The Library of Botanical Witchcraft

by Jasmine Wigham

Genres: Fantasy; Romantic Fantasy; Magical Realism; Witches

Synopsis

A plant lover and a standoffish witch team up to cure a botanical curse in this whimsical and charming fantasy perfect for fans of Emily Wilde's Encyclopaedia of Faeries and The Spellshop.

The Evergreen Conservatoire of Botanical Witchcraft is off limits to anyone without magical gifts.

But Thalia Sylvestre has just landed herself a prestigious job as an assistant in the conservatoire's library and herbarium, granting her rare access to this unique repository of botanical witchlore.

It's Thalia's perfect job: surrounded by the gilt-edged leaves of books and the sunlit leaves of plants. Most importantly, it gives her the resources she needs to research, in secret, a cure for the curse that afflicts her twin sister Hebe.

But what Thalia doesn't count on is August.

August Hawthorne is a post-graduate research student from a distinguished line of botanical witches. He is unbearably standoffish. And he is constantly getting in the way when Thalia's trying to conduct top-secret curse research. It's almost as if he, too, is up to something . . .

As Thalia and August grow closer, secrets will be revealed, hearts will be worn on sleeves and curses will (hopefully) be broken. But at what cost?

If you love:

📚 Books
🌱 Plants
✨ Magic & whimsy
🎓 Light academia
💖 Blossoming romance

. . . then you'll be spellbound by The Library of Botanical Witchcraft!

Praise for Jasmine Wigham's enchanting writing:

'High action and intricate plot twists are woven through the magical tapestry that Wigham conjures here, but the real sorcery comes from how she brings the characters and their relationships to vivid life . . . spellbinding' Kirkus Reviews

'I fell in love with the characters . . . The book flowed really well and I read it in two separate sittings because I just couldn't put it down' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ reader review

'Fans of found family, misfit monster fighters and/or the Penny Dreadful TV show will adore the beginning of Jasmine Wigham's gothic fantasy series' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ reader review

'As soon as I started I couldn't put it down . . . I loved the detailed descriptions throughout which allow you to fully immerse yourself in the book and really brought the characters to life' ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐ reader review

Release date: August 27, 2026

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 320

Sample

The first lesson every young witch must learn when beginning their study of botanical craft is that it is not for the faint-hearted.

– Tabitha Askew, The Young Witch’s Guide to Botany

The birth of the Sylvestre sisters was a largely unremarkable event. The date was not one of significance, and it was neither the beginning of spring, heralding the first daffodils, nor the last true day of winter, plagued with late snowfall. In fact, if anyone were asked to describe the day the twins were born, they would be hard-pressed to remember anything about it. When the sisters asked their parents, before the couple’s untimely demise, they were forced to admit that they couldn’t rightly remember which of the girls had been born first.

In response, Thalia and Hebe Sylvestre spent their lives taking it in turns to be either the elder or younger sister.

This morning, Thalia was certainly the elder.

Hot tea splashed over the rim of the mug in her hand, scalding her skin, as she stumbled over the turned-up corner of the rug in the cottage’s crooked hallway. But she didn’t allow the incident to slow her down, gritting her teeth against the burn as she continued to her sister’s room, dodging various shelves full of trinkets and baskets of wool left on the floor. Outside Hebe’s door, Casper sat defiantly atop a basket of freshly washed clothing, his tail flicking lazily back and forth. Thalia resigned herself to the thought of picking cat hair out of her clothes for the next few weeks, and nudged Hebe’s door open with her hip.

‘What did you do?’ Hebe asked as Thalia fought with the door, careful not to spill any more tea as she shoved it open inch by inch.

‘Nothing.’

‘I heard you cursing.’

‘Casper’s in amongst the washing again,’ Thalia said by way of explanation as she finally slipped through the narrow gap, picking her way through the mess of material and half-finished projects that covered Hebe’s bedroom floor. ‘I tried a mixture of wormwood and liquorice this time. I’m pretty confident about it.’

