The last time Quinn was at the Rosenbloom Estate, the air was hot and stuffy, and he was worried about Harvest, a heavy feeling in his chest which only served to increase the greenhouse effect of the Rosenbloom land, rife with verdant, lush plant life.
This evening, the air is brisk and light, his worries far more subdued and work-related than his previous visit. He glances at Harvest, who looks flushed from the walk, her caramel eyes bright with something that, if not happiness, is at least close to contentment. Her hair seems brighter, too, as if the stress she carried before had slowly been draining her of color.
They are standing on the front porch of the pink Queen Anne, which is covered in a thick blanket of snow. The red door is adorned with handmade wreaths of pine branches, seashells and bright gold ribbons. When they first approached, Quinn couldn’t help but be reminded of a snowglobe, an entire microcosm of life content in its isolation, and for a brief moment, he felt like an intruder, a dark shadow against the snowy white softness of the estate.
He brushed the feeling away when Harvest’s father clapped a hand on his shoulder and welcomed him inside. Hazel even gave him a loose hug as she handed him a mug of eggnog, which is currently sitting on the porch railing, untouched.
Quinn slips his phone into his pocket, having just disconnected from a call with Angel and Wild. He ducks away from a bobbing lightbulb as he leans against the porch railing. The house is filled with them, floating and bouncing around like pixies. Harvest told him they normally decorate with candles, but she never did make it to Dante’s Market for that pack of white candles.
“I know Rowena,” says Harvest. “Well, I know of her. I went to school with her cousin. I don’t think there are any other Littles on the island.”
“And what about the other one? Leon Cruz?”
Harvest shakes her head. “Aunt Bea or my dad might know though.” She pauses, watching Quinn’s furrowed brow in thought. “So, we’re treating it as a murder, then?”
He nods. “For now. Unless the autopsy says something else.”
“And you think the accident has something to do with it?”
“Don’t you?”
“Is this a test?”
He arches an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?”
She rolls her eyes. “I think the accident is involved. It ties him to Sunny Blackwood and it’s the reason he stayed away from Ilton for so long. Whatever happened to Sunny Blackwood made him come back to the island.”
Quinn nods. “People don’t change the habit of a lifetime on a whim.”
“You said it looked like Henry knew something when you talked to him. Maybe whatever he knew put a target on his back? Maybe someone followed him here, after killing Sunny?”
“Angel put in a call to the ferry company for a passenger list, hoping to compare it with the camera footage from Blackwood’s apartment building. But with the holiday, who knows when they’ll get back to us.”
“Do we have Sunny’s post-mortem yet? We could compare it with whatever Aunt Bea has from Henry.”
Quinn pulls his phone out again to refresh his email. He shakes his head. “Not yet.”
There is a pause in the conversation, but it is a comfortable lull. Harvest reaches out from under the roof of the porch to catch a few snowflakes in her palm, watching them land against the leather gloves. Then she smiles at him and bumps her shoulder against his. “I’m glad we get to spend Christmas together at least,” she says.
“All it took was a murder,” he replies, dryly.
Still, he smiles gently at her and for a moment, recalls the sensation of her lips on his cheek. It was the last time they were on the island, and they were standing outside of a hotel room. Her lips were soft and warm—too warm. She was feverish and collapsed as soon as she pulled back.
Now, she is far from warm, and Quinn sees a shiver travel through her body. “Let’s get you inside before you freeze to death, little witch.”
She rolls her eyes at the nickname but quickly follows him inside. The house is warm and welcoming, smelling of baked apples and frost. Harvest begins to remove her winter layers, hanging her scarf and coat up on the rack by the door. Quinn does the same, taking back his gloves, smoothing them out before returning them to the inside pocket of his coat.
“Thanks,” she says, motioning toward the gloves.
“Anytime.” He reaches out to sweep away a few remaining snowflakes from Harvest’s hair. His hand brushes against her cheek, an accident turned intentional by the second of pause, but encouraged by the slight tilt of her head as she leans into his touch.
She opens her mouth to say something, her cheeks rosy pink with cold and maybe something else—something curious and hesitant—when Theodore walks into the hallway. Harvest almost jumps away, startled, like a teenager caught out past curfew.
If Quinn were an ordinary man, he would probably be intimidated by Theodore Rosenbloom, who is taller than Quinn and more muscular too. He specializes in earth magic and according to Harvest, is responsible for the plant life thriving on the Rosenbloom land: he’s the reason the fruit turns ripe despite the wrong weather or season. Just like the earth, there is something strong and unyielding within him, a core of protectiveness and strength. It’s a wonder Ezra seemed indifferent when it came to the Rosenbloom patriarch. He should have been scared out of his mind.
