Page 28 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

“Heavens no—valerian is all well and good, but it tastes like an old sock. No matter how much honey you add.”

The visitor chuckled. “You’re not wrong about that.”

“No sockwater tea at the Rose and Petal Teashop,” Sorcha promised.

“And are you Rose or Petal?” the black-haired sister asked as Briar scooped herbs from glass jars into muslin bags.

“Neither,” Briar replied. “I’m Briar Foxglove.”

“No greater green witch on the island,” Sorcha said loyally, all while keeping an eye on Mr. Allens and his cat familiar, who kept hissing in her direction. Animals loved her, even the magical ones. “I’m telling you there’s something wrong with that cat,” she muttered.

Briar added rose-petal honey without a comment when the blonde sister blushed over simply inquiring about it out loud. It was a popular love charm, just a little nudge, really, always in demand. There was barely any magic at all, truth be told. It was such a well-known custom that just offering the honey to someone or adding it to your tea was statement enough.

One of the musicians who played at the assembly came in to ask Briar if she would come down to his house to deal with the wild roses choking out the climbing peas. Someone else came in to inquire if there was a tea that might stop her father from reading her private letters. As Briar had met the father in question, the answer was, regrettably, no.

Once they had left, Sorcha frowned quizzically. “What on earth do the shields have to do with you?”

“Pardon?”

“Why would Keepers come here?”

“Oh. Nothing, of course.” Everything. Briar glanced at Mr. Allens, who was examining one of the many flower crowns she had woven for the festival. He had only ever bought a single thing from her: a charm for baldness, at midnight at the back door, even though she sold them at the counter all the day long. “I think they must have started at the top of the hill before working their way down.”

“Making a fuss over every little thing, as usual.”

“You’re not worried about the shields?” Briar asked.

Sorcha shrugged, pragmatic as ever. “I’m worried I’ll run out of sunwheel cookies or strawberry jam. Or my oven chimney will clog. Like I’ve ever been through the portal.”

“Still.”

She nodded, relenting. “I suppose.”

There was something odd and faintly itchy about the shields being locked around the island. They might not be visible, but when you grew up on Lyonesse, you learned the feel of them, the way you learned what it felt like when the winds changed and a storm was brewing.

And it had felt utterly wrong and deeply uncomfortable when Briar was forced through the barrier. And not just because she had been tied to a mast. What was Ethan doing now? Had the Keepers found him? Would he tell them what he knew? That didn’t seem likely. Iron Crows did not share. Especially not with Keepers.

“What’s that look on your face for?” Sorcha asked.

“Oh, nothing.” Ethan. She was fairly sure whatever her face was doing was the fault of one Ethan Swansea.

Mr. Allens, drifting closer, knocked over a bowl of rose petals. It was next to a jar of mustard seeds labelled eye of newt and poppy seeds labelled blindworm’s sting. His neck mottled red when an eavesdropping charm fell out of his pocket.

Sorcha’s crow swooped at the few strands of hair left on top of his head.

“Go on,” Sorcha barked after him when he hurried away. “Or it’s the last bakery delivery you’ll see from me, you old fishguts.”

Briar had to smile. “I do actually need my customers.”

“That wasn’t a customer—it was Mr. Allens. And he never paid for his last order of sticky buns.” Sorcha poked her head out. “And take your mangy familiar with you!”

The cat slunk away, tail bristling with insult.

Fired with righteous indignation, Sorcha turned back to Briar, crossing her arms. “Well, now that that’s over with, are you going to tell me why you are lying to my face?”

“I’m not…” Briar glanced around to be sure they were alone.

Sorcha poked her. Hard. “You are a lying liar, Briar Foxglove.”