Page 3 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

“Briar?” George pressed.

“What? Oh. I don’t know where Petal is at the moment.” She had not seen her sister much in the past few days. She tended to make herself scarce during the festivals. She was probably with Bramble, the rabbit witch she loved. Not that it ever stopped George. Or anyone, really.

“Will she dance tonight, do you think? I can add a charm for hares, just like her familiar,” he added hopefully.

“I don’t think so,” Briar said gently. Petal was not fond of the assembly room.

George sighed dramatically, staring out the window. In the square below, the ornate carriages, painted white and gold like cupcakes, circled, pulled by witchcraft instead of horses. Horses were not allowed in the square or on the lower street with the shops facing the sea. Horses made messes. Instead, one of George’s illusions pulled them: doves with gold beaks, using gold chains that glinted and glimmered.

It was lavish and extravagant.

Ridiculous.

So perfectly Haven.

Because George might have designed the glamour, but it took a minimum of nine witches to power it, day and night.

Haven was nothing if not dedicated to its image.

Briar added peonies and more lilies to the urns standing on Corinthian pillar pedestals. She was nearly done and would like to get home before the fashionable set descended and someone reminded them she was Petal’s sister. George was not the only one who asked after her. There were several gentlemen who traveled to Haven annually for just that purpose.

Petal was definitely in hiding and would not come out again until after the solstice.

The only gentleman who asked after Briar was Charles.

Or Charles Bloody Aster, as he was known to the Foxglove sisters.

The senior Mr. Aster had been as kind as his family was…not. Which was saying rather a lot. He had visited the tearoom for a pot of oolong tea and anise candies to cure his fictional stomach upsets starting the day after Briar’s mother died and every day following until he died. He knew how they sometimes struggled to pay the bills. His wife and son knew it as well. They counted on it.

Charles was nothing like his kind, red-cheeked father.

He was taller, leaner, with sandy-brown hair and a haughtiness that exceeded the royal family’s. Of several countries. Together. He was wretchedly entitled and his mother fed the worst parts of his character.

And Briar’s mother had died owing a considerable debt to them both.

One they were eager to claim.

Briar bit back every scalding remark that bubbled behind her teeth. “Mr. Aster,” she said blandly. So blandly one of the lilies shivered, dusting his sleeve with yellow pollen. He jerked back. When she went to the window to adjust a garland, he followed.

“There’s a spider on that leaf,” he said.

“So there is.” An orb spider, the kind that draped webs between the larkspurs and the hollyhocks.

Charles took out his handkerchief with a snap. “I shall get rid of him before the guests arrive.”

Briar frowned and stepped in front of him. “No need.” Spending as much time in gardens as she did, Briar had occasion to come across countless spiders, bees, wasps, beetles, earthworms. And once a very small mouse napping inside a tulip. “He doesn’t want to be here any more than you want him here.” Or me.

She urged the spider onto a twist of paper from a seed packet in her apron pocket and then pushed the window open to relocate him. “There.”

Charles sniffed. “These flowers are looking a little wan, Miss Foxglove. Haven has standards.”

“Then I must have more work to do,” Briar replied. “If you’ll excuse me.”

She hurried away, feeling his eyes on her. His mother was stationed at the refreshment table, complaining that the cups for the punch were not fine enough to show off the glamour she had added to the ratafia-and-orange water mixture. There was a shimmer to it.

When Charles answered her summons, Briar took advantage of the moment to slip away entirely.

Briar crossed the village square with its giant oak tree and gurgling mermaid fountain. Pale marble statues stood sentinel at each corner, with more lining the streets leading out into the rest of the village. Delicate nymphs poured out water from a variety of bowls and amphora, even dripping off carved lilies. Not ordinary water but instead charmed to various purposes most suitable to Haven. The nymph with the bowl offered magic to encourage glowing skin. The maiden with the chalice gave one a bright singing voice. There was water for understanding any language spoken, for stealing kisses unseen by chaperones, for the ability to swim gracefully.