Shortbread and Shadows - Amy Lane Page 0,8

and they were flying upside down, and they attacked Alex and the van, and….” Bartholomew shook his head. “You don’t even want to know what else was there. Our entire neighborhood is affected, and squirrels marching, like, single file! Like ‘Heigh ho! Heigh ho! It’s off for nuts we go!’ And oh my God! I think I saw a snake in our apple tree!” Bartholomew’s voice was pitching and he was getting a little hysterical, and he had to rein it in.

Lachlan’s beautiful hazel eyes widened, and Bartholomew wanted to die.

“That’s intense,” he said, completely focused on Bartholomew.

Bartholomew gaped at him. “Intense?” Some of his panic subsided. Maybe because Lachlan seemed… well, to believe him.

“Well, I think you’re leaving a lot out, but yeah. No wonder you need protection spells and binding thread and candles and such. How will you guys fix things?”

Bartholomew didn’t want to think about it. He sort of knew—the logic was unmistakable, and as much as magic was, well, magic, all things had a rhyme and a rhythm.

But he couldn’t do it. Not now. For one thing, it meant activating the entire coven, and for another, it meant… oh God. Did he really have to?

“Bartholomew, what are you thinking?”

“That I need to talk to the others and that today is going to really suck,” he muttered.

“You’re not going to tell me?” And hurt. Lachlan sounded hurt.

Bartholomew bit his bottom lip and felt that familiar helplessness, the one that bound his tongue and tied his heart and had haunted him for his entire life, but especially since he’d met Lachlan Stephens. “You’re just so… so pretty,” he managed, knowing he was staring at Lachlan with his heart in his eyes and unable to stop himself.

Lachlan’s intense look went slack and a little soft, and Bartholomew felt like he could breathe again. Then Lachlan’s smile turned supernuclear, and Bartholomew felt like he could fly.

“Yeah?” Lachlan asked.

“Yeah.”

“That’s a place to start. Let’s go make some magic!”

And Lachlan seized his hand and pulled him back out into the thick of the vending floor.

“BLACK, brown, and white?” Ellen asked, her sharp black eyebrows pulling up into wings in surprise.

“Yes, please.” Bartholomew gave her what he hoped was his most winning smile. “I think that would be best.”

“And about twenty yards of each?” she asked, to make sure.

“I’ll pay for the whole skein,” he said, holding his smile in place with the superglue of desperation.

She blinked, then went to one of the baskets she kept in her booth, which was full of brightly spun yarn. This particular basket held small “horsetails” of different coordinating colors, often used in kits.

“This bag has eight colors of fingering-weight yarn, fifty yards apiece. It runs fifty dollars. Are you sure you don’t want to run across town to a local craft store?”

Bartholomew swallowed. Well, there was a reason you didn’t quit your day job. “Was it spun with good intentions?” he asked, thinking that this alone would be worth the extra cost.

And it was Ellen’s turn to pause. “Well, yes,” she said, her brows lowering in a gentler kind of surprise. “I love spinning—it’s meditation and productivity and a certain sort of cosmic metaphor, all tied into one motion. If I’m angry, spinning helps. If I’m grieving, spinning helps. And since I card and dye the yarn as well, there’s a really lovely continuity there. And people who knit appreciate that.” Her surprise cranked up a notch. “This really is well-intentioned yarn. Imagine that.”

Bartholomew was already digging for his wallet. “See? That’ll make the spellwork—I mean stitchwork better.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed. “Spellwork?”

Augh! Bartholomew could never lie—why had he actually attempted it with this particular spell?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is it being spun with good intentions?” she mimicked.

Bartholomew thought of the upside-down starlings. “Yes, ma’am.”

She looked from Bartholomew to Lachlan. “Well, then. That particular bundle is on sale for half price. I take cards.”

Bartholomew would have paid her double, just for being kind.

“Nicely done,” Lachlan said as they took the little sampler packet and made their way to the candle booth. “Ellen isn’t a pushover. I’m surprised she gave that up for cheap!”

“Maybe she can smell desperation and the bottom of my bank account,” Bartholomew muttered. The van they’d driven in—the one he and Dante and Jordan had outfitted for catering, complete with refrigeration units and jump seats—hadn’t come cheap. Neither had the modifications to his kitchen, things he was still paying off. There had been a reason he’d written May my business please succeed, that’s the thing I really need