Chapter Two
Never tap your spoon on the edge of your teacup.
Sound advice for a debutante navigating the perils of her first London Season but less helpful for a witch living on the island of Lyonesse.
For one thing, teacups were a very useful magical item: stir three times sunwise to bring good fortune and three times moon-wise to banish ill luck such as potato blight, nosy neighbors, and unwanted matchmaking advice.
And as the owner of the Rose and Petal Teashop, Miss Briar Foxglove knew everything there was to know about teacups.
And the Social Season, however different it might be on Britain’s magical secret island, still had its own set of rules. Etiquette was etiquette, after all.
Irritating, pervasive, and likely to give one a nasty rash.
Lyonesse’s debutantes still traveled to London to make their curtsy to the queen, still wore white, were still expected to know which kind of lace was currently in fashion.
They were also expected, however, not to let their animal familiars roam into private homes, to curb their instinct for theft if they were magpie girls, and, if a werewolf, not to chase random rabbits because a rabbit might also be someone’s favorite aunt.
Rules notwithstanding, visitors were treated to every delicacy and courtesy and, above all, entertainment.
Familiars could roam relatively free, glowing with that particular glittering light as they enjoyed a freedom not known anywhere else in England, even when invisible to mundane Society.
Blending in was what kept you safe from witch hunters and warlocks and Iron Crows.
But on Haven, those fears could be put aside.
The main beach was carefully curated for every kind of luxury, from the lantern-lit pavilion to terraces created from gold-hued stones and waters so clear they rivaled those found in France and Italy.
Shops lined the boardwalk, selling marzipan mermaids, pearls, lemon ices, healing lotions, charms to make one’s skin brighter, or help one dance more gracefully.
Tonics were brewed to cure magical afflictions, not only bellies too full of sweets but also for spells gone awry or magic blocked in some random part of the body.
Briar had once brewed a tea for a young boy whose first spell had caused violent hiccups that five weeks of patience had not cured.
And a nettle and lavender tea for a woman whose voice had turned into the sound of broken glass, and worse, cut her lips when she dared speak.
The spell to find the culprit—a vicar whose marriage proposal she had declined—was enthusiastically free.
Mostly Briar steeped rose petals in honey for a good marriage, for thicker hair, whiter teeth. In the village of Holdfast, the spells were darker, slightly feral. They had teeth to keep everyone safe. In Hallow they came in illuminated grimoires, steeped in rhyme. They offered knowledge, history.
In Haven, it was all spun sugar.
With a spoonful of chaos, to be sure. The population of Haven, however small it might be, had tripled in the last two days alone.
The Midsummer Festival was in less than a week and greenery hung from every lamppost, flowers from every doorway.
They had been preparing for weeks. Briar had made more flower crowns than she could count, and her friend Sorcha had baked roughly a thousand of the traditional lemon cakes complete with marigold petal rays.
Barrels of elderflower and strawberry wines were at the ready.
Bonfires burned until dawn, tall enough to be seen from the mainland, if they weren’t so well cloaked to mundane eyes.
And there would be more formal dancing every night.
Like the rest of Haven, the assembly room glowed from the whitewashed walls to the parquet floors inlaid with iridescent abalone shell.
And it was paramount, according to Haven’s mayor, that the odors of roasted meats from the light supper provided—or, God forbid, sweat—never overpower the perfume of lilies and lavender.
She was especially insistent on the addition of lilacs, as they were out of season already and it would set Haven apart to have a green witch who could provide them—only in white, naturally.
Briar, despite the fact that she did not dance much, and certainly not with the lords and ladies down from London, was that lucky green witch.
As she needed the money, she did not complain.
The same could not be said for her companion.
George had been summoned to provide the charms that filled the room with the strains of a pianoforte even when the orchestra stopped for a rest, as well as the illusion of pale butterflies billowing between the chandeliers.
He was exceptionally talented. He was also much more interested in being down at the beach at the bonfires.
His familiar, a glowing hedgehog, was just as unimpressed with the trays of crystal goblets, the chandeliers dripping pearls, and the swaths of white lilac bewitched with iridescent opal flames.
