“So,” she said, “Thanksgiving? Will you come?”

He smiled. “Will you be there?”

“Of course.”

“Then that’s my answer too.”

“Good,” Laurel said, looking studiously away. “It’ll give me a chance to show you what I’ve found out about the powder,” she added in a whisper.

“You found something out?” Tamani replied, touching the back of her hand.

“Not a lot,” Laurel said, trying not to feel the calm pressure of his fingertips. “But a few things. Hopefully I’ll know more by Thursday. I work on it every night after homework.”

“I never doubted you for a second,” he said, smiling softly, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

Chapter Thirty

THANKSGIVING HAD ALWAYS BEEN ONE OF LAUREL’S favorite holidays. She wasn’t entirely sure why—she couldn’t eat turkey, mashed potatoes, or pumpkin pie, at least not the traditional varieties. But there was something about the festivities and the gathering of family that she had always enjoyed. Even when “family” only included the three of them.

This year, her mom was making two Cornish game hens instead of a turkey. “I don’t see why I should bother, considering only half of the people here will even be eating it,” she’d joked. It seemed like a good idea to Laurel, though, and the rosemary rub was creating a mouthwatering smell in the kitchen. If you could get past the smell of cooking meat mingled in.

Laurel’s mom was working on a big vegetable tray while Laurel put the final touches on her fruit tray. She looked over at her mom to ask if she should slice the strawberries, but her mom was staring out the back window. “Mom?” Laurel said, touching her arm.

Her mom startled and looked over at Laurel. “Should we invite them in?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The sentries.”

Man, that was a disaster waiting to happen. “No. Seriously, Mom. They’re fine. When we’re done I’ll take the fruit and veggie trays out and see if they want some, but I don’t think they’ll come in.”

“You sure?” she asked, gazing out at the trees, maternal concern in her eyes.

“Totally.” Laurel could see it now, a whole bunch of grave, green-clad men standing in their kitchen, alert for danger, jumping at every sound. Very festive.

The doorbell rang and Laurel hopped up from her stool. “I’ll get it.”

“I bet you will,” she barely heard her mom say under her breath.

“Mother!” she scolded just before rounding the corner.

She opened the door to Tamani, standing with the sunlight at his back, giving him an ethereal glow. She felt her knees start to wobble and wondered briefly if inviting him had really been the best idea.

He smiled and brought his face close to hers; Laurel took a sharp breath, but he just whispered, “I really don’t know what I’m doing. I hope I wasn’t supposed to bring something special or anything.”

“Oh, no,” Laurel said, smiling; it was nice to know that, beneath his cool exterior, he did worry about things sometimes. “I just wanted you to bring yourself.” Stupid, stupid! Like he could leave himself home. She hated that he still made her tongue-tied.

Her mom was bent over the oven, checking the hens, when Laurel led Tamani into the kitchen. Laurel suspected they didn’t really need checking, but it was nice to walk in and not feel like her mom was waiting expectantly. It was a little odd how supportive her parents were where Tamani was involved—her mom in particular was really making an effort. Laurel couldn’t help but wonder why.

“Hey, Mom,” Laurel said, “Tamani’s here.”

Her mom looked up and smiled, closing the oven. She wiped her hands on her apron and extended one toward Tamani. “We’re so glad you could join us.”

“My pleasure completely,” Tamani said, sounding like a perfect English gentleman. “And . . .” he added, hesitating, “I wanted to apologize for the last time we met. The circumstances were . . . less than ideal.”

But her mom waved his words away. “Oh, please.” She put an arm around Laurel and smiled down at her. “When you have a daughter who’s a faerie, you learn to deal with these things.”

Tamani visibly relaxed. “Can I help?” he asked.

“No, no. Thanksgiving is football day. You can go sit with Mark in the rec room,” she said, pointing. “And dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

“If you’re sure,” Tamani said. “I’m a great fruit slicer.”

Laurel’s mom laughed. “I’m sure you are. No, we’ve got this covered. You go.”

Laurel wanted to protest, but Tamani was already smiling and heading toward the rec room. She followed him and lingered in the doorway, peeking in at the two men. Not that there was much to see; they shook hands, muttered some greetings, and then Laurel’s dad tried to explain football to Tamani. Still, Laurel’s mom had to call twice before she pulled herself away to finish the fruit tray.

When the meal was ready, they gathered around the kitchen table. After everyone was served, Tamani looked up and complimented Laurel’s mother on her preparation of the game hens. “It all looks fabulous, Mrs. Sewell. Meat obviously isn’t my thing, but it smells fantastic. Rosemary, right?”

Laurel’s mom beamed. “Thank you. I’m impressed you recognized the spice. And please, Sarah and Mark. None of this mister-and-missus nonsense.” She reached over and squeezed her husband’s hand. “Makes us feel old.”