Page 68 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Black Shucks and boggarts and sirens, on the other hand…

Not to mention the heavy weight of worry for her sister. It was taking its toll. Her hip was not the only part of her that needed a rest. And nothing was more restful, more soothing, than deadheading hydrangeas, murmuring to bumblebees, scolding slugs. She filled a basket with rosemary, another with mint. Three more with roses, foxgloves, and stalks of lavender.

She harvested dandelion heads for wine, the purple thistle nearby catching its spikes in her hair and pulling. “Rude.” She reached for her trowel. “We talked about this,” she murmured to the thistle, before gently prying its roots loose. “I don’t believe in weeds—all plants have a purpose—but you grow too fast and too strong for this little patch. You’re a bit of a bully, you know.”

She carried it to the edge of the garden, just on the other side of the low stone wall. It took only a few minutes to dig a hole and plant it in its new spot. “There. Try to be more polite.”

A shadow fell over her.

She glanced up, a tall, dark figure blocking out the sun. She stumbled back onto her bottom, skin prickling with fear before she recognized the slant of the jaw, the muscled forearm tattooed with an anchor. The silver rings.

“Mr. Swansea.”

He narrowed his dark, fathomless eyes at her. The prickle of fear turned into a thrill. “Miss Foxglove,” he returned pointedly.

Oh. He had been right to be cross when she called him Mr. Swansea. She did not care for it at all either. It was formal and polite and not at all Dragon. The pointed lift of his eyebrow was entirely of the Dragon, however. As was his presence, looming over her.

Also, the blood on his chest, the deep scratches on his left hand.

She shot to her feet, scowling. “You’re wounded!”

He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“You’re bleeding on my hydrangeas,” Briar pointed out. “So it’s not nothing. Come with me.”

When she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the garden, he let her. She led him to a table and hurried off to fetch water and the basket of supplies she kept under the counter. Matthias was busy charming three elderly ladies who were suddenly in desperate need of lemon possets and bergamot tea and pink flummery.

“What happened to you?” Briar demanded of Ethan when she returned. He was sprawled in the sun very like a pirate king on a throne. Except for the pink forget-me-nots around his boots. They danced on their green stalks. “Where did you go?”

“I needed kelpie teeth and more mermaid hair.” He shot her an accusatory sidelong glance. “Someone stole mine.”

Briar shrugged, very much as he had shrugged. “I needed it.”

He pulled a small glass bottle from his pocket and handed it to her. Inside curled a shimmering strand of seaweed-dark hair. It felt like a posy of wildflowers. A song sung outside her window under the full moon. Calm down, Briar.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll keep my hands to myself, then.”

He frowned. “Let’s not get drastic.”

A laugh bubbled out of her. How she could laugh when he sat glowering and covered in blood after having done only the gods-knew-what? Right after leaving her bed before the sun.

“Did you find out who sent the grimsong?” she asked.

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “An Iron Crow who likes to dabble in baneful magic, as expected. A friend of Twyla’s, also as expected.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“And where is he now?”

“He’s thinking about what he’s done.”

“Where? At the bottom of the ocean?”

Ethan did not reply, but he did smile. Just a little.

It was not a reassuring smile.