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I should be more worried. Instead, I’m obsessing over yarrow because plants make sense. Plants don’t lie or hide bodies or organize search parties.

I check the text anyway.

VIKTOR ASKING ABOUT YOU SPECIFICALLY. STAY LOW.

Great. Just what I need.

I dump the struggling yarrow into my compost bin and grab my pruning shears. Might as well keep busy while waiting for this whole thing to explode in our faces. The herbs for tomorrow’s tinctures need harvesting anyway.

The greenhouse door creaks open behind me. I spin around, shears ready, before I realize it’s Briar. She’s standing in the doorway, backlit by the security lights that just came on outside, looking like she hasn’t slept in days.

“Sorry,” she says, stepping inside and closing the door. “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

I set down the shears, trying to keep my face neutral. “You didn’t. I’m just jumpy.”

“Join the club.” She wraps her cardigan tighter around her thin frame. “Have you heard anything? Have you heard from Flint?”

“Yeah.” I move to the workbench, giving her space to come further inside if she wants. “It’s not good.”

She takes a few steps closer, glancing around like she’s not sure where to settle. She seems different here than she did at the party or even during the burial—less confident. The greenhouse has that effect on people. It’s my space. My rules.

“I couldn’t stay in the house anymore,” she says. “Every noise, every shadow. I kept thinking someone was watching me.”

“They might be.” No point sugarcoating it. “Viktor’s got half the island looking for his brother.”

“I figured as much. That’s why I came through the back way. Used the path behind the hedge.”

Smart. I nod, feeling a weird sense of approval. “Good. Better if no one sees us together right now.”

She moves closer to my workbench, studying the herbs I’ve been sorting—lavender, valerian, chamomile. Sleep aids. The irony isn’t lost on me.

“Will these help?” She touches the lavender sprigs with careful fingers.

“With what?”

“Nightmares.”

I observe her face—the dark circles under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth. “Some. Not enough.”

She nods like she expected that answer. “Worth a shot.”

“I can make you something stronger,” I hear myself offer. “Not a cure, but it’ll knock you out for a few hours. No dreams.”

“I’d like that,” she says, still trailing her fingers through the lavender. “I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time since...”

Since we buried a body. She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.

“Here,” I say, motioning her closer. “I’ll show you how to make it yourself. For next time.”

She moves to my side, and I get a whiff of something clean and vaguely citrusy. Not perfume—soap, maybe shampoo. It’s distracting.

I pull out my mortar and pestle, then grab jars of dried herbs from the shelf behind me. “Pay attention,” I tell her, falling into teaching mode. “Valerian root is the base. Powerful sedative, tastes like shit.”

She almost smiles. “Noted.”

“Add passionflower for the anxiety. That’s this one with the purple bits. Then chamomile to smooth the edges.”

I measure each herb, dropping them into the mortar, then hand her the pestle. “You grind.”