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made all the roads around Castleton nearly impassable. As Rose guided the old mare and cart over the neatly manicured drive toward the back of Mrs. Simpson‘s cottage, she peered up at the welcome break in the sky.

    It had taken her over two hours to travel a mere four miles. Even wearing heavy boots, she could have walked the way faster. Once she reached the trough, she jumped out of the cart, careful to avoid the mud as Jack set the brake. Though her breeches and natty tweed jacket had not escaped mud splatter, her boots were not proof against mud, and her stockings were already as soggy as milk-soaked bread.

    ―Do ye want me to gather the eggs, Miss Rose?‖

    Rose smiled. ―Thank you, Jack. And if you tend to the stalls in the barn as well, I am sure Mrs. Simpson will thank you with your favorite pastries.‖

    She removed the knapsack filled with stores from behind the bench and turned toward the cottage. Today was almost cold in the shade, but the sun felt wondrous. She knocked on the door and, without waiting, entered the cottage.

    ―Mrs. Simpson?‖ Rose peered around the cluttered room filled with artifacts and shelves of dusty books that had once belonged to the woman‘s husband. Sunlight spilled into the room from the windows revealing dust moats dancing in the air. A breeze puffed the yellow curtains and brought with it the scent of mint from the flower box outside the window. A small but comforting fire burned in the stove.

    Rose removed her hat and shook out her hair. A black leather tome about sorcery sat upon a table in the kitchen. Her heart gave a thump as she set the knapsack on a chair and picked up the book.

    With the exception of maybe Mrs. Graham, most in the village considered Mrs. Simpson a witch. Rose loved that mystique about her.

    She had been a skinny six-year-old with tangled hair and skinned knees the first time she‘d met Mrs. Simpson. Dressed all in black, the widow had arrived at the abbey in a coach, her husband being a baronet. Friar Tucker had paraded all the girls outside to meet the abbey‘s new patroness. Mrs. Simpson had taken one look at Rose and clucked her tongue. It wasn‘t that Rose set out to be a hoyden. It just happened. On that particular day, Rose had been trying to glimpse the new-hatched tits and had fallen from a tree. But Mrs. Simpson had seen something in Rose, an inherent curiosity about the world.

    Over the years, the coach had gone the way of the fine clothes as Mrs. Simpson‘s circumstances changed. But she never ceased sharing the wealth of her books and journals her husband had accumulated through his world travels. She‘d taught Rose about herbs and medicinal potions, knowledge that Rose used to make the special liniment now healing Lord Roxburghe‘s beautiful stallion. Last month when Rose had discovered her treasure in the abbey‘s crypts, she‘d gone at once to Mrs. Simpson. The discovery was their secret.

    ―You give an old woman heart palpitations, Rose,‖ Mrs. Simpson said from the doorway leading into her cellar. She wiped her hands on her apron. ―With the roads as bad as they are, I didn‘t know if I should expect you.‖

    Rose looked up from the tome. ―You have found another book on Merlin?‖

    ―I‘ve done more than that. You were right. The box contains a wishing ring.‖

    ―You have translated the rest of the symbols!‖

    Mrs. Simpson removed her dingy apron and set it on the stone countertop next to a bucket of soapy dishes. ―You might not want to know what I have discovered, dear. Especially since we are studying something unfamiliar and possibly dangerous, in our ignorance.‖

    ―Then you believe whatever is inside the puzzle box could be authentic? What have you discovered?‖

    ―Did you bring it?‖

    Rose dug into the pocket of her woolen jacket and withdrew the small, intricately carved wooden box. Sunlight streaming through the windows in the kitchen warmed the wood and tingled her hands.

    ―Put it in