Still, there is a kindness in the man, a steady gentle hand. He can see the same kindness in Harvest, just as he sees Theodore’s brown eyes and heart-shaped face.
“All done with work?” Theodore asks excitedly.
“Not quite, Mr. Rosenbloom,” replies Quinn smoothly. “Though I’m hoping it won’t take too much longer. Harvest told me about your blood-mead, and I’m looking forward to sampling some.”
“Have you heard from Aunt Bea?” asks Harvest, her arms folded across her chest. Her cheeks are still burning with embarrassment.
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It’s Commissioner Rosenbloom who answers, as she walks down the stairs. “She’s on her way.”
Quinn knows Commissioner Rosenbloom well enough to know her backstory. He’s heard her tell it often enough at Bureau functions, primarily to explain why her business card does not have an email address and only, reluctantly, a phone number.
In fact, Harvest told him it applies to both of her aunts. Commissioner Rosenbloom, Harvest’s aunt by blood, grew up in the Fae-Lands, where technology isn’t necessary. Aunt Bea, the changeling left in her stead, left the mortal realms when she was sixteen in order to find her human counterpart and restore her to her rightful family. They both missed out on almost all of the 90s and the wealth of gadgets the decade brought about, resulting in a mutual distaste for modern-day technology.
Love has a habit of blooming in the most unlikely of places, he thinks, glancing back at Harvest as Aunt Bea opens the front door, bringing in flurries of snow from outside.
“You won’t like it,” she says, in answer to Harvest’s hopeful look.
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The Rosenbloom Library began as a measly room on the second floor of the Rosenbloom house, but has since spread to encase the entire second floor—and yet seems to stretch beyond even that when they enter.
Quinn remembers that Harvest told him this is due to her Aunt Bea’s fae magic. Witch magic, as she explained, is tied to the earth. It’s ruled by nature and can only stretch the rules so far—though in the wrong, or perhaps right hands, witch magic can break the earth in half, can call up lost spirits, and can just as easily put lives to rest in the soil.
Fae magic, on the other hand, is tied to the Fae-Lands, which work by an entirely different set of rules. Fae magic can physically alter something, can transform space and matter, can even charm the most reticent of creatures into false feelings.
Wherever it’s from, it’s all mischief to Quinn.
“My lab isn’t really set up to deal with things like this,” admits Aunt Bea. She is still in her bright purple coat that matches her eyes, flecks of snow melting quickly on the collar. “I can send some samples off, but until then, I’m ruling Henry Faulkner’s cause of death as inconclusive.”
Harvest glances at Commissioner Rosenbloom, whose lips are pursed in thought, though she remains silent.
Quinn nods. “I assumed as much. Is there anything on the body that might point toward what happened?”
“There were some old injuries, a few scars, and his stomach contents were uninteresting. He barely ate anything before he died, actually.”
“You think he took the last ferry,” says Commissioner Rosenbloom.
It’s a statement, not a question, but still, Quinn says, “Yes. I met with him yesterday, late-afternoon. Harvest confirmed the time of death.”
“The last ferry is just after seven,” she says. “I put in a call with the ferry company earlier, who sent over their security camera footage and passenger list for the last ride of that day. I’ll forward it to you. Henry’s name is there, along with two other names, but they’re residents on the island. I personally vouch for them.”
Quinn raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t comment. It’s a reminder that Commissioner Rosenbloom out-ranks all of them.
“The sister didn’t even know he was on the island,” says Harvest. “Is there anywhere else he would have gone?”
“Maybe Dante’s Market?” suggests Hazel, who really shouldn’t be there, but has inserted herself with an annoying amount of ease. At least she is a Bureau employee, he thinks.
Aunt Bea shakes her head. “Dante’s been closing up earlier. The store was closed at seven every night this week. I know because I tried to buy some yams and candles last night around seven-thirty.” She shoots a pointed look at Harvest.
“It’s not my fault I literally stumbled onto a case,” she mumbles.
“So, Henry probably started walking toward Inger Park as soon as he arrived,” says Hazel.
“What’s in Inger Park?” asks Quinn.
“Nothin’ much,” says Theodore, eyes trained on a book. He is also not supposed to be there, much like Hazel, and seems to have slipped into the library without notice. “There’s the cabin and some caves.”
