Chapter 7
Cairn
I GRAB MY THICK OVEN mitts and pull the cake tray from the oven, then set it on a heat mat to cool in the light breeze coming through the open window. It smells so good, I want to dive into it now, but it needs to cool before I frost it. And that’ll take a while yet.
Removing my oven mitts, I realize I left the fire witch working on the sniffleblooms. I got so distracted getting the fresh produce put away and whipping up a carrot cake that I completely forgot she was out there working.
And now I feel a bit like an asshole. There’s a reason I’m a groundskeeper and not a professor. I don’t do well with babysitting.
Shit. She probably got bored and wandered off. Hopefully Lysandra doesn’t see her and—
I yank open the door to my hut and come face-to-face—or rather, chest to face, seeing as how small she is—with the witch. Her messy red curls are knotted atop her head, her fingers are stained with soil, and the look on her face is more victorious than it has any reason to be.
“I’m done,” she announces, more than a hint of pride coloring her tone.
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 leave her 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.
“Yes.”
Her gaze slides slowly from the cake to me. She arches a brow. It’s so pointy, it almost looks dangerous.
Something about it irks me, like a thorn piercing through my glove and right into my finger. “What?” I grumble.
“I don’t believe you.” She sniffs the air. “It smells . . . good.”
“And you think I’m incapable of such a thing?”
This time when she tips her head, a stray red curl tumbles across her cheek. “Yup.”
“Fine.” I reach for her plate, meaning to take it and put it away. Seems she won’t be needing it. But she snatches it up at the last moment, her thin pale fingers brushing mine.
And they’re warm. Almost hot. Like she has a fever. Or like a fire burns just beneath her skin.
“You don’t want it, give it back.” I hold my hand out, trying to ignore the funny feeling the brief brush of our fingers caused in me. I tell myself it’s just because I haven’t touched anyone—or been touched—in so long.
“I didn’t say I don’t want it. Just that I don’t think you made this.”
“Right. The kitchen sprites did.”
Her eyes widen. “I knew it.”
A heavy sigh whooshes out of me. I’m too hungry for her nonsense.
Taking up the knife, I carefully slice myself a piece of carrot cake and move it onto my plate. And only when I’ve taken a bite and closed my eyes at how perfect I got the buttercream frosting does the witch finally cut her own slice and give it a try.
“Goddesses spare me,” she says around a mouthful of cake and frosting. Her whole body slumps, like her bones went soft at one taste of my perfect recipe. She shovels another forkful into her mouth. “Juniper, you’ve got to try this.”
I arch a brow as the rat climbs cheerfully out of the witch’s sweater pocket and takes a seat at the edge of the plate, scooping little pawfuls of cake up, whiskers twitching.
Must be the witch’s spirit companion, surely. There’re all sorts of exotic animals around here. I’d know, since I’m the one who often has to clean up after them. That’s one of my least favorite jobs—by far.
I’m only halfway through my slice when the witch sits back in her chair with a groan, the plate empty in front of her, save for the rat—Juniper?—licking up the crumbs. “That was way too good. I think I’m in a food coma already.”
I smile just a bit—it’s been a while since anyone tried my cooking. Always feels good to feed someone something they appreciate. Even if she is just a delinquent student.
She stretches her arms overhead, yawns, and then levels her crimson gaze on me.
And something in it makes the hair on the back of my neck stand on end—though whether in a good way or a bad way, I’m not yet sure.
“So . . . I don’t see you around much.”
I take another bite and shrug my shoulders. I’m around plenty; I just prefer to do my work out of sight. Means I have to talk to fewer people that way.
The witch leans forward, arms crossed on my bistro table. It makes me lean away from her, though I’m not quite sure why.
“You a recluse or something?”
The laugh that slips out of me is surprising. I don’t laugh much, especially around the students. They’re usually just a weed in the garden that is my day. But this fire witch has disturbed the soil, and she’s making everything feel a bit . . . different.
“Something like that,” I say. After taking my last bite of carrot cake and savoring the sweetness, I wipe my mouth with a linen napkin and level a stare at her. If she wants to talk so badly, maybe she can talk about herself. “What’d you do to land in community service?”
Her forehead crinkles, a sharpness appearing in her eyes.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
She groans and crosses her arms. “I set the greenhouse on fire. On accident.”
I know that part; Lysandra explained the matter when she sat down with me in my hut a few weeks ago. That wasn’t exactly what I was getting at. But small talk isn’t my forte.
With a tip of my head, I clarify, “Why?”
“Why what?”
My brow arches. She knows what.
The witch groans again. “I don’t know, okay? I just . . .” She lifts her hands out in front of her, staring at them like they’re a riddle she doesn’t understand. “My magic is hard to control.”
“Isn’t it tied to your emotions?”
Her nose wrinkles. “What, you’re an expert on fire magic now?”
Narrowing my eyes, I say, “I’ve been here for years, witch. I know how things work.”
“It’s Lyra,” she snaps. Pushing up from her chair, she glowers down at me. “And I don’t need magic tips from a minotaur.”
I stand, and I can’t help but to be slightly impressed when she doesn’t so much as bat an eye as I tower over her. If I wanted to, I could swoop her up with one arm and chuck her over my shoulder without breaking a sweat.
Not that I want to. But still.
“It’s Cairn,” I grumble, infusing my words with the same amount of venom she injected into hers.
A flicker goes through her eyes, a softening that smooths the wrinkle in her forehead. But a breath later, the moment passes, and fire flickers to life in her gaze—and on her fingers.
“Keep those away from here. I’ll not have you burning my home to the ground.”
The witch, Lyra, looks down, and I can see the moment she realizes what’s going on. Her cheeks turn a shade of pink, and she clenches her hands into fists, extinguishing the flames amidst little puffs of smoke.
“Come on, Juniper. We’ve done enough groundskeeping for the day.”
I think that was meant to be an insult, but I couldn’t care less.
“Don’t burn anything on your way back,” I say as I gather up our utensils and napkins.
“Very funny.” She holds her hand out, and Juniper clambers into her palm.
Seems dangerous to me, considering the flames that were just dancing across her fingers, but I say nothing.
Then Lyra turns on a muddy heel and stomps—yes, stomps—away from my hut, her boots thumping along the path leading toward the castle.
Heat smolders in my chest as I watch her go, a mixture of irritation and something I can’t quite get my thumb on yet. Without thinking on it, I snatch our dirty dishes off the bistro table and return to my hut, wondering if I shouldn’t have shared my carrot cake with her after all.