‘Delightful,’ Hebe deadpanned, tossing her thick dark braid over her shoulder. She was sitting up in bed with a half-finished jumper for Casper in her lap, her nose already wrinkled in distaste as Thalia approached with the tea. Ever since Thalia’s last brew, which had included a whole bulb of garlic, Hebe had been suspicious of this new morning ritual. Reluctantly, she put down her knitting needles to accept the tea, her hazel eyes jumping straight to the pink blossom on the skin of Thalia’s thumb. ‘You were running.’

‘I was not running.’

‘You were doing something close to running, then.’

‘Be quiet and drink your tea.’

Hebe smiled smugly, knowing she was correct.

‘I need to leave or I’m going to be late.’ Thalia turned instinctively to the carved-wood mirror standing in the corner of Hebe’s room, smoothing anxious hands over her hair for the hundredth time. It wasn’t the same dark lustre of Hebe’s hair – it was closer to the shade of a mouse’s coat if she had to compare it to anything, but Thalia supposed it looked sensible enough for a newly minted librarian.

‘Margot used to be late all the time.’

‘Yes, well, Margot worked at the library for three years – she could get away with that. But this is my first day. I need to make a good impression.’

Hebe didn’t answer, and Thalia knew without looking that her sister’s face had turned glum, as it always did whenever they spoke about her best friend, Margot. The two of them had been almost as close as Hebe and Thalia, and Thalia sometimes wondered if Hebe would have preferred it if vivacious, mischievous Margot were her twin instead.

But they couldn’t all be as carefree as Margot was. If Thalia had also been the type to pack her bags on a whim and leave Juniper Grove to see the world, then who would be left to care for Hebe?

Sunlight filtered through the fine lace over Hebe’s window, highlighting the strange grey tinge to her usually tanned skin so that it was impossible to deny. The dry, scaly skin had spread further up her arms during the night, and in the sunlight it looked almost like . . .

Thalia crossed the room and drew the curtains shut before she could finish the thought. Hebe’s protests were ignored as Thalia pinched the thick purple drapes tight together, plunging the room into darkness, broken only by the tinted light of the lamp on the nightstand. A low grumble echoed through the room and Brontë, Hebe’s pet thunderbird, emerged from where she must have been nestled amongst the blankets, her beak chattering excitedly. She fluttered her amethyst wings, the warning growl of thunder rolling through the room, and Hebe scooped her into her arms, the two of them giving Thalia baleful looks.

‘I’m leaving, or I really am going to be late. Drink your tea before it gets cold.’ Thalia pointed to the cup of tea, poorly hidden by Hebe behind a vase of wilting sweet peas. ‘And do not go outside.’ She pointed now at the covered window. ‘You know that sunlight only makes your condition worse.’

‘It isn’t a condition – it’s a curse.’ Hebe rolled her eyes, readjusting her arms for Brontë to settle more comfortably. The bird’s misshapen left wing caused her to wobble precariously, though the impairment didn’t stop her from flapping her wings again, causing the hairs on Hebe’s arm to lift into the air, as if a storm were on the way.

‘You shouldn’t call it that. If somebody heard you—’

‘Who on earth would hear me when I spend all my time cooped up in here?’ Hebe asked with a laugh. ‘Now, go away. You’re dithering.’

‘I am not dithering.’

Hebe waved her away, before petting Brontë’s head. ‘That is just what a ditherer would say.’

With a roll of her eyes, Thalia finally left Hebe’s room, shouting instructions behind her to reheat the soup she had left her for lunch, all the while trying to ignore the feeling in the pit of her stomach at the thought of leaving her sister alone.

She burst from the cottage before she could change her mind. The sagging thatched roof and dilapidated fence that awaited her outside were just further proof that she needed to take this job.

