Chapter 29
Gwyn had known when she agreed to serve on the Graves Glen Halloween Season Planning Committee, it wasn’t going to be a great time, but she was still somehow surprised by the amount of paperwork involved.
“Everyone has their folder, right?” Jane asked, standing at the head of the table in the tiny town hall where they had these meetings, and Gwyn glanced around at the other committee members, all of whom, like Gwyn, had a folder that looked like it had to contain at least fifty thousand sheets of paper. There were vendor forms for the Fall Festival, and sign-up sheets for what stores would be doing which Halloween events, plus a bunch of waivers, and, Gwyn thought, maybe the entire town charter.
Gwyn had been to a handful of these meetings over the past few months, but she’d mostly let Vivi be the Jones Family Representative at these things. She probably should’ve realized that this, the last meeting before the Graves Glen Gathering, aka their first big Halloween season event, was going to take Jane to her highest and most intense Jane Level.
Across the table, Morgan was sitting up straight, her hands folded, nails a deep maroon, and when she caught Gwyn looking at her, she offered a quick smile, her eyes briefly flicking to Jane and then back to Gwyn, widening slightly in a So this is a lot kind of look.
The kind of look Gwyn usually gave Vivi at these things, if she was honest.
Gwyn smiled back, but there was still a little bit of queasy guilt in her stomach over her big scene at Morgan’s the other day.
Or maybe that was just the terrible coffee they served in the town hall.
Or, she reflected as Jane began to talk about the new artisanal popcorn truck that would be at the Gathering this year, it was because worry about her magic and what had happened was starting to gnaw at her.
Over the past few days, Gwyn hadn’t thought of much else, and researching ways to fix whatever was broken had started taking up all of her free time.
She and Wells had tried a ritual meant to strengthen magic, hoping hers was maybe just tired. That had to be a thing, right?
But that hadn’t worked.
The Baby Witches found a spell that would dampen someone’s power (“Like a Wi-Fi blocker,” Parker had offered) but that was easy to undo. Drink springwater collected under a full moon, take a bath with quartz and salt, boom, dampener removed.
Gwyn had done all those things, and still no magic.
It was getting harder and harder to put off telling Vivi and Elaine, but Vivi was due home just before Halloween, and Elaine was hard to reach out there in the desert. Besides, it wasn’t the kind of thing she really wanted to tell them over the phone, and, secretly, she was hoping she could just fix it on her own without ever having to worry them.
There had to be a solution, after all. Look at what had happened to Rhys. It hadn’t been easy, but that situation had been a lot more dire, and they’d totally fixed it! Made things better, even.
So there was an answer somewhere—she just had to find it.
“And that’s good with you, Gwyn?”
Shit.
Glancing up, Gwyn saw Jane looking at her with those big brown eyes of hers, and wondered what exactly she was supposed to be good with, and how to get out of this without Jane realizing she’d tuned out the last five minutes or so.
“I think Gwyn has so much on her plate with Something Wicked that maybe someone else should worry about the glow sticks.” Morgan stepped in smoothly, flipping open her folder and making a note with a purple pen. “I can handle that, no problem.”
Jane sagged with relief like the future of every citizen’s survival depended on having glow sticks. “Thanks, Morgan. That will be perfect.”
The meeting broke up soon after that, and as Gwyn made her way outside, Morgan fell into step beside her.
“So this is behind the curtain,” she said, gesturing back toward the meeting room. “I have to say, when I was a student here, I had no idea how much effort the humans were putting into Halloween.”
Shifting her bag to her other shoulder, Gwyn took a deep breath of the crisp night air. “Trust me, it wasn’t always this intense. We did Founder’s Day, and of course Halloween was big, but Jane added the Fall Festival, and now that Founder’s Day is the Graves Glen Gathering, she’s going even harder. Next year, none of us will be able to sleep from September first to Samhain, probably.”
Morgan laughed softly at that, her heels clicking on the sidewalk. “It’s fun, though. Seeing this time of year through their eyes.”
The night was cool, and Gwyn tugged her leather jacket more tightly around her as leaves skittered down the street. “When you put it like that, it does sound kind of fun,” Gwyn acknowledged, and glanced over at Morgan.
“I think you actually enjoy the planning committee. Massive folders and all.”
“The massive folders are a big part of the appeal, yes.”
“Not to gild the lily, but if you stay friendly with Jane, she might even give you a label maker at some point.”
“Ooooh, now that is the dream.”
They both laughed then, and Gwyn stopped, turning to look at Morgan, the night wind blowing her hair back from her face.
“Still feeling really bad about basically thinking you were evil,” she said, and Morgan dismissed that with a wave of her hand.
