Page 87 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

So much worse.

Briar had told him Matthias was at the bonfires. Ethan sent his dragon after him, knowing that when Matthias spotted the familiar, he would follow. In the meantime, Ethan would tail the Keepers.

He shadowed them through the village, where they were not even trying to be circumspect.

Not a good sign.

Fury was a lick of cold fire in his chest. Rain pattered the ground, hard as coins.

Briar in a Keeper’s cart, or a cell, however makeshift. At the mercy of the Order.

Without warning, the rain turned to hail, hard as musket fire.

Briar had never been inside the island headquarters of the Order.

She supposed it was better than the infamous dungeons of Holdfast, but she had not been there either.

The headquarters were stationed in a long wooden building that had once been an inn of some repute. It was painted white, naturally, with a row of gargoyles on the roof. Roses grew in a thicket between the red door of the portal and the front door toward which Briar was marched. The horses were taken by a stable boy who stared at her, eyes round. The headquarters mostly saw Keepers, travelers who had drunk too much goblin ale or tried to steal from one of the shops. The occasional witch whose familiar would not behave.

The rain turned to hail, and she knew what that meant. Ethan was near.

If the bloody, ragged tear in Oliver’s sleeve was not proof enough already.

She was not sure the headquarters had ever seen the likes of an Iron Crow. It might not yet. She threw more magic at the roses, at the trees shaking their leaves in sympathy over her head. Ethan was meant to go back to the ship and protect her sister, not come after her. He must know that.

“I wish you wouldn’t,” Bear said quietly. He had been very courteous, if unyielding. “Bewitching the roses will not win you any friends, Miss Foxglove.”

She frowned, blinking water out of her eyelashes. “I am not feeling particularly friendly, Mr. Bear.”

He smiled briefly before leading her inside and showing her to a chair. There were iron chains attached to the back wall and three cells with iron bars studded with black jet. Jars of salt sat in every corner. Ropes of rowanberries hung from the ceiling, painted with white sigils against baneful magics. Even the Order had to ascribe to the aesthetic in Haven.

“Lock her up,” Oliver fumed. “I’m bleeding.”

“She didn’t cut you,” Bear said, quiet dignity turned to stone. “What your sleeve tells me is that you need more training.”

Oliver’s brow lowered. His companion laughed. There were two more Keepers, one who seemed to be rummaging around making tea in the back kitchen, another who held a pendulum over a map of Lyonesse.

Searching for Petal. Briar would bet her gardens on it.

She perched on the chair, Snapdragon tucked safely away, and twisted her fingers together so no one would see them tremble. She did not know what they planned to do with her but could not imagine it would be pleasant. She knew no charms to help her against a Keeper’s spells, no tricks. She began to feel quite sick to her stomach. What if she told them where Petal was hidden while under a witch binding?

“Miss Foxglove,” Bear said, “I do apologize for the manner of your arrival.”

Briar swallowed. “I don’t know where my sister is.”

“Would you tell us if you did?”

She stayed silent.

“I thought not. In any case, this is not just about your sister’s whereabouts.”

“It isn’t?”

“This is also about the roses.”

She blinked. “The roses?” Was she here as a green witch? Did they know what she had found beneath the white roses?

“Yes. As a green witch, you must have noticed them.”