‘Shoo,’ Thalia muttered to the waddling of ducks gathered around her bicycle, their outraged quacks chasing her down the garden path as she made her way to the gate. She cast one last glance over the house – smoke curling gently from the chimney from cooking the morning’s breakfast – and the garden bordering on wild, before she turned her back on it all once more.

The garden gate was almost entirely swallowed by greenery, the branches pulling at Thalia’s hair and clothes as she squeezed through. It was something of a relief to know that there was little chance of any nosy neighbours happening upon Hebe by accident while Thalia was at work. The people in Juniper Grove were superstitious to say the least, and the last thing the sisters needed was any hysteria over Hebe’s cursed condition.

Throwing her leg over her bicycle, Thalia took off down the country lane, wobbling much like Brontë as she adjusted to the uneven surface of the rarely used road. But she soon found her bearings, and something in her chest loosened as she rode through the countryside, the chatter of birdsong and rustling of small animals in the underbrush filling the morning. On her left, the river stretched, its tranquil surface reflecting the sky like a ribbon of blue cutting through the fields.

It didn’t take long for signs of civilisation to appear. The boundaries of Juniper Grove expanded every year, and Thalia was certain the town would one day be on their cottage’s doorstep. She wondered idly how she and Hebe would take the new development, imagining them both still living together as old, grey-haired women, grumbling about the noise and inconvenience. They had always been somewhat isolated from the bustling town, which was home to some of the greatest witches of the age, and they had never had reason to complain. Especially not now, when that privacy suited them perfectly well.

But, still, Thalia’s eyes couldn’t help but rove over the jagged skyline of roofs and towers and steeples. Buildings of warm yellow stone crowded the other side of the river, cobbled streets replacing dirt paths and lanes. The trees became more uniform, bound by fences and neat borders of hedges and flowers, so very different from the wilderness that was swallowing her cottage.

Thalia readjusted her hold on the handlebars as her palms began to sweat.

‘You will be fine,’ she muttered to herself as the path evened out, the bicycle sailing smoothly forward with little effort from her, as though the town were drawing her closer whether she liked it or not. ‘There will be books. You like books.’

But there would be people too. And Thalia never quite knew how to handle those.

Determined, she cycled faster, slowing only when she came to the footbridge that would take her from her quiet countryside into the morning bustle of Juniper Grove. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to cross, her bike shuddering across the wooden planks and rattling her bones, and then, suddenly, she was in town.

She swerved around a café owner bringing tables out onto the street outside his shopfront, hoping to take advantage of the last of the good weather before autumn truly settled in. On the other side of the road, a mother towed along two small children, shaking her head in answer to their plaintive cries to pet the sleeping dog in one of the shop windows. The dog in question lazily opened one eye at the commotion, before Thalia was forced to swerve to avoid an oncoming tram, and turned round the corner, leaving the image behind and coming face to face with the Evergreen Conservatoire of Botanical Witchcraft.

She slowed her bicycle as she reached its gates, enormous iron monstrosities that yawned open to welcome the bevy of witches who would learn their craft inside its hallowed halls. The building was larger than any other in Juniper Grove, its sandstone walls towering several storeys high, studded with tall sash windows that winked in the sunlight. A balustrade running across the top of the building hid the roof and chimneys from view, though smoke scented with herbs and cherrywood curled into the blue sky, giving their location away.

It was easy to distinguish the students arriving for the first time, using small spells to iron out creases in their clothing or tidy errant strands of hair as they hurried inside, eager to begin their careers as the greatest witches of their generation. Though the conservatoire was enormous, Thalia had heard its waiting list was even longer, with some young witches having to wait years to be granted a coveted position.

Meanwhile the older students arriving from their accommodation in town loitered on the grass outside, soaking up as much sun as they could as they called to friends they hadn’t seen all summer. Eagle-eyed professors, red-faced from wearing their old-fashioned traditional robes in such warm weather, inspected the arrivals as keenly as their watches, waiting for the time to call everybody inside for the start of another academic year.

