Page 69 of Homeward for a Spell

“Unless you’ve been hiding my other dagger somewhere on your person?”

“It’s with the rest of my things at the temple. I’m sorry I didn’t have it—”

“Never mind that now, just get the knife.”

Araphi grabs it and a wooden spoon, still covered in chunks of vegetable soup from last night. They’re hardly weapons, but they’ll have to work. “Okay, we’re opening the door, but beware, we’re armed!” she calls out to whoever stands on the other side.

Sage snorts beside her, but her knuckles are white as she grips the hilt of her remaining dagger, raising it as Araphi slowly unlatches the cabin door.

Wintry air blasts into the room, bringing with it a flurry of snow, as well as a very small, very pretty woman with sharp gray eyes and a knot of bright-red hair on top of her head and a very large white owl on her shoulder, who stands on the snow-laden porch glaring up at Araphi. “I wasn’t planning to stop here for another week, but the bird insisted I come rescue you.”

Araphi opens and closes her mouth once, twice, and then the owl hoots as it meets her eye.

No, that’s not right. The bird is not meeting her eye. It can’t be.

As if in answer, the owl tilts its head and smiles.

“Who are you?” Sage demands, her arm tight around Araphi’s shoulder, her dagger flashing in the morning sunlight.

Suddenly, Araphi feels particularly foolish clutching her spoon and butter knife.

The red-haired woman raises one eyebrow at the pair of them: Sage’s unlaced tunic and Araphi’s hastily buttoned coat. “I’m Wren, and the bird is Goway. Who are you?”

“We’re travelers whose names are our own,” Sage replies gruffly.

“I’m Phi Runesong, and this is Sage Wilderstone,” Araphi answers at the same moment.

Wren nods. “Good morning and well met to you, Phi Runesong and Sage Wilderstone.” She surveys the small cabin then, the bowls on the table and the ashes in the fireplace. “I’d best gather more wood, I suppose. Take the time to dress, I beg you.”

“Right, yes, fine,” Araphi says, grateful for the windburn that she hopes hides her blush.

They dress quickly, trading shirts and socks as they find them. Then Araphi helps Sage to the table, where she props her injured leg up on a chair.

“Should we trust her?” Araphi asks, nodding toward the door between them and Wren.

Sage shrugs. “She could have tried to kill us already—though even hurt, I’m fairly certain I could take her in a fight, if you can manage the bird.”

“We’ll improvise if we have to,” Araphi says. She kisses Sage quickly, but pulls back when Wren strides into the room with an armful of firewood as if she owns the place, which Araphi supposes she does.

“Well, it looks like you two had a good time.” Wren dumps the logs beside the grate, then peels off her gloves to run a finger over a lump of wax on the mantel.

“We didn’t mean to take what wasn’t ours,” Araphi insists. She defaults to charm, pouring as much of it into her words as she can. “Your cabin saved our lives, you know, and we thank you very much for it! We were lost in the storm, and then we found the cabin—”

“No further details, please,” Wren interrupts, offering another scowl. “I know how the magic works,” she says, rolling her eyes again. “It’s my spell, and I see you two used every bit of it up. Must’ve been quite a night.”

Araphi’s not quite sure how to respond to that.

It’s Sage who breaks the silence. “We’ll just be going, and not deplete your cabin further.” She lifts her injured leg off the chair but swears as she tries to put weight on it.

Araphi rushes to her side.

Wren scoffs. “You’re not going anywhere on that leg. Especially in this snow. And without resetting the homecoming spell every day, it’s just a simple hunter’s cabin without the proper supplies. It won’t be livable in winter.”

“If you can point us someplace where we might secure horses, we’ll head south,” Sage offers. “We’ll be out of your hair for good.”

“Even if we did have horses to spare in our village, that won’t work. Another storm—worse than last night’s—is on its way. One more good snowfall, and the mountain passes between the Graywood and Briarwall will all be blocked for weeks, or, more likely, till spring. You won’t make it through, even on horseback.”

“Well. I am a prize-winning bard, so perhaps I can find us a place to sing for a meal or two…”