Woods of the Raven Read Online Mary Calmes

Categories Genre: Fantasy/Sci-fi, M-M Romance, Magic, Paranormal Tags Authors:
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Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87608 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
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“No.” He appeared uncertain. “I just… Nothing was clean this morning, so I’m not wearing socks and—”

“Got it,” I said, smiling and taking a moment to wonder if he was wearing briefs. I shouldn’t have even entertained such a thought. The man hated me, after all. I darted to a wicker basket near the hearth, pulled out a pair of socks, and returned to him, holding them out. “Here you go. Put these on. They’re even warm.”

He reached for them immediately, then stopped himself. “Oh no, I don’t want to—”

“That’s what they’re for, Chief,” Pete explained. “That’s why he knits them.”

“You knit?” MacBain sounded quite surprised and a bit judgmental, but he took the socks.

“I do.” I crossed my arms, slightly regretting my decision to ask him in.

“No, I didn’t mean it like—I’ve just never met a man who knits.”

“I knit,” Pete announced flatly.

MacBain turned to him. “You knit?”

“Yeah. My father too, and most of the guys I know. It helps keep your hands limber, especially in the winter. I even knit with the fingerless mitts on that Xan made me.”

We both stood there, squinting at the chief.

Boots off, my socks on his feet, MacBain glanced back and forth between us. “I didn’t mean to imply anything bad about knitting,” he growled at us defensively. He was decidedly prickly.

Pete huffed out a frustrated breath and made a beeline for my kitchen table.

“Won’t you come have a seat, Chief?”

He was glowering, but I let that go and went to the kitchen. He was either sitting or not. I was done fussing over him. My earlier concern had evaporated.

Glancing over at him just to check, I saw him take a seat across the table from Pete. They had room to sit, and the chairs that had been made by some ancient relative were solid mahogany and exceedingly comfortable. Their end of the cherrywood table was clear, while the other was covered in dried herbs and flowers I was fashioning into garlands.

“You getting ready for the harvest festival?” Pete asked.

“I am.” I walked over to the chief, moving almost not of my own accord. My grandfather would have been horrified over how I was acting toward a guest, annoyed or not. He’d always stressed that once people crossed the threshold, everything needed to be done to make them comfortable. “Would you like black tea or the chai Pete likes?”

“Oh, whatever’s easiest for—”

“They’re both made.” I put a hand on his shoulder, as if compelled to, and I didn’t normally feel that way. “I’m a black tea guy myself, and this one I made with a pinch of sea salt and some crystalized honey. It’s good.”

“I—sure,” he rasped, looking around what he could see of my house. “Black tea is fine.”

Fine? Tea was never fine. It was always amazing. From his lackluster response to my question, I was betting he’d never had great tea. I would fix that.

“Your house looks so small on the outside,” he commented. “It’s bigger in here than I thought it would be.”

It was the way the house was angled. You thought you were seeing the whole thing from how it faced the road, but there was a second bedroom and a sunroom that were easy to miss. Two steps led down from the kitchen that ran along one wall to a room with glass walls on three sides. In the winter, I closed the shutters, but all spring, summer, and fall, they were open. There were drying herbs, shelves of lidded pots, jars, and bottles, and of course, oil lanterns. There was no electricity in my house. I had gas for the stove, washer, dryer, and water heater. The hearth supplied heat to the kitchen and the sunroom, while the fireplace in the living room heated the rest of what was the open floor plan of my home. Small wood stoves in each of the two bedrooms and my grandfather’s den kept those spaces cozy on the dark, cold nights.

The floors were hardwood, the ceilings high with exposed beams, and the rest was ancient stone. I had painted the kitchen a lovely clover green, and all the cabinets were fitted with crown glass, as was the sunroom and all the windows in the house. It was difficult to see out of, everything was distorted, but when the house was built, that was the process. Over the years, I’d considered changing it, but it had all been made so well, fitting perfectly, the house remaining cool in the summer, while in the winter no heat escaped. I was afraid if I messed with it, somehow it would never be the same. Best to err on the side of caution.

“Mr. Corey?”

“Sorry,” I rushed out. “And please, call me Xan. I mean, given how often you talk to me, you should use my first name.”


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