A Bill in the Welcome Basket
Iscream.
I mean, of course I scream. Thankfully, it’s more of a yelp of shock than a prolonged screech of horror.
“No one mentioned you’re a shifter,” I breathe once I recover.
“I’m a mage,” the owl responds.
“How are you talking? Shifters can’t communicate while they’re in their animal form.”
“I’m not a shifter,” he says, exasperated. “I’m a mage.”
“Your beak isn’t moving.”
“You’re going to make this difficult, aren’t you?”
“Mages can’t turn into animals.”
“I can,” he grumbles. “I’ve just found it difficult to change back.”
I think about that for a moment. “You can’t turn back to your normal self?”
“I can. I just haven’t accomplished it yet.”
“So…you can’t.”
He ruffles his feathers, peering at me with his unblinking eyes.
“Are we related?” I ask. “Is that why my aunt was taking care of you?”
“I’m a grown man and take care of myself. And did I say I’m a pixie? I did not. I said I’m a mage. So, what do you think? Are we related?”
“What I think is that you’re a little sassy considering you’re the size of one of those big-eyed, collectible stuffed animals.”
“A what?”
“The stuffed animals with the name tags—you know what, never mind. Mages can be part pixie, too, you know. They’re not all just high fae and human.”
Most are, though, because pixie magic is fussy and cannot be passed to the next generation if one parent is a different race.
“There isn’t a mage alive who wields pixie magic,” he says haughtily, like he thinks I’m simple and don’t know how our fae genetics work.
“I didn’t claim they would wield pixie magic. I’m just saying that if a high fae were to have a child with—” I cut myself off. “You know what? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. Why did my aunt include your care in her will?”
“I’m here because Laverna was a friend when I was young. She took me in when…” He doesn’t seem eager to finish that sentence.
“You grew feathers?”
I distinctly hear his long-suffering sigh, but again, his beak doesn’t move. “Yes.”
“How are you talking to me? If you can use your magic to speak, why can’t you turn yourself back?”
He’s silent for a moment, like he doesn’t want to tell me. Finally, he admits, “I’m wearing an amulet.”
On closer inspection, I see the small pendant. It’s on a thin chain, almost hidden in the soft, short feathers around his neck.
Nodding, I step back and study him.
If he’s this fussy as an owl, I imagine he must have been an insufferable man, and therefore, it probably rankles him quite a lot that he needed my aunt’s assistance.
“How long have you been like this?” I ask.
“I’ve lost track of the years.”
A long time then. Laverna was eighty-seven when she passed. Rowan said they were friends. That means he’s probably close to the same age, though who knows how long that is in bird years.
Chester whines, eager to be off his leash.
“I have to walk the yard and make sure it’s safe to let you out,” I tell the dog. Then to Rowan, I say, “I’ll be back.”
“You don’t have to report your whereabouts to me.”
Choosing to ignore that, I head for the door. “Do you want to come out with us? How long have you been trapped in the house? I imagine your cage must be a mess.” I shudder, realizing I’m going to have to clean it.
“I don’t have a cage, and I come and go as I please,” he says disdainfully, following us out anyway.
Nearing evening now, the sun is lower in the sky, and the light is becoming golden.
I pause once I step onto the garden path, enchanted by the flowers.
They’re messy, and many desperately need deadheading.
Masses of peonies topple over without proper staking, and there are more than a few weeds hiding amongst the perennials.
I sigh, momentarily content.
“You’re a summer,” Rowan says when he alights on the branch of a nearby maple tree, affected by my magic like Hudson was.
“So was Laverna,” I point out.
He makes a noise, this one in owl. It’s a soft, haunting “hoo.”
“Is that a problem?” I push through the flowers, taking the path that leads around the side of the house.
“No.”
I don’t ask him to elaborate because my focus is on my new home.
The yard is large by today’s standards, probably half an acre, and it’s full-to-bursting with trees, shrubs, and more flowers.
There’s an old garden shed in the back that’s built from the same rock as the house, a greenhouse that could use a good scrubbing, a birdbath, and a freestanding porch swing between two massive lilacs that are covered in fat, elongated clusters of perfumed purple flowers.
The fence is short, only about three feet tall, but the white-painted pickets are in good condition. Beyond it, there’s forest. Maples are mixed with birches, alders, hemlocks, and oaks. Though it’s beautiful now, it’s going to be stunning in the fall.
A house is just visible to the west, peeking through the dense trees. It’s far enough that you couldn’t yell to your neighbor and hope they’d understand you.
The solitude is welcome, even if it feels like I’m trespassing in someone else’s yard. Eventually, it will feel like mine. At least I hope it will.
