“Rowan’s never gonna believe this,” Linden said, shaking her head. “If I’m allowed to tell him, that is. That forest is like his big-man kryptonite. I practically had to hold his hand on the way back, especially after Isidora socked him with the whim-whams.”
“What’s the story there, anyway? Talia claimed ignorance, and seemed legit about it.”
Linden tugged on one of her twists, pulling it taut. “I also have no idea, for once. Total systems shutdown when I asked about it on the way home.”
“Seriously? I thought you two were constitutionally incapable of keeping stuff like that from each other.”
“Yeah, we’re not huge on secrets, but it’s been known to happen. And when it does, ‘no prying’ is the rule.” She shuddered, making a face. “Tell you what, though, their energy was super bad, it was coming off Rowan like static electricity. That chick freaks him out almost as much as the Witch Woods—which, please say I can tell him you got to first base there and everything.” Her eyes shone at the prospect of her twin’s impending mortification. “He’s gonna be so embarrassed for himself.”
I grinned, shaking my head. “Sure, go ahead. Always happy to help with your weird sibling rites of torment.”
When I arrived at the orchard earlier that afternoon, I’d come through Honeycake Cottage first, in hopes of catching up with the rest of Linden’s family. Though the twins and Lark had their own places in town, the whole gang tended to congregate at their parents’ charming English Tudor home; basically a gorgeous hobbit hole writ very large, its half-timbered stone facade and mullioned windows still familiarly festooned with clinging ivy.
But Aspen and Rowan were at the barn supervising a difficult foaling, which Lark had tagged along to watch for reasons I’d never understand. Witnessing the gooshy miracle of horsey life once, back when Linden and I were twelve, had left me all set for the rest of time. At least Gabrielle had been around to greet me with one of her famous hugs, vanilla and shea butter scented and impossibly soft, like being embraced by a particularly gracious queen. A swarm of butterflies fluttered around her today; a few had deigned to alight on my head as an extension of her greeting, their little feet a ticklish caress.
Gabrielle Thorn really made other people’s hellos look weak.
“It’s so good to see you again, Emmeline,” she’d said warmly, drawing back to cup my face between her hands and run her thumbs down my cheeks. It would have been phenomenally awkward to be face-snugged by anyone else, but Gabrielle was such a wellspring of affection that even I, a Harlow with the chilly soul of a British solicitor when it came to most PDA, couldn’t help but be taken in.
“You too, Gabrielle.” She’d only ever been “Gabrielle” or “ma’am” to me, never anyone’s Gabs or Gabby. And she’d always called me by my full name, too; “own who you are” was one of the Thorn matriarch’s big things. “Feels like it’s been forever.”
“That’s because you’ve been gone from your family much too long,” she’d said, setting her hands on my shoulders so she could push me back a little and search my eyes. “But we’ll take that up another time. Now about this harebrained scheme my children have roped you into . . . not that I’m against it, in my heart of hearts, if it means the Blackmoores finally pay their damn dues. But you’re in a unique position here, sweetheart, caught in the middle the way you are. You sure that’s alright with you?”
“It’s fine with me,” I assured her, moved by her concern. “And, credit where it’s due, it’s my understanding that this was more Talia Avramov’s harebrained scheme to start.”
“I swear, I don’t know whether to be terrified of that girl or proud of her,” Gabrielle said, pursing her lips. “But I do know for a fact that I’m proud of you. You Harlows have a lot riding on your shoulders when this time rolls around. And the way you handled yourself yesterday . . . that took guts, Emmeline, mantle aside. A lot of that was you alone—and that part deserves nothing but respect. From all of us.”
I’d blinked back tears, so overwhelmed I hadn’t known what to say.
Later, as Linden and I traipsed toward the sunflower field with a thermos of cider and a picnic basket, I still felt a little tearful over the exchange. Growing up, Gabrielle had been like another mother, and that I still had some measure of her respect was no small thing. It slotted an extra lens of nostalgic wonder over the orchards’ sights, not that they needed any help to stun. The pumpkin patch, with its curling vines and plump gourds, many bespelled to grow in whimsical shapes even when uncarved, felt both achingly familiar and devastatingly unique. Portraits of the founders so lifelike they looked like they might speak, sugar skulls dancing with hidden flames, a pumpkin orrery with a rotating sun, moon, and stars . . .