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“We are here for Miss Petal Foxglove.”

“Ah. Well, I am not she. I am Briar Foxglove. Proprietress. I have never had any Council infractions.” Which was saying something when your mother used to deal in love spells. The Council of Witches and the Council Arcanum, who oversaw all magical beings, were not particularly fond of the trouble a love spell could cause. Obsession, secrets shared, magical etiquette abandoned, oaths broken. It was a messy, unpredictable business. With some success, certainly. But it required more care and respect than most people cared to give it.

“I demand you tell me where your sister is.”

Briar leaned on her cane. There was no pretense in the fatigue in the motion. This had already been the longest night of her life, and it promised to go on for some time more. “Why?”

“Because I am a Keeper!”

Briar knew she did not look impressed, because she was not impressed. “St. John is the Keeper assigned to Haven. He’s been in charge for the last twenty-five years.” He mostly dealt with tourists and security around the portal. But the shields were every witch’s responsibility, from the Iron Witches to the scullery maids of the fine vacation houses on the lower streets of Haven.

“We are from the London chapter,” Bear said, mildly.

“I see.”

Oliver was getting rather red in the face. She nearly offered him that syrup of violets again. “Your sister,” he spat.

“What about her?”

“Where is she?”

“She is not here.”

“But where is she?”

She shrugged. “I imagine she is at the assembly rooms for the dancing. Or on the beach for the bonfires.”

“She is not.”

“Ah.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

She frowned. “My sister is a woman grown, Oliver.”

“Mr. Dawson,” he corrected her stiffly.

“Mr. Dawson, then,” she amended. “It is Midsummer. We do not ask questions that could prove to be awkward. Even in Haven. Surely you have been to a Midsummer Festival before?”

“You are not asking the questions—I am. And you will answer.”

“I thought I just had?” She shot Bear a questioning glance. Oliver’s bluebird familiar was flying in increasingly frantic circles overhead. “Poor dear,” she said. “Are you anxious? Familiars can sense your emotions, you know. You should have a care.”

Her own swan was shivering inside her chest, frantic to be released so it could do some damage.

“I have a tea of chamomile and rose petals that ought to do the trick,” she added. “If you are not fond of violets.”

“As amusing as this is,” Bear said quietly, “I am afraid we really do need you to answer our questions.”

“Or we shall take you in chains to the jail!” Oliver added, with some relish, it had to be said.

“You say an Iron Crow broke in?” Bear asked. She nodded. “How do you know he was a Crow?”

“I interrupted him.”

“What was he looking for?”

“He did not say.” She shrugged. “Money, I assume, though we mostly have teas and flowers here.” It was becoming a bit of a problem that there were more flowers than coins, truth be told. Midsummer was meant to keep them in flour and sugar and meat until the next festival. “Threshold Days always bring in more business, so I suppose I should only be surprised this has not happened before. He was tall, brown hair. Not very amiable.”