Chapter
One
Till Ashcombe and Hawthorne blood be one,
Tragedy’s wheel shall not be undone.
No maid of Lenore’s line shall wed,
And love shall bring the Hawthorne death instead.
—from the Grimoire of Lettice Ashcombe
Mist shrouded the earth, clinging low to the ground. It curled like ghostly fingers around the roots of the ancient oaks, a tripping hazard for the unwary or unfamiliar. But despite the somewhat ominous setting, the forest that bordered Ravenswood Hall was a peaceful place. The deep silence was broken only by the faint and distant chirping of birds beneath the pink streaked sky of an autumn dawn. The pale light filtered through the trees, dappling the ground in a lacy pattern.
Eliza Ashcombe moved quietly through the underbrush, the hem of her cloak already damp from the dew-soaked local flora. In one hand she carried a small woven basket, its bottom lined with sprigs of rosemary and the rich purple blossomsof moonwort. Their supplies of both had run quite low and her grandmother had been struggling with rheumatism in the mornings, waking up too stiff and sore to collect herbs so early in the day.
While she was terribly saddened by the reason for her solitary treks into the local forest, they were still quite restorative to her. Those woods soothed her soul and it was the hour she loved most—when the world was still silent sleepy, when the woods felt as though they belonged to her alone. She knew the land with the ease and familiarity of one who had lived their entire life within its confines. Every hidden clearing, every moss covered stone, every fallen log and stump were as familiar and comforting to her as the small cottage she shared with her grandmother. For generations, every Ashcombe women had walked those same woods— collecting herbs, weaving charms, and indulging the strange and eccentric mysticism that had always been a distinguishing feature for them.
Some said they whispered to the forest and that the forest whispered back. And Eliza knew that was true. It certainly was for her grandmother. But not for Eliza. For her, the woods were silent and peaceful. Because she was the first in the long line of Ashcombe’s who did not possess ‘the gift’.
For the longest time, she’d struggled with that. With feeling as if she had failed all those who had came before her. It was hard to be so terribly ordinary with such an extraordinary bloodline behind her. And yet she was. Every time her grandmother had tried to teach her the old ways, she’d failed in them terribly. Her spells never worked. She stumbled over incantations as though she were tongue tied. And finally, after many years of disappointment and soul searching, she’d made her peace with it, for better or worse. She could mix the potions, she could brew the remedies. They would be effective from amedicinal standpoint, but they would lack that extra something that her grandmother imbued them with.
Eliza was so lost in her slightly melancholy introspection that she did not hear the hoofbeats until they were close—too close. A startled thrush burst from a nearby branch, and Eliza’s head snapped up just as a dark horse broke through the trees, its rider hauling sharply on the reins to keep from colliding with her.
“What the devil—?” The man’s voice cut through the quiet, deep and commanding. The horse tossed its head and pawed the ground, and the rider swung down in one fluid motion, boots landing in the leaf litter with a muted thud. “What are you doing here?”
Eliza’s heart leapt into her throat. The man before her was tall—imposing, even—with eyes the color of storm clouds and a jaw set in hard disapproval. His coat, though dusted with forest debris, was of fine cut and excellent tailoring. Not a farmer. Not a villager. Someone who had no business in these woods.
“I might ask you the same thing,” she said, clutching her basket a little tighter. “This part of the forest is not often frequented by strangers.”
His gaze sharpened. “Strangers? You are trespassing on private land.”
“I most certainly am not.”
He took a step closer, and the sheer presence of him—his height, his posture, the authoritative air that seemed to cling to him like a mantle—made the air between them feel smaller, heavier. “This is part of the Ravenwood estate,” he said, as if explaining something obvious to a particularly dull child. “And I am Gabriel Hawthorne, Earl of Blackburn… this land belongs to me.”
Eliza blinked. It wasn’t unusual for her to be behind on village gossip. They rarely went into the village and when they did, few spoke to them. Never mind that those some peoplewould come scratching at her grandmother’s door asking for potions or spells. There had been an unfortunate succession of heirs over the last few years, each one meeting a dark fate. Though she had to admit the man before her was not at all like his predecessors. Still, something cold and unpleasant twisted low in her belly.
“Then it appears, my lord, that our introduction is overdue,” she replied, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Or has your steward has neglected to inform you of a certain longstanding arrangement? My grandmother and I reside on this land by right—granted to our family by one of your ancestors, and in perpetuity.”
He stared at her, incredulous. “I would know if such a thing existed.”
“Would you?” she asked, lifting her chin. “Because the deed to our cottage says otherwise. You will find it in your own archives, should you care to look.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant call of a jay and the restless snort of his horse. His expression shifted—frustration, disbelief, and something else flickering behind his eyes. Curiosity, perhaps. Or suspicion.
“And who, precisely, are you?” he asked finally.
“Miss Eliza Ashcombe,” she said, and for just a heartbeat she thought she saw recognition spark in his gaze. Everyone knew that name. Most spoke it in hushed tones, with a glance over the shoulder, as though invoking something dangerous.
He raised an eyebrow then. “I’ve hear the name mentioned and assumed we were merely neighbors. I had no notion the local witches were my tenants... Isn’t that what the villagers say? That you and your grandmother are witches?”
Her lips tightened. “My grandmother is a healer and is possessed of some rather unique gifts. We do not like that word, though others have chosen to use it.”
He studied her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers as though she were some puzzle he intended to solve. “I will speak to my steward,” he said at last. “But until I have, I would prefer that you confine your herb gathering to your own garden.”
“And I would prefer,” she answered, her voice cool and even, “that you would not be so highhanded as to issue orders to someone you have no authority over.”
