Chapter 4 #2
“Save it.” Marlene lifted a hand. “Just be careful. He’s a good man, but he’s been through it. Some stories don’t make it into files.”
With that cryptic warning, Marlene turned on her heel and left with the chicken still nestled under her arm.
As Honey watched her retreating back, an uneasy feeling lingered. She was here to do a job. Whatever history this Ethan Hale had with the bureau was irrelevant. She gave herself a mental shake.
Honey surveyed her surroundings with each step toward the porch. She would not be caught unprepared again should another of those birds decide to take up with her.
As she approached the farmhouse, she studied the details. It was painted a sun-faded yellow with a wide white porch. A tricycle lay abandoned in the middle of the walkway, and she carefully stepped over it.
Honey’s mom made sure she knew how to notice the flow of magic through a place.
The signs were often subtle. In the city, it looked like a flower blooming in the crack of a sidewalk, or a lamppost that flickered in time with a busker’s song.
Sometimes it looked like a cat curling up exactly where a sunbeam would land before it hit the floor.
Here, if you paid attention, the magic showed itself too.
There was nothing particularly special about the wind chime hanging from the porch—just a collection of colored glass tied with string—but its delicate tinkle sang despite the still air.
She tried to trace the signs, to follow the flow of magic, but much like the roads in town, it didn’t seem to follow a single path.
On the lawn, a small cluster of clovers had grown in a perfect circle, bright and green against the otherwise tidy grass.
At the center, someone had sprinkled a small handful of pink flower petals, as if offering a tribute. Honey stopped mid-step.
At least one member of the Hale family noticed the magic too.
That was a problem. Kids could be especially perceptive when it came to magic. They saw what adults overlooked and an unregulated wishing well in a place where children clearly lived? That was a recipe for disaster. No matter how little she liked being away from home, she was glad she’d come.
Someone had to set things right.
Honey climbed the creaking steps to the porch, a file tucked under one arm and resolve tucked under the other.
A pile of shoes—muddy boots, tiny sneakers, a single sparkly ballet flat—sat in a heap beside the door.
They were all toppled over and mixed together, but she resisted the itch to bend down and sort them by size and purpose.
Before she could knock, the door swung open and a cacophony of sound burst out.
A little girl, no higher than Honey’s waist, stood on the threshold, wearing a tutu and what was presumably a princess pajama shirt with a suspicious purple stain on the chest. Her hair stuck out in a halo of curls and the one sock she had on was inside out.
Somewhere inside the house, a thud sounded and a dog barked. A timer beeped frantically from the kitchen. Someone yelled, “Dad, Pickles chewed on my backpack again!” A door slammed. The dog barked again.
“Well, hello,” Honey said, clearing her throat. “I’m here to—”
“I’m not supposed to open the door for strangers,” the girl said, putting her hands on either side of the door frame as if expecting Honey to barrel her way through.
“That seems like a sensible rule.” Honey gave a tight smile and tried not to stare at the smear of jelly on the doorframe. “Can you get your father for me?”
“Daddy!” the girl shrieked over her shoulder.
A deep voice answered from within the house. “Baby, I told you to put your shoes on. We really can’t be late again.”
Footsteps. Then, a man came into sight, and Honey forgot how to breathe.
Ethan Hale looked like he’d been poured straight out of a hot farmer calendar.
He was barefoot, broad-shouldered, and built like he split wood for fun.
Honey found herself unreasonably aware of the fact that he was half-dressed.
His flannel shirt was misbuttoned, and as he fastened the remaining buttons anyway, Honey found herself resisting the urge to fix it for him.
“Melly,” he said, already rubbing his temples. “What did I say about opening the door unless it’s me or Marlene?”
Then, without pausing, he flicked his gaze toward Honey. “We’re not interested, thanks.”
“I’m not—” Honey started.
A clatter like a miniature stampede sounded behind him.
A baby goat burst into the room at full tilt, hooves skittering wildly on the hardwood, a crumpled piece of construction paper clamped between its teeth.
Close behind came a gangly preteen girl with clumsily braided hair.
She hurdled a laundry basket and nearly tripped on a pile of Legos in pursuit.
“Emma.” Ethan sighed.
“Dad, do something!” Emma shouted back.
