Chapter Six
Bridget Winslow
A Mighty Fine Pirate
The Firefly Cottage Inn’s dining room is a whirlwind of activity. The air is thick with the aroma of coffee, bacon, and something sweet. Pancakes, maybe.
I pause at the threshold, taking in the scene.
Families cluster around tables, bleary-eyed parents corralling excited children.
Ren Faire enthusiasts in partial costume chatter animatedly, their fingers sticky with syrup as they gesture wildly.
In one corner, a group of somber-faced adults speak in hushed tones—more fire victims, I suspect.
Weaving through the chaos, I make my way to the buffet. A harried-looking woman in a Firefly Inn polo shirt replenishes a tray of scrambled eggs, offering me a distracted smile as I approach.
“Quite a crowd,” I remark, selecting a plate.
She nods, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. “Busiest weekend of the year, what with the Faire. Though the fire’s made things even crazier.” Her eyes flick to the group in the corner. “Those poor folks…at least they’re safe, I suppose. A few injuries, but no fatalities.”
I murmur agreement, filing away her words for later consideration. As I load my plate with eggs and fruit, I keep my ears open, catching fragments of conversation from nearby tables.
“…heard the Gallaghers lost everything…”
Who are the Gallaghers? There’s definitely more than one displaced family in this inn.
“…can’t wait for the joust! Did you see they brought in real horses this year?”
“…insurance is giving us the runaround. I don’t know what we’re going to do…”
Finding an empty seat proves challenging, but I eventually settle at a small table near the window. From here, I have a clear view of the street outside, already bustling with activity. Colorful banners flutter in the morning breeze, and costumed figures mingle with tourists and locals alike.
As I sip my coffee—bitter and over-brewed, nothing like the carefully prepared blends back home—I consider my next move.
The Faire provides excellent cover for information gathering, but it also complicates matters.
How am I supposed to find one witch in this sea of people playing at magick and fantasy?
A burst of laughter draws my attention to a nearby table. A group of teenagers, already dressed in elaborate costumes, are poring over a schedule of events.
“The next pirate sword-fighting show is at eleven a.m.,” one of them says, her eyes shining with excitement. “We can’t miss that. I heard the guy that does the show is amazing.”
Her friend nods enthusiastically. “Oh yeah, Bast? I saw him warming up earlier this morning. He’s like movie-star handsome. And he does this whole Jack Sparrow thing that’s just…wow.”
My heart rate quickens as I strain to hear more, but the girls have already moved on to discussing other events.
Outside the window, a group of children run by, wooden swords clacking as they play.
Their laughter mingles with the distant strains of medieval music—someone tuning up for the day’s performances.
Focus, little dove.
The memory hits without warning—Elsa’s voice sharp as a blade as she circles me in the training yard. I’m sixteen, muscles trembling from holding the same fighting stance for over an hour while reciting information about my target.
“Again,” she commands. “Every detail matters.”
“Target frequents the café on Third Street between two and four p.m. daily,” I repeat mechanically, sweat running down my back. “Orders chai tea with honey. Tips exactly fifteen percent. Lives alone. No pets. No—”
Her hand cracks across my face, breaking my stance. “Wrong. She has a cat. Orange tabby. These details matter, Bridget. The smallest oversight can reveal you as an outsider.”
I reset my stance, tasting blood where my teeth cut into my cheek. “Yes, Trainer.”
“The Court requires perfection.” Elsa’s fingers grip my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. “You have potential, little dove. But potential means nothing without absolute dedication. Now start over. Every detail.”
My muscles scream as I begin again, determined to prove myself worthy of the Court’s trust. Of Elsa’s training. It’s the only way to keep Brianna safe.
A child’s squeal of excitement outside pulls me back to the present. My hands tremble slightly as I grip my coffee cup. The carefree laughter of children playing at combat feels like a mockery of my own training. They have no idea what real fighting is like. What it costs.
I finish my meal quickly, eager to begin my reconnaissance.
Meredith is unlikely to pop out of a booth and attack me.
She won’t recognize me—I wasn’t even born when she was at Salem Court.
But I might not recognize her either. The picture I have of her is over twenty-five years old.
Someone around here must know where she lives.
