Chapter 12
Salem Common had transformed into autumn’s best argument for New England charm.
Hay bales lined the walkways. Pumpkins glowed orange against the dying grass. Children darted between booths selling cider and caramel apples while their parents pretended not to be just as excited about the kettle corn.
Gwen loved this festival. Had loved it since she was Andrina’s age, running between attractions with sticky fingers and leaves in her hair.
But this year, she had something new to appreciate.
“Ye look pleased with yourself,” Forbes said, falling into step beside her.
“I’m pleased with autumn. And cider. And—” She glanced at him sideways. “—the company isn’t terrible.”
“High praise.”
“I’m a generous person.”
He laughed, and the sound settled warm inside her. They’d arrived separately—Gwen from her cottage, Forbes with the MacBean family—but somehow found each other within five minutes. Like magnets, Sydney would say. Gwen preferred to call it good timing.
“The MacBeans are already at the pumpkin carving,” Forbes said. “Andrina has very specific ideas about what constitutes an acceptable jack-o’-lantern. I was informed that round faces are ‘boring’ and she wants a Highland warrior.”
“Of course she does.”
“Alan seems confident he can deliver. I have my doubts, but I wasnae brave enough tae say so.”
“Smart man.”
They wandered through the festival together, shoulders brushing, hands occasionally finding each other.
It felt easy in a way that surprised Gwen.
After last night’s kiss—after the confessions and the wine and the way Forbes had looked at her in the lamplight—she’d half-expected today to be awkward.
Charged with significance and unspoken questions.
Instead, it was just... nice. Comfortable. Like they’d been doing this for years instead of days.
As they passed the kettle corn stand, the smell of butter and sugar wafting toward them, Gwen made a decision.
“Say ‘kettle corn’ again.”
Forbes blinked. “Why?”
“Your accent is doing something for me and I’d like to take notes.”
His cheeks actually flushed. She watched it happen with deep satisfaction.
“Ye’re dangerous,” he said.
“Good.” She smiled sweetly. “Someone should be.”
“There you are!” Lilith appeared from the crowd, Sinclair on her hip and fond exasperation on her face. “Alan’s been looking for you. Something about needing a second opinion on sword angles.”
“Sword angles,” Forbes repeated.
“For the pumpkin warrior. Apparently it’s a matter of historical accuracy.” Lilith’s eyes sparkled. “I told him it’s a vegetable, but he’s very committed.”
“I’ll go offer my expertise.” Forbes squeezed Gwen’s hand briefly before heading toward the carving station.
Lilith watched him go with a knowing smile. “He’s settling in nicely.”
“He’s here for research.”
“Mm-hmm.” Lilith shifted Sinclair to her other hip. “And I married Alan for his cooking skills.”
“You did marry him for his cooking skills. You’ve said so.”
“Among other things.” Her smile softened. “I’m glad you found someone, Gwen. You deserve someone who looks at you the way Forbes does.”
Gwen felt heat rise in her cheeks. “We’ve known each other less than two weeks.”
“I knew within two days that Alan was it for me. Sometimes you just know.” Lilith touched her arm gently. “Don’t overthink it. Just enjoy it.”
Before Gwen could respond, Sinclair went rigid in Lilith’s arms.
“Mama.” His small voice had changed—distant, dreamy, like he was listening to something none of them could hear. “It’s talking.”
Something careful crossed Lilith’s face. “What’s talking, baby?”
Sinclair’s head turned slowly toward the old oak at the center of the Common. The tree had stood there for three hundred years, its branches bare now, reaching toward the gray October sky like grasping fingers.
“The hungry thing,” he whispered. “It’s waking up.”
The air seemed to thicken. Gwen felt it press against her skin—that same wrongness she’d sensed in her mother’s kitchen, the cold that wasn’t temperature.
“Sinclair.” Lilith’s voice was steady, but Gwen caught the tension beneath. “Look at Mama. What do you see?”
The boy blinked. Once. Twice. The dreamy quality faded, replaced by something more like confusion—and fear.
“I don’t know.” His lower lip trembled. “But it doesn’t like us. It’s been waiting for a long time, and it doesn’t like us at all.”
He buried his face in Lilith’s shoulder, and Gwen saw her friend’s arms tighten around him. Over Sinclair’s head, Lilith met Gwen’s eyes.
The look wasn’t surprise. It was confirmation.
You feel it too?
She did. Something faint and wrong, like a note slightly out of tune. The shadows under the old oak seemed darker than they should be for a sunny October afternoon.
Then Andrina came running up with a caramel apple bigger than her face, and the moment passed.
“Miss Gwen! Da made the pumpkin warrior and it has a REAL sword!” She grabbed Gwen’s hand and tugged. “Come see, come see!”
Gwen let herself be pulled toward the carving station, filing away Sinclair’s words for later. Samhain was approaching fast. Whatever was building, it could wait until after the festival.
