his bed near the fire.
Even the wildest of creatures appreciate a soft place to rest their heads.
My stew is heated through now, and I wash my hands and put the medical supplies away before serving myself up a bowl—and grabbing a slice of carrot cake to have on the side. I carry the plates to the table and take a seat, but before I can dig in, I start to think ofher.
The fire witch.
My eyes are drawn to the window near my front door, where I know the sniffleblooms are still sitting in their little squares of soil, waiting for the sun to rise and bathe them in warmth.
I expected the witch to leave here in a fit of sneezing and sniffles—it’s happened to me on a number of occasions—but somehow, she was able to complete the task I’d assigned her without letting the delicate blossoms get to her.
She was so proud when she was finished, with that fiery look to her that told me she knew I’d given her a nearly impossible task but that she’d surpassed my expectations.
Suddenly, I find myself smiling, and my chest is getting a bit warm at the memory of her eyes, the focused furrow in her forehead as she worked, the twisty curl that fell across her cheek as she tipped her head at me.
And I realize with a jolt of dread what this warm feeling is.
I grip my spoon so tight I nearly bend the metal.
No, I scold myself.I don’t feel that way about her. I can’t.
I’ve spent years learning how to control everything in my life: my instincts, my anger, my emotions, my desires. After having my heart ripped out once already, I started keeping everyone at a distance, and I like it this way. It’s comfortable. It’s safe.
And the witch is anything but safe.
She’s a spark waiting to combust, one fireball away from losing her place at the academy. I’d be an absolute fool to indulge in these feelings that have started to creep up on me, that have started to make me notice the color of her eyes when the sun hits them and the shape her freckles make when she smiles or scowls.
Nothing about this is okay. She’s a student, a witch, nearly ten years my junior.
And I’ll not indulge in such ridiculous and inappropriate feelings. I’ll squash these emotions before they have another moment to take root.
With a decisive huff, I spoon another bite of soup into my mouth.
But somehow, it doesn’t taste quite as good as it did a moment ago. It’s blander, somehow.
And I try not to take that as a metaphor for my life.
I’m fine with my books and my cooking and my plants. I’m fine not having a woman to come home to at night or to hold in bed while snow falls and the air grows cold. And I’ll not let one cranky fire witch change everything I’ve worked so hard to build. That’s that.
Chapter 10
