Chapter 32: LarkLark Alden was not a warlock.
“A warlock is a betrayer, an oath breaker,” he told me the first time he’d come to the farm sourcing herbs. “I am a witch.”
He lived by the river on the outskirts of town in a tiny quaint house, and he worked at Brighim’s, the equally tiny, quaint cheese-and-wine shop where Luke and I procured eats for any number of events. Rumors swirled around Lark. People said his family dated back to the Mayflower. Others thought he was a devil-worshiping weirdo.
Lark never spoke of his heritage or his craft unless asked, but they hung on him like clothes. You could see the history in his harsh, chiseled face. He reminded me of a time traveler who’d happened to land in the wrong period of history.
We’d become friendly—as friendly as one could be with so
