“I’m really sorry, man,” Talia was saying to Rowan. “I know I owed you this challenge. If I’d only gotten to him faster—”

Rowan shook his head, reaching over to grip her shoulder and give her a little shake. “Nah, you did what you could . . . I took too long. If I’d just managed to get Sunflower Stacy pinned down for even a hot minute . . .”

“At least you guys had the chance to do something,” I groused. “My only actual job was to pronounce Gareth the Victor, blech.”

“You know what, you don’t get to have it the worst,” Linden countered. “All I got to do was sit on the sidelines and watch that . . . that jagbag win.”

At that we all lapsed into a dismal silence, heavy as graveyard dirt.

“So, what now?” Talia said, after a few minutes of communal languishing. “We cannot let this be the death of the pact. Especially since we’re agreed, right, that it’s not just about us anymore?”

I thought of the Thorns’ semideserted orchard, and how vibrant it had been even the last time I came to town for a visit, about four years ago. And though I hadn’t stopped by the Avramovs’ Emporium, I was sure the sight of it emptied out and quiet—compared to the lively bustle I remembered, the town destination it made of Hyssop Street—would be no less disheartening.

Talia was right. This was bigger than three scorned witches and their private scores to settle. It may have started out that way, but it had grown into something larger by several scales of magnitude; something the rough size and shape of Thistle Grove itself.

“You know what,” Linden mused, “maybe that’s it. It’s not just about us. The Blackmoores have had the run of this town too long, and we all know it. So maybe it’s time we roped in the elders for real.”

Talia cocked her head, intrigued. “What are you saying, sunshine?”

“I’m saying we really lay it out for them,” Linden said, gaining steam, a trace of new excitement shading her voice. “What we’re trying to do, and exactly why we’re doing it. Obviously they must know the broad strokes by now—but not the particulars. So we bring them into the huddle, ask their advice. You know how the elders all love to play the sage.”

“Hey, that’s not a bad idea,” Talia said, her face brightening. “They might have tricks up their sleeves, geezer shit we won’t have thought of ourselves. I’ll sit down with Elena, put our heads together. She’s been dying for a chance to stick it to Igraine anyway.”

“And I’ll tackle Mama,” Rowan said to Lin, shrugging elaborately when she narrowed her eyes at him. “What, sis, it only makes sense. I’m her favorite kid, it’s my whole thing.”

Linden stared at him, shaking her head. “You are not Mama’s favorite, Rowan, that is delusional.”

“I am, though. But it’s cool, really, it’s no big deal. You can just talk to Dad like you always do anyway.”