“It’s fine,” Morgan said, kicking at a stray leaf with the toe of one elegant high heel. “I mean, I would’ve been suspicious, too. I come back to town all of a sudden, I have this weird house and all this crazy magic stuff in the attic.”
She gave Gwyn a slightly chagrined smile. “And I have always been a little try-hard, I know. You just always seemed so cool to me back at college, and now you’re basically running this place with your magic, and I . . . I wanted you to like me.”
“I do,” Gwyn said, reaching out and giving Morgan’s arm a little squeeze. “Seriously. And I like you even more now that you’ve saved me from tracking down ten thousand glow sticks.”
Groaning, Morgan tipped her head back. “Don’t remind me. At least she wants those for Halloween, not the Gathering. I’ve still got time.”
Then she looked back down at Gwyn, frowning. “Do you think I can maybe just make those? With magic?”
“It might be worth a shot,” Gwyn said, smiling even as her stomach sank a little. “And I’d help you, but . . . ”
She trailed off, and now it was Morgan’s turn to touch her arm. “Still no magic?”
“No,” Gwyn said, sighing, then tried to give her most confident hair toss. “But we’re on it.”
“If you need any help, I’m here for you,” Morgan said. “And I can look through all that stuff I have up in the attic. Not,” she added, holding up one hand, “the really scary-looking stuff. But there are some old books and things up there, might be worth it to try? Why don’t you come by next week?”
Gwyn nodded even as the thought of spending any more time in that attic made her shudder. “I just might do that,” she said, and the scary thing was, she actually meant it. If she and Wells couldn’t figure this thing out soon, even a terrifying attic full of ancient torture devices didn’t sound so bad.
She and Morgan said good night, and Gwyn walked the rest of the block to where her truck was parked.
Wells was supposed to be waiting for her back at her cabin so they could work on more solutions for restoring her magic, but when Gwyn opened the door, it was clear an entirely different kind of sorcery was brewing.
Following the mouthwatering scent filling the house, Gwyn walked into the kitchen to see Wells standing at her stove, her biggest soup pot bubbling away on the burner. He had a dishcloth tucked into his belt and was humming to himself as he stirred, and Gwyn leaned against the doorframe, happy to watch him without him knowing for a bit.
It wasn’t just that there was something deeply appealing about a man who knew how to cook—although that could not be discounted—and it wasn’t how good he looked there in her kitchen, his hair a little mussed, his sleeves rolled up. It was the feeling in her chest at how comfortable he seemed there in her kitchen, in her world, Sir Purrcival twining around his ankles, clearly hoping for a sample of whatever was in that pot.
Wells felt right here. In her space. With her and her cat, slipping right into things like there had always been a Wells-shaped hole in her life.
And the scariest part of that was it didn’t scare her at all.
“Mama! Mama mama mama SOUP treats!”
Wells turned around then, and Gwyn pointed a finger at her cat, narrowing her eyes. “Snitch,” she said, and Purrcival trotted over, coming up on his back legs as he pressed his front paws to her leg, stretching.
Bending down to pick up Purrcival, Gwyn nodded toward the stove. “Please tell me that’s almost ready because I’ve never smelled anything so good in my entire life.”
Clearly pleased with himself, Wells smiled, giving the pot another stir before lifting the wooden spoon and blowing over it, offering her a quick taste.
She leaned in, and yes, whatever it was he was cooking tasted just as divine as it smelled, and she widened her eyes at him. “Esquire, you never mentioned you were a Kitchen Witch.”
He huffed out a laugh, reaching over and swiping a bit of the stew from her lower lip with his thumb, a simple touch that still had warmth spreading throughout her body.
“I’m not,” he said, turning back to the pot. “I simply had a lot of time to practice my cooking skills whilst no one came into my pub.”
Putting Sir Purrcival back down, Gwyn crossed to the sink to wash her hands before grabbing a couple of bowls and spoons. As Wells ladled out the soup, she asked, “So why were you there? In Wales running a pub no one went to? I mean, you’re clearly a super-talented witch, why pour beers for a living.”
“Excuse me, I was pulling pints,” Wells corrected, carrying both soup bowls to the table. He’d lit candles, she saw, the nice bayberry ones her mom had made, and that made her bite back a smile as she took her seat.
“And,” Wells continued, sitting across from her, “it was more than just a pub. It had once been an Anchor Point.”
“What’s that?” Gwyn asked, tearing off a hunk of bread from the plate Wells had placed in the center of the table.
“Old bit of magic,” he said. “Not unlike the ley lines here, but not as strong. Basically, my family planted a spark of their magic in the center of what would become the village of Dweniniaid, sort of . . . staking a claim against other witches, I guess. Any other witch who came into the area would be able to sense there was already a coven there.”
“So does that magic fuel you up or something?” Gwyn asked, intrigued, and Wells shook his head.