“Yes, but the cabin has been derelict for almost as long as we’ve been here. I don’t even know who owns it these days,” says Aunt Bea. “And the caves are off limits. Very dangerous.”
Commissioner Rosenbloom smirks. “Also, people tend to go missing around there. Might have something to do with a ghost.”
“The ghost is a myth used to scare children,” says Theodore, looking pointedly at his sister. “It’s just a dangerous bit of land. Lots of places to get lost. Caves are dangerous whether magic is involved or not.”
“Yes, but that also means it’s a good place to hide,” says Quinn. “So was Henry searching for something that was lost? Or was he trying to hide something?”
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When Francine Rosenbloom died, she knew, with a profound sense of certainty, that she would spend her eternal days on the Rosenbloom Estate.
She’s fairly certain she was supposed to travel into a different realm entirely, but why would she do that when the Rosenbloom Estate is her favorite place in the whole of the universe?
She has seen many Rosenblooms pass through the house, and she has seen nearly as many Christmases. The season never fails to bring a smile to her nearly translucent face.
Francine floats up through the floorboards and into the wall of Hazel’s room. Hazel is staring out her window, and Francine can see the heartbreak as clear as day. It’s written in Hazel’s eyes and in her sigh as she reaches up to twist her necklace around her finger.
Francine is worried about Hazel, the poor girl. There is a dark mark on her heart, a pinprick of black that may never heal.
She just hopes it doesn’t grow larger.
Francine decides not to interrupt Hazel’s clearly maudlin musings and, instead, follows the thin, glowing strand of mischief that binds Hazel to her sister, Harvest. The thread snakes its way downstairs, and Francine finds Harvest in the kitchen, counting out spoons to set the table. Francine likes when Harvest sets the table because she always sets a place for her, even though she can’t eat the food.
Francine watches from inside the wall as Harvest pauses to look down at her phone. She considers something on the screen with a curious frown and then turns back to the spoons. Perhaps the message is from a new beau? Francine will ask Harvest about it later.
Francine floats up to the library, where Trixie and Bea are whispering. At first, she thinks it’s Important Living Business, but Francine leans closer, hiding behind the bookshelf and hears Aunt Bea say something about yams.
Francine continues on, floating toward the garage, as she follows the trail of purple that Agent Quinn unknowingly leaves in his wake. Francine enjoys watching him as he holds a glass of Theodore’s wine up to the light, to peer into the depths of the golden-pink liquid.
Pity he’s taken, she thinks watching him take a sip.
Theodore looks proud of his concoction, which makes Francine happy. She’s known Theodore since he was a baby and was even his nanny for a brief moment before the new baby arrived.
Not new, she thinks. Just not a Rosenbloom.
She knew it at the time, but the patriarch of the family refused to listen. Not that it matters, really. It all worked out in the end, with Little Bea and Trixie. Francine can see their souls and they are so entwined, it’s no wonder they fell in love.
Francine watches as Theodore’s face turns stern and serious. Francine’s interest is piqued.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks the vampire.
Agent Quinn gives him a curt nod.
“How is Harv doing? At work?”
“She’s doing fine,” he says. “She’s still learning but she’s doing good work.”
Theodore frowns. “Does she ever talk about Ezra?”
“Not in front of me,” he says, his purple aura temporarily sharpened with an emotion Francine remembers well. Anger.
“Good. I never liked him,” Theodore says.
Neither does Agent Quinn, thinks Francine.
Theodore continues. “I’m glad he’s out of her life. And Hazel’s too, for that matter.”
Francine agrees wholeheartedly.
Theodore pauses. “You know, I spent two years worrying about Hazel, I started to forget about Harvest. She always seemed so…unfazed. Like she could handle anything. Never needed anyone. Even after her mother…” Then he levels his gaze at Agent Quinn, and Francine sees a bit of the Rosenbloom fight in his stance. We’re a tough bunch, she thinks proudly. “You watching out for her?”
“I am,” he says.
“Good man,” says Theodore, clapping a hand on Agent Quinn’s shoulder. “Now, I’ve got a braggot I think you might like. Maybe you could tell me how it compares to the medieval brews.”
Francine grows bored and floats back up the attic, which also serves as her room, a cramped space filled with the remnants of Rosenbloom past. She converses with Alfred, the ellyll who lives in the corner, until she hears Theodore’s voice yell, “Dinner!”