Page 57 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

They might yet have to resort to that.

But, as pressing as it was, it was still a problem that would have to wait.

She needed to help Petal first. They could worry about the roof over their heads when her sister woke up, when the shields lifted. When the Keepers found her and arrested her, forcing her into an iron collar. When the London museum locked her in a dungeon, or whatever it was they did to thieves who were smarter than they were.

No.

That line of thought was not helpful either.

Today she would fill the glass cases with delicate petit fours and brew sun tea and hunt for the moon.

She rubbed the mint leaves between her fingers. “Sorry,” she murmured. It perked her up immediately, its bright and crisp scent in her nose. A balm.

But when she glanced out of the window, her heart did not just sink—it felt as though it seized entirely in her chest.

All of the flowers in her garden had turned white.

The purple delphinium, the yellow larkspur, the red hollyhocks. The pink foxgloves, the blue cornflowers, the orange poppies.

All white, every petal and blossom. White as bone, white as salt.

Moon-white.

Ethan was still in hell.

And it continued to be ruled by a woman who should have been plain but was, in fact, alarmingly the opposite. She was obstinate and charming and fascinating. Her curves made him sweat. And he had been in regular contact with mermaids and sirens since the age of fourteen. He was used to beauty, murderous and otherwise.

But Briar was unique. Her voice was soft, throaty. Made to moan his name.

Hell.

He watched her from the kitchen garden door, unnoticed. She attacked a bowl of batter as if it had personally insulted her. There was frosting all around her in bright pinks, mossy greens, lilac. Flour dusted her arms and the tip of her nose, wrinkled with concentration. There was a furrow between her brows.

He wanted to eat her up.

At least the dark smudges under her eyes had faded. He had watched her sleep until he was content that she was truly resting, not merely pretending in order to jump out of bed at the first opportunity on some other foolhardy mission to save her sister.

Miss Petal Foxglove had a lot to answer for.

Iron Crows did not cleave to their families for this reason. If you stole amulets and grimoires and magic that did not belong to you, consequences came for you—but sometimes also for those who knew you. Better to surround yourself with other thieves and troublemakers.

They knew what to do when magical cargo exploded in the hull or when Keepers and museum gits came to your door. And there were too many damned doors to this small cottage. Front, back, front shop door, side shop door, kitchen door. He’d already warded them all with iron nails and technically illegal bone dust from the Iron Witches, but he was running out of supplies. He’d have to go back to the ship, where Anais and the others had already caught a Crow and two tourists attempting to climb aboard.

Needless to say, they did not make it.

And climbing anything at all would not be possible for them for some time.

Haven might consider itself the epitome of civilized behavior and graceful living, but that only meant it would be the first to devolve into chaos and cruelty when fear and scarcity truly hit. He had seen it before. When the pearls and the freckle lotions and the glamours weakened, everything would change.

He watched as Briar crossed to the window where a fat bumblebee knocked against the glass, disoriented on its quest to get back to the garden. She lifted the latch, scolding gently when it veered toward her, confused. She cupped her hands, leaning out to place it on the rosebushes invading the side of the cottage.

Then she went back to icing little cakes with yellow roses. She did not look particularly impressed with her work, which was delicate and fussy. Not at all words he associated with her. Where was the spark in her eye, the one she had when she tossed a teacup spell at two Keepers? The flash of a grin when she sent ivy and brambles and thorns on little errands? Did she even realize how she smiled then? As if she were full of sunlight.

But this cottage kitchen, her wayward sister, this bloody sparkling village… They were stealing something vital from her.

And he did not care for it.

Even if she was a softness he couldn’t have. Shouldn’t want.