Aster Apothecary supplied the rest of the glamours, the ones that were offered in little tins of sweet mints, or sugar cubes for tea, strawberries for champagne flutes.
Discreet when required. And very popular.
George did an equally brisk business selling charmed mints that dispelled glamours. He was not popular with the Asters.
Briar would have welcomed that particular problem.
Her own mother had been a customer before she died, particularly interested in glamours that would cover Briar’s limp. They always made her itch and break out into a rash. She would much rather limp. She was used to it and it never bothered her the way it had bothered her mother.
Briar reached into one of the many pockets of her apron where she kept the tools of a green witch: her silver boline knife with the crescent-moon blade, rowanberries, packets of seeds, pressed flowers.
She whispered a charm to the ropes of white roses she’d wrapped around the window frames, so they would not wilt when the room grew stuffy with dancers.
“Briar?” George asked.
Briar knew exactly where this was going.
Because it was the only thing George ever said to her.
“Where is your sister?” He thought he sounded nonchalant, just inquiring politely over her family.
But Petal was staggeringly beautiful, with long red curls and gray eyes, and no one ever asked about her with any real nonchalance.
And though she and Briar shared the same color eyes, that was where the resemblance ended.
They might be twins, but they were definitely not identical twins.
Briar’s hair was dark brown, her hip was dodgy, and she had a swan for a familiar who was even now floating in the water fountain snapping at tourists who got too close.
He was as cross as Briar was practical. Meaning: very.
Petal’s familiar was a hare, and she had a magical talent for finding things.
Briar grew roses. Well, anything green, really, from hemlock to hazel trees.
Better, she grew every kind of herb and flower for teas and tisanes and infusions as well as the rare red roses her mother had preferred for love spells.
The other witches dealing with the preparations had already sniffed at her brown dress striped with pink. Even the eight-year-old boot boy had shaken his head at her with the sartorial disappointment better suited to an octogenarian duchess. The witches of Haven wore white. Full stop.
“Briar?” George pressed.
“What? Oh. I don’t know where Petal is at the moment.” She had not seen her sister much in the past few days. She tended to make herself scarce during the festivals. She was probably with Bramble, the rabbit witch she loved. Not that it ever stopped George. Or anyone, really.
“Will she dance tonight, do you think? I can add a charm for hares, just like her familiar,” he added hopefully.
“I don’t think so,” Briar said gently. Petal was not fond of the assembly room.
George sighed dramatically, staring out the window.
In the square below, the ornate carriages, painted white and gold like cupcakes, circled, pulled by witchcraft instead of horses.
Horses were not allowed in the square or on the lower street with the shops facing the sea.
Horses made messes. Instead, one of George’s illusions pulled them: doves with gold beaks, using gold chains that glinted and glimmered.
It was lavish and extravagant.
Ridiculous.
So perfectly Haven.
Because George might have designed the glamour, but it took a minimum of nine witches to power it, day and night.
Haven was nothing if not dedicated to its image.
Briar added peonies and more lilies to the urns standing on Corinthian pillar pedestals.
She was nearly done and would like to get home before the fashionable set descended and someone reminded them she was Petal’s sister.
George was not the only one who asked after her.
There were several gentlemen who traveled to Haven annually for just that purpose.
Petal was definitely in hiding and would not come out again until after the solstice.
The only gentleman who asked after Briar was Charles.
Or Charles Bloody Aster, as he was known to the Foxglove sisters.
The senior Mr. Aster had been as kind as his family was…
not. Which was saying rather a lot. He had visited the tearoom for a pot of oolong tea and anise candies to cure his fictional stomach upsets starting the day after Briar’s mother died and every day following until he died.
He knew how they sometimes struggled to pay the bills.
His wife and son knew it as well. They counted on it.
Charles was nothing like his kind, red-cheeked father.
He was taller, leaner, with sandy-brown hair and a haughtiness that exceeded the royal family’s. Of several countries. Together. He was wretchedly entitled and his mother fed the worst parts of his character.
And Briar’s mother had died owing a considerable debt to them both.