Page 111 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

“But I do have to leave, little thorn.”

Her smile did not waver. “I know.”

Haven might be the social jewel of Lyonesse, all propriety and luxury, but even they bent the rules for summer festival days. There was a wildness and a rawness to the celebrations, white dresses stained with strawberry wine, folks wearing daisies with their pearls, bare toes in the grass. Music swelled as the fire burned higher, drums and flutes and fiddles reaching to the rising sun. Familiars glowed everywhere: toads and cats, badgers, hedgehogs and hawks. A giant whale made of sparkling light swam through the sky as if it were the sea. A Pegasus’s hooves flashed gold as it landed down in the valley.

“Miss Foxglove!” The wheelwright’s son stumbled to a stop when he recognized Briar. He was flushed with wine. “Is your sister here?”

She shook her head, smiling. “I’m afraid not.”

He looked devastated. “Do you know that she is prettier than the sun?”

Ethan grunted. Briar nodded. “I do know that.” If the villagers were asking after her sister in that lovesick manner, it was better than demanding she be brought to the Order to pay for her crimes. The shields had lifted; solstice was here. They would forgive her everything. Maybe not the Order, but most of Lyonesse would.

Three more villagers stopped to inquire about Petal. They all wore crowns of white roses. Trust Haven to turn a threat into a new fashion. Briar had picked dandelions and buttercups and pink mallows and woven them into a circlet instead. The smell of the roses made her nose itch.

Ethan was clearly bristling, standing big and mean behind her. The hatmaker opened his mouth to ask Briar a question, no doubt about Petal, and then changed his mind. The sun rose higher and higher in a bed of pinks and oranges. The chain of dancers around the giant bonfire went faster, and faster. Magic sparkled, sweetening the air.

The sun finally rose completely, beams piercing between two of the standing stones. A cheer erupted. More strawberry wine was poured, baskets of blackcurrant cakes passed from hand to hand. There would be lazy walks back down to the village, breakfasts taken on the beach.

And Ethan sailing away.

The thought of it pulsed like a bruise, one Briar could not stop pressing.

He would leave. And she would stay.

She slipped her hand into his. She would keep him for a little while longer.

And then she would let him go.

If one more person glanced at Briar vaguely before immediately inquiring about her sister, Ethan might flood the moors. Hilltop to valley. Let them all swim home. Or drown. It was beyond intolerable that he had agreed not to kill Oliver. Not because of logic or what was morally right, but only because Briar asked him not to. That Keeper had hurt her. The man deserved nothing less than annihilation.

Instead Ethan was watching villagers dance. It was flower crowns and firelight and songs being sung to the sun. It was lovely, in its own way.

But not nearly good enough for Briar. It was an ill-fitting dress. One of those damned driftwood canes that were not the right size or shape for her. And it infuriated him.

Rain pattered suddenly, sizzling when it hit the flames. Briar nudged him. “Stop that.”

“Not me.”

“Ha.”

It ate at him, the way their eyes drifted over her. Worse, when two Keepers, ones he did not recognize, paused. Lingered. “Had enough of this?” he murmured, not taking his sharp gaze from them. The sun was bright on their iron-nail pendants.

Briar’s nod was all he needed.

He gave in to the need to claim her, impossible as it might be. She deserved better. But her giggle when he scooped her over his shoulder made him feel like a king, even if it was of a kingdom he could not claim. It might be Midsummer, but this was still Haven, still Lyonesse. The scandal of the Dragon carting away the flower witch from the pink cottage whispered through the crowd.

“What are you doing?” Briar asked, still trying not to giggle. He had been listening to sirens singing since he was a lad, and nothing, nothing compared to her surprised little laugh.

“You said you’d had enough,” he replied.

“Not of walking,” she corrected him. Her hair swung, smelling of roses and mint. The soft roundedness of her arse under his palm was a threat to his sanity. It made him want to bare his teeth.

The murmurs continued, the sidelong glances.

Let them remember him. Perhaps he would not always be here, but he could come back at any time, the Iron Crow with blood on his hands. His reputation could protect her, even as it demolished hers.

Someone clapped. He’d bet his ship it was Sorcha. The flash of a crow familiar confirmed it. He kept walking. He wasn’t sure where he was taking Briar, as long as it was away.