Page 53 of This Witch Is Not Wicked

I thought about the festivals and parties Mother threw at their estate, the elaborate decorations in the garden. “Parties normally. They loved to throw parties in their gardens.”

“Is that where you got your love of plants?” Nevan asked. “From your mother?”

I nodded absently. I supposed that was a way of putting it. “I don’t think I ever really had a choice.”

We walked toward the stand, and Nevan bought two caramel apples, handing me one. A pain shot through my heart. The last time I’d had one of these had been at a festival honoring my mother when they were still here.

“I guess my interests always differed slightly from Mother’s.” I took a bite of the apple, the sourness from the fruit mingling with the sweetness of the caramel and exploding on my tongue.

Nevan moaned. “Oh, that’s good.” He finished chewing and swallowing his bite. “How are your interests different? It seems like your whole life is this bog and all the gardens you’ve planted here.” He gestured beyond the city limits, to all the pieces of land with my various plants growing.

Peeks of green and pink and purple appeared through the gaps between businesses.

“Mother always loved beauty.” I took another bite of my apple. “And they would never approve of this bog. The wild gardens, the green water, the untamed bushes and reeds.”

Nevan was staring at me.

“What?” I patted my cheek. “Do I have something on my face?”

“Your mother wouldn’t like all of this? The Cragh is beautiful.”

“You think the bog is beautiful?” I asked, momentarily shocked. “But no one thinks this bog is beautiful.”

“I do,” he said. “I think it’s one of the most stunning things I’ve ever seen.” But he wasn’t staring out at my little home. He was looking directly at me.

I cleared my throat and took another bite of my apple, unable to handle the intensity of whatever was happening between us.

“Mother never liked my plants,” I said. “I suppose I developed an interest in growing different varieties, ones that weren’t the norm.”

Nevan laughed. “That’s a word for it. I’ve never seen most of these species anywhere else on the continent.”

That was because they didn’t exist anywhere else. I’d grown a lot of them when I’d first arrived here.

“They don’t have much use outside of just being mine. Just existing.”

“Well, that’s enough.” Nevan frowned as a group of children ran past us, giggling and wearing beautiful garlands on their heads. “But I think you’re wrong.”

“What do you mean?” I took another bite of my apple.

“A lot of these plants could be useful. In alchemy, we use all kinds of species, poisons, objects, and powders to create potions.”

I snorted. “If you used anything in this bog, it would likely create something dangerous.”

He shook his head, a few strands of his brown hair falling over his forehead. I had the urge to brush them out of the way.

“I don’t think so. Did you know that in healing, we sometimes use poison as an antidote?”

I’d never heard of such a thing. “Really?” I asked, trying not to sound too curious, too hopeful. If I’d learned anything over my long lifespan, it was that hoping was pointless, that I couldn’t be anything other than what I was—and neither could my bog.

He licked a drop of caramel before it fell off the apple. The sight did ridiculous things to the area between my legs, heat flooding it as I imagined him licking me instead.

Nevan laughed. “Really. When I see your bog, I don’t see something dangerous. I see possibility. If I had more time, I’d collect samples, do experiments.”

I ignored the throbbing heat, wishing I could take a plunge in the frigid bog. “Why don’t you have more time?”

He scoffed as we wound around the bend, passing my cottage. “Have you met my brother?”

“Prince Cillian?” I asked.