Page 89 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Bear nodded, reclaiming the charm bottle. “Thank you.”

“She’s hidden it somewhere,” Oliver snapped.

“Possibly,” Bear said.

“Sir, she’s been consorting with Crows.”

“Just the one,” Briar said. “And what does that have to do with anything?” Everything. Everything. “He’s very handsome.” Hardly the point. “You’ve already searched my house. Twice.”

“And we will keep searching until we find what we are looking for.”

“We really do need to stop the roses,” Bear said quietly. “They are overtaking the village.”

Briar frowned. “I have not spelled anyone’s roses. For Midsummer, people prefer to focus on sunflowers and marigolds. Or St. John’s wort for luck. I convinced a rosebush to abandon someone’s pea plants and cut them back from the well, but that’s it.”

“This is a different kind of witchery. It’s hungry.”

The door swung open and yet another Keeper appeared, hair wet with rain. “Some bloody idiots are trying to use a battering ram on the portal.”

“I’ll see to it.” Bear sighed. “Before they trigger another counterspell. That’s all we need.”

“I knocked one on his ass, but they’re gathering a crowd.”

“Barnaby, with me,” Bear said. The Keeper with the pendulum followed them out.

Briar was left alone with Oliver and one other Keeper. “Ambrose, get the truth spell,” he said, smiling an oily kind of smile at her.

She tried to take a step back, but there was nowhere to go. The chair blocked her; the circle of iron nails flared molten hot. Ambrose returned with the charm of herbs and ashes from solstice bonfires. She did not know what other ingredients went into the spell. Only that it was not gentle.

“I saw Petal Foxglove once. She’s a beauty. A true pocket Venus,” Ambrose said. “If we save her from the Order and the Museum, do you think she’d be grateful? How grateful?”

“Never mind that,” Oliver snapped. “We have the island to protect.”

“We can do both.”

“Just hurry up before Bear comes back.”

Briar, not knowing what else to do, shoved the chair at Ambrose. He staggered back, grunting with surprise.

But it wasn’t enough. Not nearly.

Oliver was already moving. He grabbed her and clapped the spell bundle over her mouth, nearly smothering her in the process. Her tooth cut into her bottom lip. She choked on the taste of blood and witchcraft.

The truth spell crawled through her brain, scraping like thorns, needles, lightning.

She screamed.

“Shut her up,” Ambrose said.

Oliver gripped her face, fingers digging into her jaw. His eyes bored into hers. Her swan hissed but she refused to release it. The danger that it might get trapped was too great.

She gasped as Oliver clawed through her memories, as careless and violent as a housebreaker after heirloom jewels. Paintings crashed to the floor; drawers were upended, clothing pulled from trunks. Teacups smashed, again and again. Moonlight pierced her skull.

Briar screamed again.

At Briar’s first scream of pain, Ethan’s blood ran cold.

Fury gripped him in a way that ought to have cracked the entire island like an egg. He’d never felt its like before. The sea rose against the beach, the bonfires, past the walls, lapping at the houses. The water in the fountain froze.