As I stand to leave, I overhear one last snippet of conversation from a nearby table.
“Did you see that tea and coffee booth? The one with all the crystals and herbs?”
“Oh yeah, it’s wild. The Mystic Brew is here in White Fork and the Steeping Cauldron is up the river in Ash Hollow. They always do a booth together at the Faire. The owners are super-nice ladies.”
Might as well start looking around a booth I know is run by witches.
Depositing my dishes in the collection bin, I take one last look around the dining room at the strange mix of families and children and the obvious tourists here for the Faire before exiting through the lobby doors.
I step out into the crisp morning mountain air and square my shoulders.
Time to see what secrets this little town will give up to me.
The main street of White Fork has transformed overnight into a scene plucked from a storybook.
Vendor stalls line the sidewalks, full to the brim with all kinds of trinkets, baked goods, and costumes.
The scent of cinnamon and woodsmoke mingles with the sharp pine air, creating an intoxicating blend that momentarily overwhelms my senses.
Costumed performers weave through the growing crowds—jugglers tossing glittering balls high into the air, musicians strumming lutes and pipes, and actors in elaborate period dress proclaiming the day’s events in booming voices. It’s a rainbow of color and sound and actually rather enjoyable.
Nope. Don’t get distracted, Bridget. I’m not here as a tourist. I have a mission to complete.
Scanning the crowd, I look for any sign of Rachel or the mysterious movie-star-pirate-Bast the girls spoke about.
If they’re regulars at the Faire, they’re more likely to know Meredith if she lived in this town.
As I make my way down the street, I marvel at the open display of real and fake magickal items for sale. Crystal pendants catch the sunlight, sending rainbow refractions dancing across weathered wooden stalls. Bundles of dried herbs hang from rafters, their pungent scents mingling in the air.
In Salem, there’s so many occult and Wiccan things out for sale all the time, but it’s fake and harmless. No real spells. No real magick. The coven makes sure of it. Here, it’s like the witches have the whole town in on their secret.
I’m so lost in my observations that I almost miss it—a flash of familiar face in the crowd ahead. Rachel. I track her movement through the throng. She’s speaking animatedly to someone, her hands gesturing wildly as she laughs.
Then the crowd parts, and I catch my first glimpse of the man she’s talking to. My breath catches in my throat.
He’s…stunning. Tall and lean, with a rakish grin that seems to light up the entire street.
His costume is impeccable—the spitting image of Jack Sparrow, from the weather-beaten tricorn hat to the scuffed leather boots.
But it’s his eyes that capture me, dark and intense, sparkling with mischief and something deeper… something almost familiar.
This must be Bast. The teenagers at breakfast hadn’t exaggerated—he is movie-star handsome, and then some. There’s a magnetism about him that draws the eye, an easy confidence in the way he moves.
I realize I’m staring and force myself to look away, my cheeks burning.
What’s wrong with me? I’m here on a mission, not to gawk at some Ren Faire performer, no matter how attractive he might be.
But even as I try to focus on Rachel, to glean any useful information from their interaction, I find my gaze drawn back to the man I assume to be Bast.
How many Jack Sparrow performers are there?
He throws his head back in laughter at something Rachel says, and the sound carries across the crowded street. It’s rich and warm, like honey poured over gravel, and I feel an answering smile tug at my own lips before I can stop it.
I edge closer, straining to hear their conversation over the general noise of the Faire. I need to stay focused, to remember why I’m here. Meredith Banfield is still out there somewhere, and every moment I waste is another moment my sister spends in that cold, dark cell.
But as I watch Rachel and Bast, their easy camaraderie, evident in every gesture, makes me feel left out. Which is stupid. I don’t know either of them. I’m not trying to be anyone’s friend.
When Bast’s gaze suddenly snaps up, locking with mine across the crowded street, I feel a jolt of…something. Recognition? Which is dumb, I’ve never met him. Fear? Which is also stupid, I’m not afraid of anyone…except the Mathairs. Attraction? Absolutely not acceptable. Stay on mission, Bridget.
For a single moment the rest of the world falls away, leaving just the two of us, connected by an invisible thread of…what? Then someone jostles me, breaking the spell. I blink, disoriented, and when I look back, Bast and Rachel have disappeared into the crowd flowing into the sword arena.
