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Especially Lyonesse. For most, the island was a vacation, a moment outside of their real lives and the tearoom just another stop along the way. A cup of tea, a frosted cake. A sachet of dried leaves as a souvenir. And then back to London or Cardiff or Dublin. Back to the seas.
The walk across the hills back to Haven was filled with birdsong and the wind in the thistles. The sun was warm on her hair and her shoulders and the tip of her nose. She snuck Ethan glances, drinking in his lazy, confident strides, the tattoo peeking out of his open collar, his silver rings flashing.
It swelled inside her ribcage—sorrow, wishes best left unsaid, the prickle of unshed tears behind her eyelids. The way she already missed him when he was still right there beside her.
Love.
She loved him.
There was no sense denying it to herself. It wouldn’t make it any less true. Or any less painful. She loved his ruthlessness, his secret gentleness. His unwavering, uncomplaining strength. The way he’d fixed her door without being asked. The cane of roses. He saw her. And she knew how precious that was.
She loved him. Iron Crow. Dragon. Captain.
And so she let him go.
It was the only gift she could offer, the green witch spinster in the cottage that would be seized for unpaid debt within the week.
They had reached the cliff’s edge. The ship, the glittering light of his dragon, the white roses. She did not blink, even when her eyes watered. She didn’t want to miss a single moment. Ethan kissed her again, chasing the little sounds she made, holding firm but fingers gentle on her jaw. He pressed his brow to hers. “Little thorn.”
“Dragon.”
“Aster won’t be a problem,” he said. “I’ll see to it.”
What did that mean? She wasn’t entirely sure she should ask. “You can’t murder him.”
“You keep saying that.” He exhaled. “You have a lot of rules.”
“Just the one, really. But if someone out there is trying to murder you, you can murder them right back.”
“So the rules change.”
She shrugged. “Usually no one’s trying to murder me.” She slanted him a look through her lashes. “You, on the other hand…”
He chuckled, but there was no humor to it. It was layered with too many threads for her to unpick. Wryness? Regret? Agreement? “Don’t let his mother bully you. And don’t let any Keepers through your front door, woman.”
She ran her palms down his thick arms, memorizing the warmth of him, the sinewy strength. She did not mention that she might not have a tearoom for much longer.
“And don’t use those driftwood canes anymore.”
“I know.”
“Have someone move a comfortable bed into your downstairs parlor. No more sleeping on the bloody stones.”
Warmth filled her at his hard, stern tone. “I’ll be fine, Ethan. I promise.”
“I know. But I want you to be better than fine. And I want Haven to tremble at your feet.”
“I don’t need that.”
He grunted, unconvinced. “I have to go.”
“I know.”
He pulled away, and she let him. He descended the stone steps, wind tugging at his dark hair. Briar stayed on the cliff, thinking of bees at window panes, spiders trapped in flower garlands, thistles that needed the field instead of the garden. The sparrow trapped in the roses.
“Don’t forget me, Ethan Swansea,” she whispered, too softly for him to hear. The scent of roses was strong.
He stopped but did not turn around. The line of his spine was like a sword. Sunlight flashed on the sea. He whispered back as though she was not meant to hear him either.
“I’d sooner forget how to breathe.”