Probably.
The pumpkin warrior was, admittedly, impressive.
Alan had carved an intricate Highland face into the orange flesh—fierce expression, wild hair suggested by clever cuts, and what appeared to be a tiny wooden sword attached to the stem.
“It’s historically accurate,” Alan said with enormous dignity.
“It’s a pumpkin,” Kinloch pointed out.
“A historically accurate pumpkin.”
Forbes was studying the carving with genuine appreciation. “The detail on the face is remarkable. Where did ye learn to do this?”
“Practice.” Alan’s face softened slightly. “I’ve had time to pick up hobbies.”
Gwen leaned toward Forbes, pitching her voice low. “If he gives it a clan tartan, we’re leaving. I refuse to be shown up by a gourd.”
Forbes’s mouth twitched. “I dinnae ken... if I lose ye tae a pumpkin with better cheekbones, that’s on me.”
“Relax. Your cheekbones are safe.” She paused. “Probably.”
His quiet laugh lit her from the inside.
Something passed between Alan and Forbes then—an acknowledgment of things left unsaid. Forbes nodded slowly.
“Well,” he said, “if ye ever want tae illustrate a book about Highland warriors, I ken a publisher who’d be interested.”
Alan’s surprised laugh transformed his whole face. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Gwen watched the exchange with quiet pleasure. Forbes fit here. With the MacBeans, with Salem, with her. It shouldn’t have worked—skeptical Scottish novelist and small-town witch community—but somehow it did.
“Gwen Bishop?”
The voice came from behind her, sharp and professional.
She turned to find a woman with short blonde hair and a camera around her neck, smile bright and eyes calculating.
“Jessica Platt,” the woman said. “I’m writing a piece on Salem’s supernatural tourism industry. Mind if I ask a few questions?”
Gwen felt Forbes appear at her shoulder—not quite touching, but close enough that she could feel his presence.
“I’m not really the person to talk to about tourism,” Gwen said pleasantly. “The Chamber of Commerce handles that.”
“But you run ghost tours, don’t you? Authentic historical experiences with a supernatural twist?” Jessica’s smile didn’t waver. “I’m curious about the line between entertainment and... belief. Do you actually think you’re communicating with the dead, or is it more of a performance?”
“My tours focus on documented history,” Gwen said, keeping her voice even. “The supernatural elements are part of Salem’s cultural heritage. Whether people believe in them is personal.”
“And you? Do you believe?”
Forbes shifted beside her, and Gwen could feel his tension. But she didn’t need rescuing.
“I believe in respecting the dead,” she said calmly. “I believe in telling true stories about real people who suffered real injustice. I believe that Salem’s history matters beyond its commercial value.” She met Jessica’s eyes directly. “Is that the kind of quote you’re looking for?”
Surprise crossed Jessica’s face—there and gone in an instant.
“That’s very diplomatic.”
“I’m a historian. We’re good at diplomatic.” Gwen smiled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I promised to help judge the pie contest. Good luck with your article.”
She turned and walked away, Forbes falling into step beside her.
As Jessica disappeared into the crowd, Forbes said, deadpan: “Should I be offended that she never asked for my opinion on the supernatural?”
“Oh, she assessed you instantly.”
“And decided what?”
“That you’re trouble.” Gwen glanced at him sideways. “She’s not wrong.”
Forbes’s face softened. “Aye, but I’m your trouble.”
Her chest fluttered. “I suppose you are.”
They found a quiet spot near the cider booth, away from the crowds. The afternoon sun was starting to sink, casting everything in golden light. Somewhere nearby, children were laughing, and the smell of woodsmoke and apples hung in the air.
“This is nice,” Forbes said.
“The festival?”
“All of it.” He turned to face her, his eyes gentle. “The festival. The MacBeans. You.” He reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I didnae expect any of this when I came tae Salem.”
“What did you expect?”
“Research. Libraries. Maybe some good seafood.” His thumb traced her cheekbone lightly. “Instead, I got magic and pumpkin warriors and a woman who makes me want tae stay longer than I should.”
Gwen’s heart did something complicated. “How much longer?”
“I havenae decided yet.” But his eyes said he was thinking about it. “Ask me again after Samhain.”
“That’s less than three weeks away.”
“Aye.” He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I’m aware.”
Gwen smiled. “Forehead kisses are dangerous.”
“How so?”
“They’re gateway gestures.”
Forbes’s soft laugh stirred her hair. “Aye. I’m hoping so.”
They stood like that for a moment, close and quiet, the festival continuing around them. Gwen let herself lean into him, just slightly. Let herself enjoy his steadiness and the warmth of his attention.
Less than three weeks until Samhain. Whatever was coming—Jessica’s article, the wrongness Sinclair had sensed, the thinning veil—it could wait.
Right now, there was cider and autumn light and a Scottish novelist who was her trouble.
That was enough.