Deciding the area is secure, I let Chester loose. He takes off like a furry rocket, running down the path and disappearing into the flowers. He’ll be happy for hours.
“What is the point of a dog the size of a cat?” Rowan asks. He’s been following me from tree to tree, watching me with his disconcertingly intense gaze.
“He doesn’t need a purpose.”
“His ancestors pulled sleds, but humans have bred him to be so tiny, he’s useless.”
“Chester could pull a small sled. A gnome sled, possibly.” I smile at the image of a pack of pomskies dashing through the snow, pulling a tiny fae musher.
Rowan looks away—the owl version of an eye roll.
“I take it you don’t like gnomes any more than you like pixies?”
“I never said I don’t like pixies.” He pauses. “Or gnomes for that matter.”
I laugh, watching Chester chase a grasshopper.
“I like pixies just fine,” he insists. “Some seasons more than others.”
“Which seasons don’t you like?”
“Spring.”
“Spring?” I ask, surprised because I expected him to say winter. Spring is the vivacious season, the one most people adore…whether they choose to or not.
He extends his wings, looking like he’s shrugging.
“But you admit you don’t mind summer pixies?”
“Your magic is cute, though arguably worthless, and most of you are pleasant enough to be around even if your season has a tendency to be a bit vapid.”
“Careful—I think you’d fit in a soup pot.”
He chuckles, and it’s a nice sound.
At least he has a sense of humor. Maybe we’ll figure out how to become friends. Though I wish someone had warned me I’d be living with a mage-turned-owl and not a regular owl. Rowan went from a pet to a roommate the moment he started talking, and I wasn’t prepared.
“I’m going to go inside and start unpacking,” I say. “I don’t suppose Laverna had tea, did she?”
“Of course there’s tea,” he scoffs, following me. “Laverna owned a tea shop. And I’ll take a cup as well.”
“You can drink tea?”
“I’ve been craving a nice Taiwanese oolong—high mountain preferably. Jin Xuan, I think.”
I hold the door for him. “I have no idea what that is, but I guess that answers my question. Come on—show me where to find everything.”
“Will your rat dog be all right out here by himself? It would be a shame if something large and carnivorous were to take off with him.”
I give him a grim smile. “He’ll be fine, but thank you for your concern.”
Rowan leads me to the kitchen and lands on a perch near the breakfast nook table. There’s a small pet door installed in the wall behind it. At least I won’t have to let him in and out constantly.
“The kettle is on the stove,” he says.
Even though the cottage looks like it was plucked from a fairy tale, the appliances are modern. The gas range is built into the butcher-block countertop. There are two stacked stainless-steel ovens set into the wall, and a tall, elegant faucet lords over the sink.
“Where’s the fridge?” I ask, scanning the kitchen. “And is there a dishwasher?”
Please let there be a dishwasher.
“They’re designed to blend in with the cabinets,” Rowan says proudly, like it was his idea. And maybe it was. “The dishwasher is to the right of the sink. The refrigerator is directly behind you.”
I turn, and sure enough, the panels on the front of the fridge perfectly match the sage-green cabinets. An open doorway next to it leads into a small dining room with a dark wooden table and a side buffet.
Feeling like I’m snooping, I acquaint myself with the kitchen. Someone cleaned out the fridge, leaving nothing but an open box of baking soda. The cabinets hold glass jars of flour, sugar, and other long-lasting baking items.
And one cabinet is filled with nothing but tins of loose-leaf tea and glass jars of flavored honey.
“There are so many types,” I say, browsing the collection. “I don’t recognize half of these. Longjing, CTC Assam, First Flush Darjeeling FTGFOP, Alishan Oolong, Jin Jun Mei… Oh. Earl Grey. I’m familiar with that one.”
“Laverna loved all tea,” Rowan says.
I open a tin and sniff the contents. “I’ve never made loose tea like this—only the stuff that comes in tea bags.”
“Help us all,” he mutters. Then, louder, he says, “You can use the teapot, or there are various infusers in the drawer under the tea cabinet—though I warn you, many are novelty creations Laverna received as gifts and won’t make a proper cup of tea.”
I sort through the drawer, slightly overwhelmed by the tea paraphernalia.
Several of the infusers are shaped like steel mesh cups, almost as large as a mug.
They have a wide rim that I’m assuming holds them in place while the tea is brewing.
Others are round mesh balls with a handle.
One is shaped like a mouse, and another is a heart.
Some have chains. Some don’t even make sense.
“Has the shop been closed since my aunt passed away?” I ask as I shuffle through the drawer. “Did anyone work for her?”