The goat bleated, then made a sharp left and launched itself onto the couch. A pillow went flying, and Emma skidded, somehow toppling sideways.
With the exception of the goat, who happily trotted in a circle, everyone sat stunned for a moment. A picture frame clinked off the wall onto the floor but miraculously didn’t shatter.
The girl sat up with a groan and found a half-unwrapped lollipop had fused itself to the back of her hair.
“Ugh!” she wailed. “It’s in my braid!”
Ethan stepped forward, scooped the goat midair, turned to Honey, and shoved it into her arms. “Just one second.”
“Sir, this is not…” She held the goat aloft.
The creature was absurdly solid for its size, with short, coarse hair the color of old snow and disproportionately large hooves that dangled as she held it.
One ear stuck out at a rakish angle, and its little beard twitched as it let out a disgruntled bleat.
Ethan was already kneeling by Emma and gently peeling the lollipop from her hair with the skill of a man who’d done it a hundred times before. “Go finish getting dressed,” he muttered once he’d detached it. “And for the love of god, hurry please. Ms. Marrow will have my head if you’re late again.”
Emma stomped off.
Scraping a hand across his face, Ethan leaned against the island counter.
She felt bad for him. The man wore a five o’clock shadow despite it being barely 9 a.m. Clearly, the family and the house needed a bit of order, and some people were just not naturally inclined to do so.
The goat nibbled at the cuff of her blazer, and she shifted the creature in her arms. It was remarkably warm and now making small snuffling noises into her collarbone. She sighed.
This was not how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to arrive, flash her badge, and be escorted to the well with nothing more than maybe a polite offer of tea. Instead, she was holding livestock while a man she barely knew seemed on the verge of collapsing.
“Sir…” Honey said.
“I’m sorry. Can I help you with something?” He finally looked at her.
His eyes were a deep brown, and when they landed on her, something in her chest fluttered entirely against her will.
She took a deep breath, trying not to let on how flustered she was by his direct attention.
It had been a long time since she’d felt so off-kilter.
It must have been the commotion she’d walked in on and the warm wriggling lump burrowing into her arms.
Nothing more than that.
“Yes,” she said briskly. “Honey Baxter, senior auditor from the Bureau of Magical Compliance. We have an appointment this morning for me to begin looking over your well.”
He looked up at the ceiling and closed his eyes. She watched the rise and fall of his chest as he took a slow, measured breath.
“Get out,” he said, with his eyes still closed.
For a moment, Honey thought she must have misheard. But when he opened his eyes and looked at her, the flash of anger was unmistakable. He took one step toward her. “I said out.”
She thrust the goat toward him, and he grabbed ahold of it. “As I explained in my message, I need to audit your well. A wishing well left unchecked for twenty years is—”
“Listen. I know you’re just doing your job. But we’re fine. No one touches the well. There is nothing you need to concern yourself with on my property.”
Honey knew this to be false. She crossed her arms. “That’s categorically untrue. Even if the well had somehow run dry, I noted a remarkably disjointed stream of magic in the short walk from my car to your front door. And at least one of your daughters knows it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Ethan asked. “Are you accusing my kid of something?”
“It means all is not okay.” She took a breath and then pointed behind him. “Your children are late for school, there’s a miniature goat terrorizing your living room, and I'm not even going to start on the rabid chicken you’ve got wandering around your yard.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“I’m here because it is precisely my business.
” Honey straightened her blazer, her confidence coming back along with the indignation.
“When it comes down to it, I have a job to do, same as you, Mr. Hale. My time is valuable. The longer you stall, the more unstable the well becomes. Which, frankly, is irresponsible. If a residual wish slips out and attaches itself to your kids—”
“Stop.” Ethan bent and placed the goat gently down, giving it a small pat. Then he straightened to his full height, towering over her. His eyes were sharp and dark, no longer tired. “You don’t get to walk up here and lecture me on how I raise my family or run my home.”
“I’m not lecturing, I’m reporting. There's a difference.” Honey backed up a step now, the weight of the door at her spine. “Your well is flagged. My arrival is not a suggestion.”
He leaned forward just enough that she backpedaled. “And this is my door. My land. My family. You can file whatever report you want, but you’re not welcome here.”
“Mr. Hale, please be reasonable.”
“No.”
The door slammed in her face, and the wind chimes gave one startled jangle before falling silent.