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“True to being the firstborn, Caraline's magic was louder and warmer. It thrived in her cooking, when she folded it into dough and steeped it in broth. Rowan didn't know how hibiscus rolls could soften an argument, or why rosemary bread helped someone remember things that had long ago started to fade, but somehow they did. Caraline called it comfort, but Rowan knew it was enchantment. Saoirse could coax flowers to bloom out of season and lure herbs to grow even in the heaviest clay soil. Her teas did more than soothe. Rowan had seen them ease fevers, quiet grief, and silence nightmares. Saoirse didn't call it magic, but Rowan had always felt it in the way a room calmed when she entered. She carried stillness like a cloak. And then there was Rowan. She didn't brew curative tinctures or bake healing breads. Her magic, such as it was, served no purpose. It didn't look like theirs. In fact, it didn't look like anything. Her eyes, green like clover and threaded with gold, drew stares she couldn't explain. And her hair, with a single streak of impossible red, practically glowed in the moonlight. She tried to hide it, oh, how she tried. She used to bleach to turn it Marilyn Monroe blonde, but it didn't work. She dyed it every shade of brown, then black, thinking she could bury the flame. But it never lasted. The ruby streak always returned, a mark she couldn't shake. People always looked at her a second too long, as if they could sense something inexplicable about her. Sometimes she even felt it too. But most of the time she felt like the odd one out with her sisters. Saoirse had a head of red hair and her eyes were dark like pine needles. Unlike Rowan, she didn't long for friends. All she needed were her plants, herbs, and whatever flower she held at any given moment, plus the apothecary she always created wherever they lived. And, of course, the swallows, which she could make behave. Caraline's hair was the color of midnight, which set off the flecks of amber in her eyes. She was the opposite of both Rowan and Saoirse. Friendships with women she could do without, but the attention she got from men? That practically fed her soul. At every new place they went, Caraline had herself a new beau within days. And Rowan had her red streak. But it wasn't just her hair. It wasn't just her eyes. Worse were the unexpected tastes that bloomed on her tongue whenever she was around people. Her magic stirred, and it was as if she could taste their emotions and who they were, deep down inside.”

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Book:House of Spells and Secrets
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“Saoirse nodded. "By bloom." "By flame," Caraline said. They swung their gazes to Rowan. It started as a childhood promise they shared only with each other. But as they grew--- and the magic in them deepened--- it became something more. A vow. A bond. A spell spoken not with power but with love. Now, in the gathering room of Swallow Hall, Rowan whispered her part of the chant, feeling the words settle into her bones like truth. "By moonlight." Together, they spoke the last line. "We are one.”

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Book:House of Spells and Secrets
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“She held up the book so Everly could see it. “It says it belongs to Erin Early.” Everly’s eyes softened. “Erin Early was my grandmother. Those are all her recipes.” Rowan felt a buzz filter through her, felt the electric charge shooting through her sister. Caraline flipped through the first few loose pages. “Potato soup. Soda bread. Hand pies. Dublin Coddle—" “What’s Dublin Coddle?” Rowan asked. Caraline skimmed the recipe, her brow furrowing. “It’s sort of like a stew, I think? Potatoes, onions, bacon, sausages, and beer slow-cooked together.”

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Book:House of Spells and Secrets
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“She hadn’t realized the outbuilding— like a sunroom— was connected to the house, and it was a piece of heaven for Saoirse. This was the apothecary to end all apothecaries— a glass-walled sanctuary most definitely infused with magic. The dappled morning light poured through the deceptively tall glass walls and ceiling. Every branch and leaf seemed to stretch toward the light, searching for its warmth and light. The space itself was an airy rectangle, bursting with greenery. On the two shorter, angled walls were multitiered potting tables, each layer crowded with voluminous herbs, delicate blossoms, and trailing vines that cascaded over the edges. The longer glass wall had a counter-height table that ran its full length. Clay pots, glass beakers, and neatly labeled tins cluttered the top. Even the outside seemed to want in, with the leaves still clinging to the trees outside brushing against the glass. On the opposite side was a brick wall lined with open shelves from floor to ceiling. Rowan tracked jars of every shape and size on the shelves. They were filled with dried herbs, amber and emerald oils, crushed petals, powdered roots, and mystery mixtures just waiting for Saoirse to use them. Possibility. It was the only word that came to mind. This apothecary held a world of possibilities for Saoirse. With everything at her fingertips, her sister could spend a lifetime crafting healing potions, infusing them into soaps, lotions, and balms. Saoirse stood in the center of the room, arms wide. She whirled around. “Isn’t it perfect?” she squealed, pushing her glasses up. She wrapped her arms around herself. “I was just wandering around and it’s like a magnet pulled me to this room. My room.”

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Book:House of Spells and Secrets
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