Bri had heard stories of the West her whole life, imagined what it would be like, but nothing felt right. A word jumped into her mind: “otherworldly”—the same word people so often used to describe her.

She kicked at the gravel, sending stones flying into the scrub bushes lining the borders of the garden. Bri and the West were one and the same: odd to outsiders, beautiful and strange. She trailed her fingers along the next floral display. Vibrant pinks and orange petals bowed under her fingertips, already in full bloom in the earliest days of spring.

Her breath steamed the air, the temperature plummeting as the sun lowered beyond the horizon. In one day, Swifthill could go from baking sun to freezing cold. The native plants all seemed hardy, prepared for the temperature and dry conditions, but in the other parts of the garden . . . She glanced over the hedgerow, toward the exotic beds Saika had showed them earlier in the day. Bri snorted. They were common flowers in the East, but exotic to them, she supposed.

“Gah,” she cursed as her trailing hand snagged on something sharp.

Yanking her finger back, she stared at the waxy black leaves, needlelike thorns, and white flowers of the curious-looking plant.

“Careful with that one,” someone called from behind.

“Too late.” She scowled at the droplet of blood on her finger.

Glaring over her shoulder, she spotted Cole. The lanky blond witch meandered through the garden like a scarecrow, a wicker basket held in the crook of his arm. He already wore a woolen cloak, prepared for the cold evening air.

Bri frowned at him and back to the menacing-looking plant. “It’s not poisonous, is it?”

“Very, but only if ingested.” He laughed at Bri’s wary glare. “It’s called bonebane. Native more to the temperate forests east of here, but it’s hardy and can survive in these climates too.”

“Bonebane . . .” Bri mused, examining the shiny broad leaves.

“My great-great-grandmother, Adisa Monroe, was the first brown witch to discover its properties.” Cole plucked a few flower blossoms and placed them in his basket. “She made quite a name for herself selling her potent brews. Some called her the mother of assassins.”

“I like the sound of this grandmother.” Bri chuckled, moving along the fence.

At the far end of the row, two workers in green aprons scooped piles of compost into a cart. Cole entered the gate to his apothecary garden and began picking lavender.

“How’s Delta?” Bri asked, leaning her forearms on the fence.

“Better than I had expected.” Cole looked back up at her, clearly exhausted from the grueling surgery, with dark half-moons bulging under his eyes. “She’s still asleep. She’ll be resting for a few days at least before her fae healing can do the brunt of the work and my pain potions will no longer be needed. But she’s a fighter. I reckon she’ll be running the halls again within a week.”

Bri swallowed the knot in her throat as relief warred with sorrow. She was glad Delta had survived, and that her former lover chose to save herself, pride be damned . . . but seeing Saika holding Delta’s hand had hurt her in a way she would have seldom expected. It wasn’t jealousy for Delta, but jealousy nonetheless. She thought about the last person she’d wanted to hold her hand. It had been a long time since she’d wanted anything more than a night of pleasure from someone.