Page 94 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Instead of leading him inside, Thane veered away from the castle entrance and staff and toward the palace wall, gesturing for Lochlan to follow as Echo trailed close behind. The hidden path at the back of the sprawling estate was unfamiliar, its narrow trail opening into a secluded garden Lochlan didn’t recognize. Beyond it rose the massive greenhouse.
Flashes of memory surged, unbidden and raw: glass cracking in the sudden heat; the all-consuming desperation to save whatever he could; the blinding pain of burns and loss as Thane dragged him out.
Thane narrated details of the restoration process, gesturing to this part or that, but the words barely registered for Lochlan. He stepped through the doors, his gaze drawn to the large sequoia tree anchoring the space. At its base, faint vines of orchids clung stubbornly, their blooms vibrant against the rough bark.
Thane had told him the truth—it had grown back.
Herbalists wove among the plants, their movements purposeful and graceful, each step like part of a sacred dance. Their hands glowed faintly with magic, trailing soft golden light as they tended to leaves and stems with reverent care. The air was thick with the scent of earth and life—rich, loamy soil mingling with the crisp tang of herbs and the sweetness of blooming flowers. Around them, the greenery pulsed faintly, the plants responding to the touch of their caretakers.
Colors bloomed in vivid, almost dreamlike intensity: emerald leaves glittered with morning dew, and blossoms in shades of sapphire, ruby, and amber seemed to hum with their own quiet energy. It was a world alive and vibrant—a striking contrast to the cold stone of Dover.
Thane’s voice cut through the haze. “Your father’s work and greenhouse were too important to abandon. They just needed… protecting.”
Lochlan moved deeper into the space, taking it all in. He should have felt something—pride, perhaps, or connection—but all he felt was an unexpected emptiness. The greenhouse was enchanting, but it felt foreign, now. Whatever spirit his father had imbued into this place, it was gone, and however lovely and magical a place it was, it felt like someone else’s project now.
Thane, who had been subtly watching him, leaned in. “It’s yours, if you want it.”
The words should have stirred something in Lochlan, but he felt no desire, no draw to the place he’d once treasured above all others—instead he felt hollowed. His father’s garden was gone. Though Thane had done the right thing in restoring the plants other witches would help thrive, none of it replaced or made right what Lochlan himself had lost.
Without a word, he turned and strode back the way they’d come, his pace brisk as he cut through the meticulously kept royal gardens. The pristine hedges and vibrant flower beds were beautiful, but they felt lifeless, devoid of the warmth he craved.
“Lochlan?” Thane rushed after him, his steps quick, his concern palpable. “What is it?”
He shook his head. Grief moved through him like a wave, harsh and flattening. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected to feel empty.
Then he saw her.
He hadn’t anticipated running into Drusilla so soon after arriving. She stood to one side of the path, eyes glued to her phone, oblivious. He could slip away before she noticed. But courage—or maybe just stupidity—stirred inside him. He had come back for a reason, and he would see it through.
“Drusilla.”
Her head snapped up, her gaze locking onto him like she was seeing a ghost.
Lochlan’s magic stirred—not the herbalist magic that sought life, growth, and care, but the shadows. They crawled toward her, clawed at her. Not physically, not in a way anyone could see, but he felt the shadows coiling inside him, reaching and searching for something within his sister.
He shut them off, jolted by the power.
It wasn’t just reflexive—it was aware. He hadn’t fully understood the depth of what he shared with Nia until now. The shadows weren’t just a tool to wield; they felt. They sought out pain, fed off it, connected him to it. And if he pushed harder, if he let himself sink into it, he suspected he could feel anyone’s darkness.
Drusilla approached slowly, her lips curling into a predatory smirk.
That look—it was nothing like their mother’s cold indifference. If he really considered her, she looked much more like her father. Lochlan and Thane could have passed for full brothers—they had their mother’s deep skin tone, hair, and eyes, while Drusilla favored the late king with his fair skin and dark hair.
Drusilla reached Lochlan just as Thane caught up, breathless.
“Well, look who found the balls to show his face,” she said, sharp as a blade. “The bastard whose very existence is causing the monarchy to crumble.”
Thane scowled. “Drusilla, don’t be so crass.”
“No,” Lochlan said evenly. “She isn’t wrong. But she missed the part where it’s our mother’s fault. I’m just the evidence of her failures.”
Drusilla’s eyes darkened. “How dare you talk about the queen like that.”
“She’s never shown me an ounce of care or respect. Why do I owe the same to her?”
Drusilla stormed closer, ready for a fight, but Lochlan didn’t flinch. He only tilted his head, measured, controlled. “Careful, Drusilla. We aren’t children anymore. You wouldn’t want your fans knowing how much of a bitch you actually are.”
Her nostrils flared. “No one would believe a bastard.”