“No, nothing like that. It’s more just a bit of our history, and it was important to Da that it be preserved. So I ran the pub and did the odd spell and rune work to keep that little bit of magic alive.”
“And now that you’re not there, it’ll die?”
Wells shrugged, scooping up a spoonful of soup. “More like a candle going out. But honestly, it was time. We were just delaying the inevitable, and I think Da finally understood that.”
Gwyn stirred her spoon through her soup. “So that’s why you left school,” she said. “To be the keeper of the flame as it were.”
He nodded. “My uncle had been there for ages, but when he died, a Penhallow needed to take his place, so . . . ”
He trailed off, and for a long moment, they were quiet, the only sound the scraping of their spoons and the wind rattling the trees just beyond the front porch.
“I met your dad,” Gwyn finally said, and Wells looked up, his eyes very blue in the candlelight.
“Oh, I am aware,” he said, and she laughed at that, pushing her hair back off her shoulders.
“We were not each other’s biggest fan,” she said, and Wells snorted, shaking his head as he looked back down at his bowl.
“He’s all bark, not much bite,” he said, but Gwyn remembered how Simon had sat at this very table, glowering at all of them, and wasn’t sure that was actually true.
“I know he can come across as . . . well, I’m sure Rhys would have the appropriately colorful term for it, but he wasn’t always like that. I think when my mother died, he found it easier to retreat into his magic and his family history, all of that. It gave him something to focus on instead of his pain.”
Reaching across the table, Gwyn gave his hand a quick squeeze. “Rhys said your mom was pretty great.”
Wells returned the squeeze with a tight smile before drawing his hand back. “He doesn’t remember her. Not really. He was only four when she died. Bowen was just five. I don’t think he has many memories of her, either, and certainly not of her and Da together.”
“But you do,” Gwyn said, and he nodded.
“She was a lot like Rhys, actually. Funny. Charming. She was good for Da, and without her, I think he was . . . lost, really. Magic gave him something to hold on to, something that made him feel connected to the world again.”
Wells gave another one of those smiles that wasn’t really a smile at all. “It can certainly be a little much at times, his obsession with family legacy, but I’ll take the grumpy old sod quizzing me about some Penhallow who died in 1432 over what he was those months after Mam died.”
Gwyn nodded even as her heart broke just the littlest bit. It made sense now, Wells’s dutifulness, his loyalty to his father. But if Rhys had been four, that meant Wells had only been seven. Seven years old, his mom gone, his brothers so little, and his father lost in grief.
“Christ, this is not the dinner conversation I’d expected us to have tonight,” Wells said, turning back to his soup. “Just a few weeks in America, and look at me, talking about feelings.”
Gwyn smiled and kicked his foot gently under the table. “It’s a slippery slope from talking about your childhood to starting an Instagram that’s nothing but sunset pictures and inspirational quotes, Esquire.”
“Duly noted.” He glanced back up at her. “What about you? I don’t think I’ve ever heard you mention your father.”
“Taliesin?” Gwyn shrugged. “He’s great, but he’s definitely a father only in the strictest, biological sense. Mom decided she was ready to have a baby but didn’t want all the hang-ups that came along with marriage or co-parenting and all that. So she very sensibly picked the cutest, nicest guy at the Ren Faire in Tennessee, et voilà.” Gwyn gestured to herself. “Moi. He sends me a card on my birthday—I mean, in the general vicinity of my birthday, he’s sweet but kind of a flake—and we’re friends on social media, but that’s about as far as it goes. Which works for me. Mom was all I needed.”
Gwyn missed her mom, she realized, and wondered what Elaine would say about Wells. She hadn’t liked Simon, either, but she adored Rhys. And it was easy to picture Elaine at this table with them, Wells a part of things.
Part of the family.
More thoughts she shouldn’t be thinking, and yet . . .
“So, what do you think your dad would feel about all this?” Gwyn asked, gesturing between the two of them with her spoon.
Wells placed his own spoon beside his bowl and laced his fingers together, studying her. “The two of us eating soup together?” he asked. “Or the two of us working together to restore your magic?”
“The two of us banging,” she replied, and he gave that huffed laugh again, sitting back slightly, his hair falling over his forehead.
“Well, as I’m not in the business of talking about my personal life with my father, I can safely say that is a bridge we need not cross anytime soon.”
But we will have to cross it, Gwyn thought. If we keep doing this.
And she was pretty sure they were going to keep doing this.
As if to illustrate the point, Sir Purrcival sauntered over, and rather than trying to jump up in the middle of the table, curled up peacefully on the floor next to Wells’s chair, tilting his head to look up at him.
“Esquire,” he said, his little voice sleepy and fond, and Wells chuckled, leaning down to pet him.
And suddenly Gwyn knew she was in very, very deep trouble.