Thalia watched with fascination, wondering how she would fit into it all. Evergreen was responsible for producing some of the most accomplished witches of the last century, witches like Amelia Crumplefoot, who had invented a new use for flatter-clove in eradicating scar tissue, or Leland Bromwell, who had discovered and named over fifty new exotic plants in his lifetime, found in the furthest reaches of the world. And every summer hundreds of people visited from all over the country to celebrate the winner of the esteemed Hawthorne Prize, awarded to the witch with the most outstanding research project.

Not that Thalia paid much attention to the prize, beyond attending the festivities in town. While the winner enjoyed a dinner thrown in their honour at the conservatoire, surrounded by their fellow witches, the non-magical townspeople put up market stalls and trestle tables so that everybody might celebrate.

One memorable year, Thalia’s parents had been so wrapped up in the celebrations that they had forgotten about the girls entirely and returned home without them. She and Hebe had delighted in weaving amongst the tables and squealing with the other children who they so rarely saw. Their fun was cut short when a local stall-owner sent a messenger boy to their parents, who hurried back to retrieve them, their faces red with embarrassment.

But Thalia would have to start paying attention to things like the Hawthorne Prize and the witches involved if she wanted to make a good impression here.

Her palms were sweating again, so she angled her bicycle away from the gates that the older students living in town were trickling through, and cycled a little further around the campus.

This would be the first year that Hebe and Margot didn’t gather outside the conservatoire to watch the students arrive, admiring their clothes made of cashmere and silk, or marvelling at the small enchantments the witches used without a second thought. Thalia had been dragged along once or twice, but she had never liked to linger and hear the witches call to each other about their summers spent skiing in the mountains or lounging on foreign sandy beaches. Unlike Hebe and Margot, she had always been happy to pretend there was no other world beyond Juniper Grove. After all, you could hardly miss what you knew nothing about.

Eventually, Thalia found the more reasonably sized side gate where the non-magical staff arrived for work every day, staff that now included her. She watched as two gardeners entered, distinguishable by the grass-stained knees of their trousers and the belts round their hips holding secateurs and thick, dragon-skin gloves. Thalia slowed, waiting for them to pass well beyond her before she dismounted. It was difficult enough for her to socialise at the best of times, never mind now when her nerves were so frayed.

As Thalia slipped through the gates and followed the path to the staff entrance, her heart beating in her throat like a tiny bird, one of the gardeners, a tall woman with fiery red hair, tilted her head back as she laughed. Her voice raised boisterously as she recounted a particularly bad date to her friend, the two of them giggling as they disappeared down a side path that must lead to the gardens, and Thalia was left alone once more, just the way she preferred.

By the time she’d reached the slightly foreboding oak door with its heavy brass knocker, she thought that her heart might just take flight and leave her body altogether. She took a moment to search for the perfect place to leave her bicycle amongst the neat row of others that staff had ridden there, glad that she didn’t have an audience as she did so. Then she took another moment to straighten the skirt of her dress, askew from the journey. Then she took another moment to smooth any rogue strands of hair from her battle with her garden gate.

You’re dithering, Hebe’s voice echoed in her mind.

Thalia sighed, returning to the intimidating door. It didn’t matter how nervous she was at the thought of meeting so many people, or of being away from the cottage and her sister for so long, if she wanted to find a cure for Hebe’s curse, she had no choice.

Thalia took the brass knocker in hand and knocked three times. It was then that she saw it, and her heart sank into her stomach.

Thick, black soil buried under her nails.

She had been in such a rush, not wanting to be late, that she hadn’t had time to thoroughly scrub her hands after her morning in the garden.

There was a clatter, and Thalia jumped, hiding her hands behind her back just as the door swung open.

In all my years of study, I have found no soil more fertile than that from which the conservatoire in Juniper Grove grows.

