Page 99 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

She would not be undone by roses.

Her magic might not work on them, but her blood did. So she would think practically, blood and bone and breath. Roots and branches and blossoms. She would tend to it like a garden. She would never let mint or lilacs take over, draining the soil of nutrients. She would not plant roses near a walnut tree—they did not get along. But she would plant marigolds to deter pests. There were hundreds of secret conversations in every patch of flowers.

Sun, shade. Predator. Only instead of keeping out the predators, this time she would invite them in.

Ethan, another predator, already invited, watched her steadily. “What are you thinking, little thorn?”

“I need club moss,” she declared, already scrounging through the grasses and the stony outcrop for the thick green fingers of the plant.

“You heard her,” Ethan said, and everyone in earshot scrambled to obey.

“Oh, I love it when she does this.” Petal grinned, her hands already full. This had been a favorite game when they were young. When Briar whispered to plants, they listened. Fillet of fenny snake became serpents; rabbit’s foot clover became rabbits; wolfsbane became a wolf. “Why club moss?” she asked.

“Because its witch name is Stag’s Horn,” Briar replied.

“And?” Petal pressed when the others just blinked at her.

“Stags eat roses,” Briar explained, placing her witch knot down over the small pile of club moss. “Deer can decimate a rose garden within hours. They eat everything, even the thorns.”

She pushed the green magic through her body, listening for the whispers, connecting to them before she bent her head to whisper back. She whispered of flashing hooves, of the stately crown of antlers, of dark liquid eyes. Of the taste of green leaves between strong teeth.

The club moss began to glow, faintly at first, then stronger.

Her witch knot burned as she pushed more and more power through herself.

Stags made of pale, shimmering mist formed, emerging tall and majestic and pulsing with witchcraft. Spirit stags, fairy stags. White as bone, white as salt.

White as the moon.

Some of the herd stampeded down the hill toward Haven, glowing like ghosts, trampling petals and scattering thorns. The others stayed closer, dipping their heads, and began to feast.

They nibbled and chewed through the magic that fed the roses, that pushed the curse across Lyonesse. They ate blossom and thorn and vine. The roses gleamed, sharpening in retaliation. Briar smeared more of her blood, until she began to feel a little lightheaded.

“That’s enough,” Ethan said.

“I can do more,” she insisted.

“And you will. But not here. You need to keep some for Holdfast.”

Anais thundered toward them on the horse Ethan had sent her to steal. Briar recognized him as Goliath, belonging to the wheelwright. “He’s a beast, but he can run.” Her eyebrows rose at the herd of spirit deer, glowing fur rippling as they ate and ate and ate. Salt and fennel bit at the air. “What happened here?”

“Briar happened,” Petal replied proudly.

“Any trouble?” Ethan asked.

Anais shook her head. “Most everyone is already in their cups or off finding secret corners for secret deeds. The village fountain is literally running with honey mead, though I hear it was frozen for a bit.”

“Keepers?”

She shrugged and slid from the saddle. “Bemoaning the charred remains of their house. Unfortunately, the ones you really have to watch out for were already on patrol. So you’d best get moving.”

“I’ll go too,” Aidan said, holding the blood-smeared poppets.

“What will you tell them?” Briar asked.

“He’s an earl from a prominent witching family,” Ethan said. “It doesn’t matter what he tells them; they’ll listen.”

“Bear is too clever for that,” Briar warned. He had been kind when they searched her house that first time, but also eagle-eyed.