Page 21 of Raven in Midwinter

Once on the porch, we both stood there, staring.

“What were you two about on a night like this?” he said, sounding concerned.

“We drove home from my brother’s house and⁠—”

“Drove?” He appeared confused.

When Lorne turned to gesture at the Jeep, it was gone. “Oh…kay,” he said to me, taking a deep breath. “I’m getting a bit freaked out again.”

A gross understatement, judging by his face, so I reached out and gave him a gentle pat of reassurance.

“You’ll both catch your death,” the man said. “Come inside.”

Stepping into the cottage we had left two hours before was crazy, because the only thing that was the same was the hearth in the kitchen and the fireplace in the living room. The kitchen was not painted a lovely green, and there was a tiny sink where water needed to be pumped, not a porcelain farmhouse one with running water. There was a small table and four chairs, and a heavy rug in front of the fire. No kitchen window, no sunroom, no attached greenhouse, instead simply a wall where the cottage now ended.

We stood there, huddled by the front door as he gently closed it. I noted the sliding lock and the bolt. There were no witch bells for protection, which for me, was the biggest change of all. When had the cottage ever had a physical lock?

“Take off your coats and go sit by the fire. I’ll bring you some blankets.”

Shedding our jackets, finding no place to hang them, we left them on the chairs, and then in our socks, darted toward the fireplace and sat next to one another.

In moments, the man returned, and we were bundled up in heavy, warm cotton blankets, not wool, which surprised me.

“Thank you,” Lorne said, standing to offer the man his hand. “I’m Lorne MacBain, and this is Xander.”

“A pleasure,” the man said with a smile, and now that I was entirely focused on him, I saw that he was handsome, with dark auburn hair and green eyes. He took Lorne’s hand firmly in his. “I have not met many Scotsmen, but those I have met have been fine workers and honest to a fault.”

Lorne smiled. “And your name, friend?”

“I’m William Corey, youngest son of—no, apologies. Now the sole surviving son of the late Kingston Corey.”

“Your father passed away?”

“Sadly yes, here, waiting for my brother and me to return from the war. The only saving grace was that my mother passed five years ago now, as being here without us would have been hard for her.”

“I’m sorry you lost them.”

“Thank you. I miss my family, and coming home to this barren place has helped nothing.”

“Barren?” I repeated before I could think about it. “This land?”

He shook his head. “I wish I could offer you food, but all I have is water. If the good people in town had no concern for me, I’d surely perish.”

When he said the last part, he shuddered in fear, as though what he’d uttered could actually come to pass, giving himself away.

“Are you kidding me?” I stood up, the bite in my tone obvious.

Startled, he took a step back.

“It’s because you know nothing about Corvus that you can’t even lie properly,” I spat out, disgusted. “Discard your glamour and show me your true self.”

“I have no idea what you’re⁠—”

“Now!” I roared at him.

He tried for disbelief for a mere moment before he threw his arms up in surrender and then ran his hands through his thick hair that changed, before our eyes, from deep auburn to a golden blond. His clothes altered as well, and it was hard to hold on to any fear when he looked like he was supposed to be at a Renaissance faire.

“Not what I was expecting,” Lorne said.