– Julian Ashcombe, The Unabridged Journals of an Herbalist: Vol. I

‘The Evergreen Conservatoire of Botanical Witchcraft was founded almost three hundred years ago,’ Mrs Sephton told Thalia as they walked through the staff area of the conservatoire. The head of support staff had gleaming chestnut hair neatly held back in a chignon, and she had greeted Thalia at the entrance with a tight, lipsticked smile, her mouth perfectly outlined in red. ‘What began as a humble school for young witches interested in the botanical crafts soon grew into the world-leading centre of research that it is today. Some of the greatest discoveries in the medical and scientific fields in recent times originated from post-graduate research that began in these very halls. Our vice chancellor himself, Professor Vandebroek, is personally responsible for the discovery of . . .’

Thalia’s eyes drifted to the hallway itself. Wooden beams crossed the ceiling above them, and the whitewashed walls were interrupted only by portraits of conservatoire alumni from the past three centuries. Small windows admitted a smattering of light, mophead hydrangeas growing beneath the panes, their large white flowers crowding the view of the courtyard. Thalia wondered whether they were maintained by gardeners like the two she had seen earlier that morning or by the students themselves. She suspected that only magic could be responsible for such large blooms.

Wringing her hands behind her back and picking distractedly at the dirt buried beneath her nails, she cursed herself once more for not taking the time to scrub her hands. If Mrs Sephton caught sight of them, she would surely think that Thalia didn’t take her new role seriously. Her attention drifted back towards Mrs Sephton’s immaculate chignon, wondering how it was possible for there to not be a single hair out of place without the aid of magic.

‘Do you have any questions so far?’ Mrs Sephton asked, suddenly facing her.

Thalia’s hands twisted painfully together as she realised with mortification that she had not heard a thing the woman had said in the last five minutes. She hurried to nod, hoping to at least appear attentive. ‘No, miss. I mean, no, ma’am. I mean—’

‘Mrs Sephton will do,’ she interrupted coolly.

Thalia deflated. She was doing a terrible job of making a good first impression so far. ‘No, Mrs Sephton. No questions.’

Mrs Sephton nodded sharply and opened a nondescript door sitting between two portraits of grizzled old men with disapproving brows. Cinnamon-scented steam curled around them, tickling Thalia’s nose and luring her inside.

It was the messiest kitchen she had ever seen, which was saying something considering the state of her own cottage. Towers of dishes stood beside a large enamel sink, the clean mixed with the dirty, and powdered sugar danced in the air, sparkling in the morning light that shone through the windows lining one of the kitchen walls. Rose bushes crawled over the windowsill, their scent creeping through the open window to tangle with the cinnamon that filled the room, and Thalia felt herself relaxing for the first time since she had left her own cottage, comforted by the familiarity of clutter and domesticity.

In the middle of it all stood a young man with hair like candied ginger, curling around his ears and flicking out on either side of his temples, resembling tiny wings. He spun in a slow circle, clearly searching for something amongst the mess, before alighting on a stained cloth crumpled on a counter. With a satisfied exclamation, he wrapped it round his hand before pulling a hot tray from the cast-iron stove.

Mrs Sephton cleared her throat with a delicacy of which Thalia could only dream, and the man whirled towards them with the tray of brown swirled pastries before him.

‘Mr Bramfield, I would like to introduce you to our new library assistant, Miss Sylvestre.’

‘Thalia,’ Thalia hurried to say, before looking sheepishly at Mrs Sephton. She seemed very stern about using people’s proper names, but Thalia thought she would die of embarrassment if this man started calling her Miss Sylvestre.

‘Elio,’ he said, before screwing his face up and suddenly dropping the tray on a nearby countertop with a clatter. ‘Curses,’ he swore, shaking his hand out, the reddened skin visible even from a distance. At the same time, he offered his other hand to Thalia with a warm smile.

Thalia instinctively stepped forward to return the gesture, before remembering with horror the state of her own hands, leaving her with little choice but to stand awkwardly in front of Elio, her hands balled into fists at her sides as she waited for his smile to fade at her strangeness.

