Abigail added the last of the ingredients to her largest cooking pot and stirred the gently bubbling brew. It was exactly the right colour, and consistency for this stage of the process. Now it just needed to simmer for a few hours.

Which meant she had time for a little bit of pruning and harvesting, and if she ate a few of the raspberries as she was collecting, well, they were hers, no one could say she couldn’t.

There was a knock on the door. Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t heard it, that she was already in the garden and out of hearing of the demanding rap.

She straightened, smoothing down her apron. No, she was the new witch-under-the-hill, and this could be someone in need of her help.

It wasn’t.

It was Lillabelle del Marte, Prince Evander, and Lady Mariah Goldenbough, the prince’s reluctant fiancée.

Lillabelle led the conversation, as always, clinging onto Prince Evander’s arm, while he looked down his nose at all of them and Mariah rolled her eyes.

“Oh Abigail. We simply had to come and see. When the rumours said it was you who’d become the new witch-under-the-hill, we just couldn’t believe it, could we Vander?” Lillabelle simpered up at Prince Evander.

His Highness smirked. “She always was a studious little mouse. I’m surprised that you were surprised, Bellie.”

Lillabelle’s scowl at the hated nickname, quickly suppressed, made Abigail wonder, again, why Lillabelle put up with the prince. And why Mariah put up with both of them.

Not that she found any of the trio especially interesting. But since the four of them had been the only students from the Starsong Kingdom in their year at the Imperial Academy, the three girls had been housed together, and she’d been forced to get to know them. Although why they persisted in the connection after graduation was curious.

She was the third daughter of prosperous farmer, only at the academy because of her rare talent for potions. These three sat at the top of the kingdom’s social tree. The second prince, his betrothed, and his flirt. Both the young women were from old, rich, powerful families, and they, along with the prince, seemed to revel in the vicious cut and thrust of court politics.

Abigail had probably been a novelty at first and evolved into some sort of amusing pet.

Amusing enough to warrant a half-day ride out from the palace to her new home, it seemed. How tedious.

Lillabelle tried to peer over Abigail’s shoulder into the house. “There are so many rumours about this place. Does it really have a thousand rooms?”

“Not that I’ve found.” Abigail didn’t mention the spiralling corridor below the main floor, with doors she had yet to count leading off it.”

“One room made entirely of glass?” Lillabelle looked hopeful.

Abigail squashed all thoughts of the wall of windows surrounding the glass-roofed conservatory in the centre of the building – a glamour hiding it from outside view while providing natural light to the ring of rooms around it. “Afraid not.”

Evander winked at her. “How about the portal to the palace?”

“Oh yes, that does exist.” Abigail paused long enough for them to brighten, then added, “But it was closed off by Your Highness’s grandfather.”

Lady Mariah finally spoke. “See? I told you this was a waste of time. It’s just a dank, dark cave in the middle of nowhere that someone decided to throw some old furniture into.”

Old furniture, yes, absolutely, if you counted priceless antiques and ancient magical relics as ‘old furniture’.

Prince Evander shook his arm free of Lillabelle’s clasp and took hold of Abigail’s hand. “But it does at least have our dear school-friend. Won’t you invite us in?”

He was so good at these. Orders couched as charming requests. He probably even thought they were requests. But coming from a prince of the realm? They were orders.

Abigail pulled her hand away to drop a court-perfect curtsy – they had taught her one or two things. “It would be my honour, Your Highness. Please come in.”

Now where on earth was she going to put them? She didn’t want them in the back section. She didn’t even want them to suspect there was a back section – conservatory, scrying chamber, laboratory, healing ward, library, and her personal living suite – a bedroom and bathroom that put their palace rooms to shame.

She may as well meet their expectations, or Mariah’s at least, so she took them through to the kitchen and still room. A large, comfortable place, with the ceiling’s beams formed from living tree roots, a flagstone floor, and simple, sturdy, cottage-style furniture.

It was one of her favourite rooms. Most of the others still felt a little intimidating, as if she were an intruder, despite the letter of appointment from the Imperial Council.

Abigaile scooped a couple of books off the table and whisked a tea towel off the back of one of the wooden chairs.

“Please be seated. Would you like tea?”