That was the only explanation he had for Marian trying to clear close to half an acre of land in order to plant a few vegetables, herbs, and flowers. Of course, being a hearth witch meant having a tidy streak that went down to the marrow, so she’d never be content with seeing weeds beyond her little beds. Which meant she’d be out here working too hard every time he turned his back.

She’d drive him up the walls inside of a week—and she was already doing that on a regular basis just by being where he could see her.

He understood her wanting the garden. Besides the practical reasons of growing some of their own food, it would be hers. Her work, her accomplishment, her . . . claim.

He looked at the land again, turning that thought over. Everyone needed something to call their own. She lived in it and took care of it, but she thought of the eyrie as his place. But the garden . . . Something of her own, apart from him. Something she would want to see change with the seasons. Which meant she intended to stay, even if she didn’t realize it yet.

She’d never be able to clear all of this and have the pleasure of seeing vegetables ripen and flowers bloom this year. And if he tried to help her now, she might see it as his way of reminding her that the land didn’t really belong to her.

Moving away from the eyrie, Lucivar stopped when he reached a place where he could look down at Riada—and smiled. He had a way he could prepare the ground for her. Now he just needed a reason to get her away from Ebon Rih for a couple of days—and a little help doing it.

“My fingers are shriveled,” Marian complained, clutching the towel she’d wrapped around herself.

“But you can almost stand up straight,” Lucivar replied as he led her to her bedroom. “All right. On your belly.”

“What?”

A slash of fear.

Gritting his teeth, he gave her a little push toward the bed. “The soak was the first part of the treatment. A rubdown is the second.”

“No, that’s all right. I can—”

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t touch her. He just looked at her. The coven never argued with him when they were on the receiving end of that look. Marian didn’t either. She stretched out on the bed.

After flipping the sheet up to her waist, he straddled her. She jerked up when he vanished the towel. Her shriek of protest turned into a different kind of shriek when he called in a bottle of liniment and poured some on her back without using a warming spell on it first. Leaving the bottle of liniment floating on air freed both hands to push her down and rub her tight muscles.

“It stinks,” Marian said.