Chapter Twelve #3
“Did you see what happened earlier?” Basil asked. “All of the moonwater in the apothecary exploded!”
“Did it?” Not just in Briar’s cottage, then. It was somewhat of a relief.
That relief was very short lived.
The crowd parted briefly, affording Briar a glimpse of the far side of the square and the green hillock just beyond it.
The portal stood there as it had for several centuries, a red door opened seemingly to nothing.
But when activated, the empty space shimmered and one could step through into London proper, or Edinburgh or Dublin.
It had been hung with garlands of flowers and leaves before it was locked.
It was now surrounded by a circle of white stones and iron nails stabbed into the grass to ground the considerable magic of a portal gone unpredictable.
It was also surrounded with Keepers, serious of face, eyes searching for guilty witches.
Or warlocks, though they were rare on the island.
A cart waited nearby, equipped with the Order’s iron chains and collars that trapped a witch’s magic inside herself.
Jet stones gleamed at the cross-points of the bars. Briar shivered and looked away.
Unfortunately right at Oliver, and worse, he noticed.
He glared in her direction, the jet-and-iron pendant around his neck catching the sunlight.
Briar’s witch knot began to itch on her palm.
The heavy, grim presence of the Keepers and the knowledge that some kind of unknown magic had locked the shields cast ripples of unease through the festivities.
There was a determination to act as though everything was perfectly normal, but it was hard won.
“Mrs. Aster near threw a fit, I don’t mind telling you,” Basil continued. “She had shelves and shelves of moonwater. Charles nearly lost an eye from a shard.”
Mrs. Aster would take it as a personal affront and dedicate herself to finding the culprit. There was no proof that it was Petal. At least, not directly. She had already been in her swoon, after all. Indirectly…
Mrs. Aster was currently overseeing the table set up just outside of her shop, brimming with tasteful bottles of scents with matching ribbons, all glamours of one kind of another.
For beauty, power, whiter teeth, sweeter breath.
They were very popular. All the year long.
She did not have to rely on festivals. Haven’s official Keeper, Mr. St. John, lingered nearby, an Aster glamour already in his pocket.
Everyone knew he favored the ones that made the calves look thicker.
Basil glanced furtively from the corner of his eye. “Briar?”
“Yes?”
“Do you have any of those love charms?”
“I’m sorry, Basil, you know my mother made those.”
“I know. I just thought…”
“I don’t have the knack of it like she did.” If she had, the debt would not be an issue pressing on her. Her most serious issue before Petal went and stole the moon for her beloved.
It might have been romantic if it wasn’t such a mess.
Briar did a reasonably brisk business despite her unseemly ogling of an Iron Crow, selling wreaths to tourists and also to more familiar faces. Mr. Field, the butcher, the Weatherby sisters. Even Bear bought a circlet of dried sunflowers and said nothing more about her sister.
It was going well enough, considering.
At least until Mrs. Aster noticed.
She did not care for Briar to do well. She knew Briar relied on festivals like this one.
Mrs. Aster nodded in her direction, while whispering to one of her customers.
Mrs. Poplar stopped for her usual wreath of forget-me-nots in honor of her late beau some thirty years gone, until she noticed Mrs. Aster and then smiled weakly at Briar before walking away, coins still firmly in her hand.
Even the tourists noticed the tension and began to avoid her stall.
Basil drifted to the far side of his table, sweating.
Briar sighed, wishing she was more surprised, but the Asters were doubling their efforts to claim her cottage and her gardens. Scents and lotions required flowers and herbs, and a green witch’s garden was an asset. Her mother had leveraged that desire poorly, unfortunately.
Never mind. Briar had a sister and a moon charm to worry about today.
And the dancing was about to start. When the sun had reached its zenith, the fiddle player was joined by a bodhran player, a flautist, and two more fiddlers.
As the music picked up, the crowd made three concentric circles around the oak tree.
They began to dance, alternating circles going sunwise and widdershins.
Above them, familiars sparkled like shooting stars. Owls, hawks, sparrows, pigeons. And even further above them, three phoenixes circled, tails scattering sparks. Lyonesse was one of the only places where they still lived wild, safe in the hilltops and the caves.
There was laughter and shouts of excitement as the dancers went around, faster and faster. Even from the old ladies in their fine pearls and the men in the starchiest of cravats. The oak branches swayed, ribbons and flower wreaths twirling.
They were dancing too fast for Briar to keep up with her unpredictable hip. And anyway, she needed to slip away, and this was as good a time as any. No one would notice. Even the Asters had joined in the circle dancing. Bramble’s magic was strong, but she couldn’t protect Petal alone. Not forever.
Briar slipped away from the merry crowd, hurrying up the cobblestone road to home.