“What do you want to know?”
“Deia Tullio. The celestial witch who maintained them before. What was she like?”
“Before our time,” Avine said. “She died sixty years ago—we wouldn’t even have been born yet. But from what I understand, she was brilliant. Devoted to the gardens in a way that went beyond professional obligation.”
“And her death?”
“Natural causes, according to the records.” Narla’s voice was careful. “She passed in her sleep. Very peaceful.”
Lunaria thought about the Memory Moss. The terrified face. The darkness pressing in. Nothing about that vision suggested peaceful.
“Does anyone remember her? Anyone who was actually there?”
“Sue Tidewell,” Junie said. “She’s an elder. Ancient. Has been on the council since basically forever. She gets this strange look whenever the gardens come up. Not just sad, though—strategic. Like she knows something she’s been waiting to say.”
“Sue’s been around longer than anyone,” Avine added. “If anyone knows the real story, it’s her. But she’s not exactly forthcoming about the past. She has her own agenda.”
“Elder Sable’s been strange about it too,” Narla said quietly. “She voted against the restoration three times on the council. Said the gardens should stay dormant.”
Lunaria filed the name away. Sue Tidewell. Another piece of a puzzle she hadn’t realized she was solving.
“Why the interest?” Cassia asked. “The gardens are a restoration project, not a history lesson.”
“Professional curiosity.” Lunaria made sure her smile didn’t falter. “Understanding what the gardens were helps me understand what they could become again.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not entirely. But it wasn’t the whole truth either.
SEVEN
LUNARIA
Two hours became three. Three became four. The wine flowed, the conversation wandered, and somewhere along the way, Lunaria’s defenses started to slip.
She learned that Avine’s magic was from the sea: water, tides, life under the water. That Cassia’s storm magic was directly tied to her emotions, which explained why lightning occasionally flickered outside the windows when the conversation got heated. That Narla’s truth-revealing candles had caused more romantic chaos in Haven Shores than anyone had anticipated.
“Five couples in two years,” Dahlia said from Paris, her bear having finally given up all pretense and settled behind her with a possessive arm around her shoulders. “The mating surge has been intense here.”
“And everyone thinks it’s not done yet,” Junie added. “Aero—Cassia’s mate—has been researching it. He thinks the surge is building toward a climax.”
“You’re thinking too hard.” Narla had moved from the window seat to the couch, settling beside Lunaria with the careful ease of someone who knew how to approach skittish creatures. “I can see it. Whatever’s sitting heavy on you.”
“Just processing. It’s a lot—new town, new project, new people.”
“Do you read charts?” Cassia’s question cut through the moment. “Star charts, I mean. For other people?”
Lunaria hesitated. “Sometimes.”
“Do mine.” It wasn’t a request. Cassia’s intensity was back in full force, storm energy crackling beneath her skin. “I want to know what you see.”
“Cassia—” Avine started.
“It’s fine.” Lunaria set down her wine glass. The familiar tug of her magic answered the call, ready to reach for the stars. “I’ll need your birth date and time, if you know it.”
Cassia rattled off the information. Lunaria closed her eyes, let her consciousness expand, felt the celestial patterns align.
Cassia’s chart blazed into view—dramatic and stormy, just as she’d expected. Lines of fate that crackled with electricity, crossed and recrossed by another presence—Aero, unmistakably, his ancient dragon energy wound so thoroughly through her destiny that separating them would be unthinkable.
“You’re intense,” Lunaria said, opening her eyes. “Your chart looks like a thunderstorm. But it’s anchored—stabilized by someone much older. The dragon, I assume.”
