“Twenty-three years,” Lahav said with relish, knocking back his second glass of wine and reaching for the jug. “Took the bastard long enough to die!”

“Lahav!” Gerard cried. “This is the bastard’s funeral, in case you’ve forgotten! Tomorrow’s party is for swearing Rhydian is as our newest Thane – tonight we drink to the memory of the dearly departed-“

“The only Thane who wouldn’t forgive Rhydian,” Ishri snarled. “Gerard, loyalty to the Knights only gets you so far – you notice he hadn’t been dead half an hour before all the others voted Rhydian should take his place. Quickest decision in the Knights’ history, I believe.”

At the other side of the room a table was knocked over as Samuel and Edythe cut a dashing and enthusiastic caper across the hall, to general cheering.

“Where is Rhydian, anyway?” Lahav asked. “Surely he can’t still be messing around in the garden – it’s gone midnight.”

“Samuel called him away to deal with some Seelie who’re trying to break the third provision of the Pact – said if he was going to be a Thane from tomorrow onwards he could spend tonight on Enforcer stuff. Either he’s still dealing with that, or he’s trying to get Robor’s druids to look into the garden problems again. There won’t be any changes – there’ve been too many wet summers and dry winters recently, and everything’s struggling.”

“Either that,” Lahav says quietly, “or the combined world doesn’t work like Tia N’Aill, and she’s never coming back.”

Ishri considers this. “I could try and make another one, if you wanted. Merlyn managed it so the Collegium shouldn’t have any problems. Is Rhydian only sexually attracted to plants or would something with a human base do just as well? Does it need to be any particular plant? I could experiment-”

Gerard finds he has an urgent need to be in any conversation but this.

*

Outside, the Seelie raises his hoof and brings the roof of the stables down on them both. Taking advantage of the distraction, he dashes away through the orchard, past the maze and down towards the flower garden. Frustrated, Rhydian wraps a cloth around his hand and grabs a Cold Iron sword from the rack – it hurts, but the grip is bearable, and it’ll finish this fight before the unicorn can get inside and hurt anyone else.

The unicorn leaps the fence and rushes across the flowers, tearing up the neatly-planted beds and sending a stream of fire over the trees at the far end. The roots of the furthest tree swarm upwards, breaking through the soil and pushing straight through the tendons in his legs – he whinnies and screams with pain, and the branches reach down and hold him fast. Rhydian clears the fence just in time to see the girlfriend he last saw over twenty years before re-form from briars, nettles, thistles and nightshade and turn towards the unicorn with murder in her eyes.

“It’s not worth it,” he calls, the same words he said when she attacked Elizabeth at Godstow, all those years ago.

“Hello,” Blodeuwedd says shyly, turning to face him. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.”

Rhydian simply casts the Will-o-the-Wisp spell, the one used by so many Fae to lure victims to their deaths. Around her, the garden – acres and acres of it, filled with honeysuckle and nightshade and daisies and harebells and the inevitable pink roses – lights up around her, and she gasps in wonder and amazement.

“It’s yours,” he says. “If you want it.”

“Ours,” she replies, and reaches for him.

*

“Well, that’s half an hour of research wasted,” Ishri says grumpily. “Anyone else here want a girlfriend made from plants?”