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Chapter Twelve

Briar left her swan at the back door and two nails crossed on the floor to bar entry while she was upstairs. Bramble was waiting for them in Petal’s room, standing in front of the bed and snarling. She held a brutal-looking pair of iron scissors in her hands. Her eyes were tired, her teeth sharp. There was salt and rowanberries on the windowsill.

“Sorcha is a friend,” Briar reminded her quickly.

“I’m only here to help,” Sorcha added. “I’ve known Petal since we were children.”

Bramble did not look convinced. The air was heavy, blurry, as though filling with mist. It made Briar tired, fuzzy-headed. She was sure she had left something important downstairs. That she ought to leave this room and go check. Right now.

Rabbit magic.

“She can tell us if Petal is hurt,” Briar said, still fighting the urge to wander away. Did she need to go to the well for more water? Had she picked enough raspberry leaf for summer teas?

Bramble lowered her scissors and the mists cleared.

Briar forgot about wells and summer teas and being anywhere else. Sorcha rubbed the bridge of her nose as the pressure in the small room lifted. “I did not enjoy that.”

Bramble stepped aside but stayed tense, tracking Sorcha’s every movement. Petal did not look worse than she had earlier, but she did not look better either. Her hare familiar was curled up in the same spot, its light dim but steady.

Sorcha exhaled. “What happened to her?”

“We don’t know,” Briar said. “Something to do with the shields? The moon charm?”

“We might need Pippa. If it’s in a book, she can find it.”

“I have a feeling any messages I send out of Haven will be intercepted.”

Pippa Cavendish was a book witch who lived in Hallow, working at one of the libraries there. She could find something in a book the way Briar could grow roses. But Hallow was half a day’s walk on foot or several hours in a carriage. Which Briar did not own. Finding one to rent during a festival would take some doing.

“You might be right.” Sorcha approached the bed cautiously. “Don’t bite me, Bramble. I bite back.”

“Why don’t you go to my room?” Briar suggested to Bramble softly. “You need to rest.”

“I’m not leaving her.”

Briar was relieved to hear it. Anything she might be able to do for Petal would only be done if she was safely watched over by someone Briar trusted. Bramble. Sorcha. Pippa. And that was the end of the list. “I’ll bring you a tray,” she said.

“Thank you. Someone was downstairs with sharp eyes.” Bramble sat on Petal’s chair, scissors still in hand. Her cheeks were pale. “I needed to use more magic than I thought.”

Sorcha stood at the foot of the bed, watching Petal sleep. There was a faint frown between her brows. Her crow appeared on her shoulder, head tilted, eyes glittering.

She had perfected a spell she used on the lost and wounded creatures she had been finding since they were girls. Not one of the doctors and midwives, the healers and veterinarians, could replicate it half so well. From injured horse to sick dog, from spell sickness to the fairy-led, Sorcha’s spell knew what it was searching for and would not be distracted.

She pulled out one of the many paper birds she kept tucked about her person. Some were covered in writing, the words unknown even to Briar. Sorcha stood the little bird on her witch knot and then blew it into the air. It dipped, plummeting briefly before soaring up toward the ceiling. It circled there, paper rustling. Once, twice, three times.

It finally returned to Sorcha’s palm. She unfolded it, studying the crinkled paper, then nodded. “Petal’s not in any pain, and there’s nothing that leads me to believe she is not merely sleeping. The spell is far more concerned with your hip and Bramble’s fatigue. And the state of your roof. Abysmal.”

“Don’t remind me,” Briar muttered, lightheaded with the release of the tension radiating through her. Her sister was not dying. Anything else might be fixed. Would be fixed. “Magic sleep.”

“Magic sleep, yes. She’ll probably wake up feeling more refreshed than either of us ever have, knowing Petal.”

“When?” Bramble demanded sharply, though her shoulders had lost some of their tension.

“I don’t know,” Sorcha replied. “But whatever this is, she’s remarkably well. Honestly, I would ignore her if I stumbled across her in the moors.”

Briar slumped against the doorjamb, relief stealing the last of her strength. “Thank the Mothers.”

“If you give the moon charm back, maybe the spell will lift?” Sorcha said.