Page 116

But no one else was keen to stay, even with the proof and promise that the shields had been mended. The smell of smoke lingered in the square from the charred remains of the Order’s headquarters. Salves for the marks left by rose thorns were cleaned right off the shelves of every shop. Briar made several batches and left them in the square.

Matthias stayed behind, still enamored with Briar’s kitchen. Briar knew Ethan had put them together so that Matthias could help protect her. And so she could give him an excuse to give up sailing. Which he did not miss a bit.

Charles, as promised, had been dealt with.

He was, in fact, nowhere to be found.

Aidan stayed for another three days, growing more pinched around the eyes with every passing hour. Even Briar’s sleep tea did not appear to be helping much, judging by the shadows under his eyes. On the fourth day, he left for the museums and universities of Hallow.

“Good riddance,” Sorcha muttered, but she was frowning when she said it.

On the fifth day, Mr. Crane came to the tearoom. He bore a letter, and an expression of extreme discomfort. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Your mother signed her name on the debt vowel. There’s really nothing to be done. Even without my assistance, the spell would change ownership to Mrs. Aster.”

Briar nodded, expecting to feel angry, betrayed, scared. Mostly, she felt resignation. Which was not nearly violent enough for Sorcha’s liking. She helped Briar cut every flower, harvest every cherry and gooseberry from the cottage garden. Every mint leaf, every cabbage, every stalk of celery that Briar had only planted because Petal asked her. She hated celery.

The blooming, vibrant garden was shorn to its roots. The orchards were picked clean.

And then the rabbits descended.

And they never left.

Mrs. Aster and her horrible son had wanted Briar’s green witch magic and her garden. They were entitled to her garden by the letter of the law and her mother’s agreement.

But they were not entitled to her magic.

When Sorcha saw the army of rabbits and Mrs. Aster’s furiously pursed lips three mornings in a row, she smirked so hard she pulled a muscle in her cheek.

Sorcha had insisted Briar move in with her while she pondered her options. Living in the manor house was not a hardship, even if Briar knew it was not a permanent solution. It was nice to be near her friend, to drink wine in the evenings and watch the swallows fly through the hole in the roof of the ruins. It was peaceful, even if it was difficult not to think of Ethan and her sister and miss them fiercely. That would have been impossible no matter where she was. Snapdragon enjoyed marching around the overgrown pond and disturbing the insects.

Matthias tried to join them, but it was a three-hour walk from Haven and Briar would not have it.

“The captain will murder me if I don’t stay near,” Matthias said.

She kissed his cheek. “And I will murder you if you give up your dreams to lurk around the moors. You won’t even have a kitchen. Sorcha will stab you with a fork the first time you try to use her oven.” And he shone too brightly for that, already a favorite in the village. A fistfight had broken out over the last of his leek tarts two mornings in a row.

“Promise you’ll send for me if there’s trouble.”

“I promise,” she said. “But what kind of trouble could a spinster green witch possibly get into?”

Matthias snorted. “You’re not a spinster.”

She snorted back. She was the very definition of a spinster. No one in Haven would court her now—they could barely look her way without suspicion. And even if they got over it, none of them were Ethan.

She did not bring him up in conversations, not even late at night when Sorcha gave her chocolate buns and too much strawberry wine. But she could see the standing stone circle from the roof, and the dark oak grove where Ethan had last touched her. She had climbed down to the grove once, but only once.

She listened for rumors of the Sea Dragons, of the Order chasing down Iron Crows. Of pirates, kelpies, sirens. Anything that hinted at Ethan, of where he might be and what he might be doing. She missed him so much her bones hurt. She kept her cane of roses nearby, after Sorcha found it still strapped to Goliath’s saddle that morning outside of Holdfast.

Briar found herself visiting Holdfast more and more, and there she whispered to the rowan trees, gathered lemon balm and peppermint for tea for a fisherman’s widow, thyme and a key wrapped in chamomile for an Iron Witch with nightmares. She found shells and ropes of kelp that had started to speak to her. She sang to the rowan trees.

If the weather turned, she slept in the cottage next to the grove, listening to the wind and the silver chimes in the branches. She whispered to the leeks and the carrots and the onions in the kitchen gardens until they flourished. Peas crawled up stone walls around the rowan groves, and the village children liked to challenge the gulls to see who could eat the most.

Briar began to sleep in that cottage more and more often. She swept out the cobwebs, encouraged the nightshade to release its grip on the single wind-twisted lilac tree. She planted rosemary and mint and lavender.

And then she painted it pink.

She was still herself, still the witch who lived in the pink house even as the storms howled in from the sea and the hail pockmarked the roof. Holdfast suited her. There were no white houses, no glamours expected when you had a spot on your chin or a tear in your hem. No assembly rooms, just the main room in the tavern with scuffed floors and stone walls that held the heat from the hearth. There were gulls and fish and seals and dozens of cats who waited for the fishermen’s boats. Kelpies, mermaids in the cove. The gilded bones of dead witches. The tower and the heavy weight of witchery rippling from it.

Briar loved it.