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Ethan’s teeth flashed in a grin. The kelpies dove under the waves, slapping their tails on the surface before disappearing.

The climb to the tower did not take long. The stones were slippery, but the steps were gritty with salt and mussel shells. Iron Witches were powerful enough that Briar could still see the glimmer of magic in the air but could no longer feel it. The iron pressed against her collarbones. Someone’s familiar in the shape of a crane perched on the crenelations.

The wind howled through the arched doorway, pushing them inside. Rowanberries were scattered on the ground. Red ribbons and witch glass dangled in the windows, tinkling as the globes swung together. Lanterns lined the edges of the space in a circle of warm flickering light. In the center was a brazier with a fire of rowan wood burning hot.

The last Iron Witch also waited inside. She was slumped on the stones, her plaid wrapped around her shoulders. She wore a crown of rowan over her white hair and the silver torc of her office. Her fingers were tattooed, joined by dots high on her brow and the triple spiral of Lyonesse at the base of her neck. They were sworn to the island and its protection.

“You’ve come at last,” she struggled to say, blood on her lips.

“I have the amulet,” Briar said softly. “Tell me what to do.”

“Take that shell there and fill it with salt and rowanberries.”

Briar did as she was bidden, scooping salt from a large glass jar and rowanberries from a willow basket.

“Now the amulet.” The Iron Witch coughed and it sounded painful. Her eyelids were only half open.

Briar did not even check her stays for the amulet. She merely held out her hand until Ethan dropped it in her palm, on top of her dead, faded witch knot, without a word. “I don’t have magic anymore,” she told the other woman. “They took my craft.”

“We don’t need your magic—we have mine. We need your blood.”

Ethan hissed out a warning breath.

The Iron Witch chuckled weakly. “Easy, Dragon.”

“What’s the price?” Ethan demanded.

Briar frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“There’s always a price.” He kept his glare on the Iron Witch.

“He’s right,” she agreed hoarsely.

“It doesn’t matter. I’ll pay it,” Briar said. “This is my fault.”

Ethan clapped a hand over her mouth, silencing her. “No.” He tucked her up against his chest protectively. “That was no oath, witch.”

Briar had to pull on his arm with her full strength to get him to lower it. “We don’t have time for this. I made this mess, however unintentionally. So I’ll do what needs to be done.”

“Your sister ought to pay the price.”

“She’s not here. I am.” She stepped toward the Iron Witch, holding the bowl of salt and rowanberries. The moonstone of the amulet drank in the moonlight, pulling it through the windows and the doorway and from Briar herself. “Now what do I do?”

“We need your blood, as well as mine, delivered by a rose thorn.”

That was easy enough to fulfill. The roses were already rushing up the stone steps and her scrapes were still bleeding. One of the vines had tangled in her hair and stuck there, so she pulled it loose for the Iron Witch. She used it to draw blood from her fingertip, as well as her own.

Their blood dripped over the amulet.

“And now?” Briar asked as a storm of rose petals blew inside the tower and caught in a whirlwind. One of the witch globes crashed to the ground and splintered. The sound was like a thousand bird wings, a thousand trees cracked by lightning, a thousand earthquakes underfoot.

“Burn it.”

Aidan was going to be incensed over the burning of an ancient artifact. Were the Foxgloves a fine family from the peerage, they might have offered donations to assuage the museum over the loss. Briar could only offer him a nice, soothing tea. A recipe against slugs in the cabbages. Rose-petal honey.

A broken curse.

When she approached the fire, the wind intensified. Petals and dirt and debris bit at exposed skin. The fire flickered wildly but did not go out. The rowan wood sparked. A keening sounded in her ears. The iron collar grew colder, stinging her skin. Icicles formed like dangling silver spikes. Her teeth chattered. She tried to ignore the mounting pain, stumbled—but she did not fall. Her hip throbbed, and the cuts all over her hands and arms burned. The collar tightened.