He picked her up and tucked her under his arm. She regarded Briar in a manner he deemed unfriendly. Rowan helped him up with one hand, the other keeping Maude at bay.
“You all right there?” Rowan asked.
“Great! Fabulous. Just a little grimy. And wondering why nature has it out for me.”
“Maude’ll only cluck round you like that if she likes you.” Rowan gave her a pat, set her down, and gently shooed her away nonetheless.
Briar’s nerves returned. To dispel them, he held his gift bag out at arm’s length. “I made you something. As a thank-you for all the help.”
Rowan’s face was inscrutable as he opened the bag and unfurled thescarf within. It was cable-knit and burnt orange, like the autumn leaves, and long enough it could wrap twice around Rowan’s broad shoulders.
He looked at a loss for words.
“If it’s not your thing, I won’t be offended.”
“No, it’s—thank you.”
Rowan looped the scarf around his neck, the ends trailing to his knees. Briar’s breath caught as he stepped in to help. He arranged the scarf snugly so the ends didn’t hang too long. He had to stand on tiptoes to do it. It brought them very close, and despite all Briar’s fears, he didn’t want to step away. Something about Rowan drew him in. A fire to warm his hands by. Or to burn him.
Rowan raised a hand. Visions reared in Briar’s head too: Éibhear raising his hand just like that to strike a witch through the heart. Éibhear’s arms dangling limp as the forest claimed him. Briar startled back like a spooked horse.
“S-sorry.” Rowan’s hand fell back to his side. A look of muddled hurt and confusion crossed his features. He cleared his throat. “I mean, thank you.”
“No worries. No problem. Just wanted to return the kindness.”
An awkward silence fell. An internal war of rebuke waged in Briar’s head. Logically, he understood Rowan was not Éibhear, but the images that had played out in the shadow of the woods hadn’t been hauntings; they’d been real.
Rowan broke the silence first. “The gardens. I’ll show you round?”
The cottage backed onto acres of farmland, with a paddock for two horses, a greenhouse, and neat rows of outdoor crops. Rowan took him through the gate behind his cottage and into an altogether different variety of garden.
Densely packed flower beds sprouted all manner of rare potion ingredients. From sea holly—whose growing conditions were better suited to tropical climates—to a variety of belladonna Briar had only seen in text-books. A plant he didn’t recognize sprouted in a firework from an old cracked pot. A wisteria-covered trellis shaded half the garden. Without the summer blooms, its vines were reminiscent of the ones that devoured Éibhear. More reminiscent still was the purple aura hanging over it, uncomfortable as socked feet soaked in a puddle.
“Rowan, how are you even growing some of these things?”
“Ehm, I haven’t. Was my da’s. Still grew after he died.”
Before he could suppress it, Briar shuddered. He hoped Rowan wouldn’tnotice, but of course he did. “If it isn’t what you need, we can check the greenhouse—”
“No, honestly, it’s perfect, Rowan. Do you know how rare some of these plants are?”
Rowan offered a shrug, which hid many unsaid things. “I’ve no idea what to do with ’em. Fill your boots.”
He handed over some pruning shears. The garden had an unsettling effect on Briar as he knelt and snipped a few spiny leaves into a pouch. Part of him felt like he was reaching for a branch of lichen again, wondering what it would cost. He plucked a few flowers from the winter honeysuckle next. Despite the prickling aura of the garden, it gave him the perfect opportunity to broach the topic he’d feared touching.
“Your dad grew all this?”
“Mm. Cottage was his workshop. I converted it into a home after he passed.”
Passed.As if in a hospital, not the grips of a sentient wood. Briar’s head pounded. He didn’t know how to push for more or if Rowan deliberately withheld the rest. Briar stood to pick leaves from a fern. The plants’ combined perfume smelled thick and soupy, turning his thoughts in circles.
Vatii, perched on the retaining wall, pecked at his fingertips to snap him out of it. “You look peaky, maybe we should—”
Before she finished, Briar swayed on his feet. His head boiled like one of his potions. In his murky periphery, he registered movement.
Rowan caught him, but the garden’s aura, combined with a chaotic stew of memories, triggered the same instinct that had made Briar shy away from Rowan before. He recoiled, tripping, landing in the grass, back-pedaling into a garden wall. Rowan, usually so stoic, looked down at Briar and then at his own hands with undiluted pain and bewilderment.
Too late, Briar realized the cruelty of his reaction. How many others shied away from Rowan at the slightest glance, the barest brush in a crowd? A haunted look crossed Rowan’s face, and Briar was immediately sorry he’d been the one to put it there.
