"I have a shovel," the witch warned sharply, "and I will use it."

The words were said with far more confidence than Roslyn Ross felt.

In the waning daylight hours—though with the fog, even the midday light was scarce—her workbench was illuminated with an oil lantern as she tended to some budding flowers. She had been spending more time in here than usual, for the lack of magic had been a nightmare for her more exotic flora. The quiet and solitude suited Ros, but as a result, she nearly lept out of her skin at the sound of a rustle from behind one of her shrubs.

The "shovel" was, technically, more in the trowel family of things, but Ros held it in front of her like a sword, yearning for the use of her wand once more. A simple stunner could have stopped any burglar in their tracks, but her small frame and complete lack of experience in fisticuffs? Less promising.