The Witch's Garden

Chapter One: Unlikely Blossoms

The estate agent had called the garden "characterful," which Maren Holloway now understood was a polite way of saying completely impossible. She stood at the back door of 14 Bellwether Lane, mug of tea growing cold in her hand, and stared at a moonflower blooming in broad February daylight. Beside it, a cluster of ghost orchids—a species that had no business surviving outside a Florida swamp—swayed in a breeze she could not feel.

Maren was a botanist. She had a PhD and twelve published papers and a healthy respect for the limits of photosynthesis. None of those credentials had prepared her for a garden where the soil hummed faintly underfoot and roses changed colour depending on her mood.

She found the letter tucked inside a watering can in the potting shed, written in spidery green ink: Dear new owner, the garden chooses its keeper. If you are reading this, it has chosen you. Do not prune the nightshade. Do not speak to the willow after midnight. And whatever you do, never let the foxgloves hear you cry. Maren set down her tea. It had begun to taste like lavender, though she had made it with plain Tesco bags.