Guess I’m going to a pirate show.
I follow the flow of people toward what appears to be the main event area. A makeshift arena has been set up, hay bales forming a rough circle around a cleared space. Colorful flags flutter from poles, adding to the festive atmosphere.
Children and teens, many dressed in pirate costumes, gather eagerly at the edge of the arena. Their energy is infectious, faces flushed with anticipation. Parents stand behind them, phones at the ready to snap pictures or record.
A hush falls over the crowd as a figure strides into the arena.
“Ahoy, me hearties!” His voice booms across the arena, that honey-gravel tone sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. “Who among ye landlubbers dares to challenge the mighty Captain Jack Sparrow?”
The children erupt in cheers, many waving their toy swords in the air. Bast grins, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he surveys the crowd. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s looking right at me, but then he turns, selecting a young boy from the crowd.
What follows is part performance, part lesson, and all entertainment. Bast guides the child through basic sword-fighting stances, his patience evident even as he stays in character. Soon, more children join in, and the arena becomes a whirlwind of clacking wooden swords and peals of laughter.
Bast is in constant motion, alternating between exaggerated pirate swagger and genuine instruction. He parries a blow from one child, spins to encourage another, all while keeping up a stream of pirate small talk that has both kids and adults in stitches.
I find myself drawn to watch him again despite my best efforts to maintain detachment. There’s something mesmerizing about the way Bast moves. I can’t explain it and I can’t turn away.
As the demonstration reaches its climax, Bast takes on multiple “opponents” at once, his movements a blur of controlled chaos. He leaps onto a hay bale, toy sword swishing through the air as he fends off his pint-sized attackers.
“You’ll always remember this as the day you almost caught Captain Jack Sparrow!” he declares, executing a backflip off the bale that draws gasps and applause from the crowd.
Landing in a crouch, Bast rises slowly, pushing his hat back on his head. His eyes scan the crowd, and this time, I’m certain—he’s looking right at me. The world narrows again, the cheers of the crowd fading to a distant roar as our gazes lock for the second time and I can’t look away.
I want to touch him. Desperately. It feels like hunger. The type of hunger that can’t ever be satisfied. Panic flares in my chest and with it my control comes crashing back down in full force. What the hell is happening to me?
I turn and push my way through the crowd. My heart pounds in my ears as I stumble away from the arena, desperate to put distance between myself and whatever just happened.
I can’t afford to be distracted by a nice-looking man. That is not what I’m here for.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a shop window and freeze, heart dropping into the pit of my stomach. My eyes are glowing!
I duck into a quiet alley, leaning against the cool brick as I try to catch my breath.
Hands shaking, I fumble for my phone and use the front-facing camera as a mirror.
My eyes are still glowing—emerald green, instead of brown like they’re supposed to be.
I blink rapidly, willing the unnatural luminescence to disappear.
It doesn’t.
“This can’t be happening,” I mutter, pressing my palms against my eyes. Did another witch cast a spell on me. Rachel? Or someone else? How many witches are in this town? No one would know I’m a witch. There’s no way to tell that just by looking at me.
As the initial shock subsides, a horrifying thought strikes me. What if someone saw my eyes? I replay the moment in my mind—the crowded arena, all eyes on Bast. But his eyes had been on me. Had he seen my glowing eyes—the spell someone cast on me?
I peek out from the alley, scanning the bustling street. No one seems to be paying me any attention. Which is good because my eyes are still glowing green. The unfamiliar magick pulses inside me, alive and unwanted and out to ruin everything I care about.
I say a quick cleansing spell under my breath and then check my eyes in camera on my phone again.
Nothing’s changed. Still green.
I rifle through my bag and pull out a pair of dark sunglasses. If I can’t show my eyes, so be it, but I will not let some backwoods mountain witch chase me off of Meredith’s trail…
Though, what if it’s Meredith herself? What if she’s watching me? What if she’s the one casting the spell trying to out me in public? Causing a spectacle around me would be a perfect way to evade discovery herself…
I shove the glasses on my face, take a deep breath, and stand tall. You’ve got this, Bridget. Go find your witch.