Page 109 of A Lady’s Guide to Witchcraft

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The crossing back to the main island was a far simpler affair.

There were still kelpies, but they were mostly waiting for Ethan to toss them chicken bones. Even the Iron Witch shook her head at that.

The keel dragged on the rocks as several villagers rushed forward to bring them the rest of the way in. They steadied the boat, helping the Iron Witch to her feet, then Briar, but Ethan was already knee-deep in the waves, lifting her out.

Holdfast was full of roses but did not look otherwise the worse for wear. No one had choked on petals or been strangled to death by thorny vines. Briar let out a breath of relief. Someone had lit a fire in the center of the small square and it popped cheerfully, sending sparks into the sky. There would be bonfires all over the island this morning.

Oliver and Ambrose were where they had been left, tied up with rope, mostly being ignored by the villagers. Sorcha was nearby, tossing a large branch into the field behind the road. “Is she playing fetch with a Black Shuck?” Ethan asked.

Briar smiled fondly at her friend. “Yes, of course she is.”

“Of course. Stupid of me to ask, really.”

Sorcha spotted them and darted over to throw her arms around Briar. “You did it! Your hair! Your throat! Is that blood? Are you hurt?”

Briar shook her head. She was beyond tired, had passed to that glittering, liminal pace beyond it. Her hip ached like the devil. She wanted a pot of tea and a tower of Matthias’s madeleines. An entire chicken pie. A raspberry cake. Cheese. Three days of sleep.

But she was surprisingly…well.

“Happy Midsummer,” she said instead, because it was a less complicated answer and a soft pink touched the horizon, barely there.

“Happy Midsummer!” Sorcha returned, eyes sharp as she glanced at Ethan, then back at Briar. Briar had no answers. The Black Shuck barreled toward them, the half of a toppled tree he had traded the branch for in his giant jaw. “Happy Midsummer, Shadow,” Sorcha added. “Give me that, you absolute monster. Don’t you dare drool on me. I’ll stink for a month.”

“You named him Shadow?” Briar groaned, the moment of ordinary such a balm it made her eyes sting. “You are the worst at naming things.”

“What? How can you say that? He’s dark, a bit scary. Shadow is perfect. I am very good at this,” she informed Ethan haughtily.

“You called your familiar Shiny Murder Bird until you were twelve,” Briar reminded her.

“And he is a shiny murder bird. I fail to see the problem. And then he wanted to be addressed as Sir Elderberry.”

Elderberry, the murder bird in question, was busy flying low circles over Shadow with a taunting cry.

“What about these two?” Ethan asked, looking rather like a shiny murder bird himself. Oliver squirmed to get out of reach. Sorcha had stuffed a piece of cloth in his mouth.

“He wouldn’t stop complaining,” she said, rolling her eyes. “‘My arm hurts, I’m a Keeper,’ demanding this, demanding that. So it was this or let Shadow eat his face.” She sniffed. “All options are still on the table.”