Page 19

Briar’s heart began to race again. “Show me.”

Don’t be Petal. Don’t be Petal. Please, don’t be Petal.

It was Petal.

The tree branches immediately pressed closer, rosebushes and raspberry canes and blackberry hedge growing in a thick tangle no one could spy through. Petal lay on the edge of the garden, pale as rose petals. Her hare familiar also slept, curled in on itself on top of her chest, glowing only faintly, long, soft ears limp.

Briar did not like that.

Petal’s familiar was usually bright as a sword, all teeth and light.

But it was rainwater, not blood, soaking her sister’s red hair. Mud, not bruises. Relief was just like swan wings in her chest. “What happened?” Briar whispered.

“I found her like this,” Bramble replied. “On the other side of the garden fence.”

“Did anyone see you?”

Bramble shot her a disgusted look.

“You might have rabbit magic,” Briar muttered, “but my unconscious sister does not.”

“We were not seen.”

“Let’s get her inside before she catches her death.”

Just then, because clearly a bad day could always get so much worse, there came a single knock on the front door. Mint tingled on Briar’s tongue, along with a hint of lilac from the tree by the front step. A warning.

The Order of the Iron Nail.

Briar knew it, even from the other side of the cottage. The pink gargoyle set on the edge of the roof spread its stone wings. All witch houses had a gargoyle meant to gobble up errant or baneful magic. The Order of the Iron Nail was the force tasked with policing witches all over the country. It sent Keepers to track warlocks, break curses, find thieves.

And her sister.

They carried so many charms and stank so of magic that gargoyles might not attack them, but they certainly perked up in their presence. Watchful. Suspicious. And gargoyles on Lyonesse were not like the ones in London. Here, they were used to so much more magic thrumming through the air. Haven alone had spells to make sure the gutters sparkled clean, the fish at market never sent its smells toward the village square. Charms to clear the rain clouds over the beach of an afternoon, to keep the ants from the picnics, the jellyfish from the swimming areas. And that was on an ordinary day, never mind Midsummer.

But even here, the Order had near-absolute authority.

If they had come for Petal, there was very little Briar could do to stop them. Sending a solicitor to the Council would take weeks. And that was only once the shields were lifted. In the meantime, they would take Petal to Holdfast, where the dungeons were made of stone lined with jet to counter spellwork. Where the Iron Witches guarded the bones of dead witches and used them to feed the shields.

The only way to save Petal was to make sure they never found her.

Bramble was already on her feet, snarling slightly as she stood over Petal’s prone body. Never mind wolf shifters and serpent clans—never cross a rabbit girl. That made Briar feel a bit better. “I’ll get rid of them,” she murmured.

How, she had no idea. One unmitigated disaster at a time.

The rain fell harder, sharp as thorns. She used it to feed the rosebushes, along with a generous push of her magic. Thicket and tangle to keep her sister safe.

Her hip protested the climb out of the greenery, the whole evening in general. If she made it to the cottage without her leg giving out completely, it would be a start. At least the cocoon of leaves and branches had woven tightly enough around Petal to protect her from the worst of the weather. And from prying eyes. The Order had so many ways to see into the shadow of things.

But not here. This was her house. Her sister.

She had sworn to keep her sister safe the day Petal saved Briar from a riptide by their favorite cove. They were thirteen years old and Briar had spotted a mermaid, had heard her soft, bright singing. She was no match for the pull and push of the sea, the laugh of a mermaid.

Petal was the one to drag her back to the shore, cutting herself on the rocks. The wound had festered, bringing on a dangerous fever. Neither the doctor nor the healers had been able to help. Mermaid magic locked its teeth wherever it could. And Petal had ventured too near for someone whose beauty rivaled even that of a mermaid.

All to save Briar.

Briar had gathered comfrey and honey and spiders’ webs. She had made a crown of seaweed for Petal’s red brow and drawn sigils with salt under her bed. And then sat with her, clutching her hand for three days and three nights until the fever broke.