Read A Little Magic for Free Online Page B

wept, for he’d been very dear. Neither you nor your parents have had a pet since. You don’t think you have the heart to lose one again.”
    He let out a long, uneasy breath, took a deep gulp of wine. None of that information, none of it, was in his official bio. And certainly none of the emotions were public fare. “Where is your family?”
    “Oh, here and there.” She bent to give Hecate an affectionate scratch between the ears. “It’s difficult for them just now. There’s nothing they can do to help. But I feel them close, and that’s comfort enough.”
    “So…your parents are witches too?”
    She heard the amusement in his voice and bristled. “I’m a hereditary witch. My power and my gift runs through the blood, generation to generation. It’s not an avocation I have, Calin, nor is it a hobby or a game. It is my destiny, my legacy and my pride. And don’t be insulting me when you’re about to eat my food.” She tossed her head and sat down.
    He scratched his chin. “Yes, ma’am.” He sat across from her, sniffed at the bowl. “Smells great.” He spooned up some, sampled, felt the spicy warmth of it spread through his system. “Tastes even better.”
    “Don’t flatter me, either. You’re hungry enough to eat a plate of raw horsemeat.”
    “Got me there.” He dug in with relish. “So, any eye of newt in here?”
    Her eyes kindled. “Very funny.”
    “I thought so.” It was either take the situation with humor or run screaming, he decided. “Anyway, what do you do up here alone?” No, he realized, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know that. “I mean, what do you do for a living?”
    It was no use being annoyed with him, she told herself. No use at all. “You’re meaning to make money? Well, that’s a necessary thing.” She passed him the bread and salt butter. “I weave, and sell my wares. Sweaters, rugs, blankets, throws, and the like. It’s a soothing art, and a solitary one. It gives me independence.”
    “The rugs in the other room? Your work?”
    “They are, yes.”
    “They’re beautiful—color, texture, workmanship.” Remembering the spinning wheel, he blinked. “Are you telling me you spin your own wool?”
    “It’s an old and venerable art. One I enjoy.”
    Most of the women he knew couldn’t even sew on a button. He’d never held the lack of domesticity against anyone, but he found the surplus of it intriguing in Bryna. “I wouldn’t think a witch would…well, I’d think she’d just—you know— poof.”
    “Poof?” Her brows arched high. “Saying if I wanted a pot of gold I’d just whistle up the wind and coins would drop into my hands?” She leaned forward. Annoyance spiked her voice. “Tell me why you use that camera with all the buttons and business when they make those tidy little things that all but think for you and snap the picture themselves?”
    “It’s hardly worthwhile if you automate the whole process. If it’s to mean anything I have to be involved, in control, do the planning out, see the picture…” He trailed off, catching her slow, and smug, smile. “Okay, I get it. If you could just snap your fingers, it wouldn’t be art.”
    “It wouldn’t. And more, it’s a pledge, you see. Not to abuse a gift or take it for granted. And most vital, never to use power to harm. You nearly believe me, Calin.”
    Stunned that she was right, he jerked back. “Just making conversation,” he muttered, then rose to refill his empty bowl, the cat trailing him like a hopeful shadow. “When’s the last time you were in the States?”
    “I’ve never been to America.” She picked up her wine after he topped it off. “It wasn’t permitted for me to contact you, face-to-face, until you came here. It wasn’t permitted for you to come until one month before the millennium passed.”
    Cal drummed his fingers on the table. She sure knew how to stick to a story. “So it’s a month to the anniversary of…the spell casting.”
    “No, it’s on the