Page 65 of Bane Bloom

Though my fingers trembled and my heart raced, I turned my attention to the page in my hands.

This entry was different from what I’d read previously. Instead of a date at the top of the page, there was a heading . . . Winter Daphne.

Arrogant Apollo offended Eros, whose revenge was swift and cruel. From his bow he let loose an arrow that ignited in the god’s breast a fiery passion for the lovely Daphne.

Eros aimed a second arrow at Daphne, and this missile ignited disdain for her obsessed admirer. The second arrow was needless, as Daphne had never been an admirer of Apollo’s. Her greatest love was the woods, and she wished for nothing more than to be left alone to wander and hunt.

But Apollo was merciless, and no matter how Daphne spurned him, he continued pursuit. Daphne could not match the god’s strength and speed, but just as he drew close to securing his object, she fled to the river, where she begged the river’s god—who was her father—to save her by destroying her beauty. He heard her plea and transformed her into a laurel tree.

Yet even this could not discourage Apollo, so strong was the enchantment of Eros’s arrow. (And, we might say, so used was the god to getting all he desired.) It is irrelevant to this charm work, but worth noting, that although Daphne’s father had answered her prayer, in her new form, she could never again flee Apollo’s advances. Even in her tree form, he would kiss and caress her, and she was powerless to stop him.

Winter daphne is best used in reverse love charms. When love is unrequited, add fresh flowers to a bowl of clear water from a river or stream. On the night of the dark moon, place the bowl under the bed of the person to be disenchanted. The following morning, discard the water back into its source. Or sympathetic magic may be used in the following manner: Place a fresh cutting from the plant over a likeness of the person, in the form of a poppet, or manikin, or even a portrait. Replace wilted flowers until the spell takes effect.

This magic may be undertaken by either party—one who wishes for an end to pursuit, or one who wishes to no longer pursue. It may also be used by third parties who, like Daphne’s father, wish to ease a loved one’s suffering.

Fingers still trembling, I set down the page and picked up the daphne sprig again. Prudence seemed to wish me to understand that someone wanted to stop Thomas from being in love with me. But who?

Death had clearly not prevented Prudence from manipulating objects in the living world, yet the daphne flowers could hardly be her interference. It would make no sense to reveal her scheme to me. It had to have been Thomas. To stop himself from falling in love.

I recalled what he’d said about my artistry. “I notice more than you might think.” Had he opened my sketchbook and discovered my drawing of him, then tried to use the skills he’d learned from his mother to rid himself of unwanted desire?

If this theory was correct, at the time these flowers were picked, he believed that he might have been falling in love with me. And that I was indifferent to him.

I was still trying to take all of this in when I heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

I tugged open the desk drawer to hide the diary page . . . but hesitated. Instead, I set it on the desk, picked up the daphne sprig, and waited.

Unrequited

He appeared in the doorway, eyes dipping from my face to the bit of plant matter in my hand. “Is all well, Catherine?”

In an impressively even tone, I said, “I’ve discovered another mystery I’d like your help solving.”

“Aye?” His reply was wary.

“When I first arrived here, I made a sketch of you in one of my books.” I paused, watchful for signs he knew what I was talking about. “I’d forgotten all about it, but I opened the sketchbook today and discovered it, along with this sprig of winter daphne that someone—not me—inserted between the pages.”

The inner corners of his brows drew down, forehead furrowing. This was certainly some kind of sign, though hard to say of what.

“I know from your mother’s diary that this is a kind of spell, Thomas.”

Something flashed in his eyes, and I shivered at the hardening of his expression. “That spell is from her grimoire. The Bane Book. It went missing the same day as her diary.”

I turned and picked up the entry on daphne. “It seems she wanted me to read part of it.”

He came closer, reaching for the sheet, and I let him have it. He scanned the writing. “Where did you find this?”

I gestured to the desk. “It was here when I came up.”

He was quiet for a while after that, working over some dismaying thought that I caught the echo of in his expression. So quiet I could hear the clock downstairs ticking, as well as the soft tapping of raindrops against the windowpanes.

Finally I said, “Thomas, was this your spell?”

His gaze lifted. “Nay, lass.”

At last my chest opened enough to admit a full breath. I felt an almost overwhelming sense of relief. “Do you know whose, then?”

“I believe I do.”