But, to her surprise, his expression remained just as warm as he winked and casually ran his proffered hand through his hair instead, as if that had been his intention all along. ‘I hope Mrs S is taking care of you.’

‘Well, that is enough of that, I think.’ The corners of Mrs Sephton’s mouth trembled as though she were fighting a smile. To Thalia she said, ‘Mr Bramfield is our staff cook. He prepares food for the witches working at the conservatoire, but non-magical staff such as ourselves are expected to bring our own food. Is that understood?’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Thalia said with a nod, though she couldn’t help but spot Elio theatrically shaking his head at her in disagreement.

‘Excellent. This way, please, Miss Sylvestre,’ Mrs Sephton said, exiting the kitchen.

‘Hold up,’ Elio said before Thalia could follow. He rushed to one of the cluttered workbenches and returned with a creamy shortbread biscuit dusted with fine, crystalline grains of sugar. ‘Can’t let the new girl starve on her first day, can we?’ He winked again as he offered it to her, and Thalia grinned unabashedly as she accepted it, her hand darting out as quickly as she could manage before burying the gift deep in one of her pockets. ‘Don’t be a stranger. And don’t pay any mind to what Mrs S said. I think that’s just part of her Day One speech. She’s had her fair share of meals cooked by yours truly,’ he said as he retreated towards a pantry overflowing with ingredients.

‘Miss Sylvestre,’ Mrs Sephton called from the hallway, and Thalia scurried after her.

The head of staff continued her tour, and Thalia made sure to pay the utmost attention for this second leg, hoping to somehow make up for her inattention at the beginning.

‘And this is where you will report to at the beginning of each day,’ Mrs Sephton said as the double oak doors beneath her hands groaned open, revealing the library.

As Mrs Sephton entered, Thalia’s feet stuttered at the threshold. She was half convinced that she would be repelled from the library by some charm meant to keep people like her out, non-magical people who planned to read what didn’t belong to them, to learn about magic and curses and cures.

Mrs Sephton gave her an impatient look over her shoulder, and Thalia held her breath as she stepped at last inside the famed library.

The cavernous room was built of the same buttery sandstone as the rest of Juniper Grove, a far cry from the whitewashed walls of the staff area. Cylindrical columns arched high above their heads, joining in a web of architectural splendour supporting the domed roof and a grand iron chandelier that illuminated the mahogany bookcases below. Wrought-iron spiral staircases led from the main area up to a second level. Shelves covered every wall on both floors, forming an independent town of alleyways and side streets, each one full of neatly organised books with oiled leather spines. It was as far removed from the second-hand bookshops and market stalls Thalia usually frequented as she could imagine. She was afraid to touch anything for fear of dirtying it somehow, imagining smeared fingerprints against the polished wood, or dog-eared pages amongst the gilt-edged tomes that had likely sat there for hundreds of years.

A second set of doors on another wall, just as grand as the ones she had entered through, stood ajar as students came and went. She recognised some of the older students who had been standing outside, arriving now arm in arm and browsing the shelves as they chattered quietly about the Hawthorne Prize and their plans for potions that could make somebody lighter than air, or salves that could render a person invisible. At one of the tables, a young professor sat hunched over a scroll, occasionally wincing and pulling at the neckline of her formal robes, clearly brand new, judging by the stiff, starched silhouette.

At the far end of the library was a wall of glass, though little light filtered through the mass of green foliage that pressed insistently against the panes, an invading force desperate to spread inside. An unassuming glass door led through the wall to what could only be Evergreen’s infamous greenhouse, home to some of the world’s most exotic plants, plants that Thalia could never hope to see, from the furthest corners of the globe. She had read about Leland Bromwell’s discoveries in the Juniper Grove Chronicle just like everybody else, and knew that just beyond that glass wall lay plants that could cool the blood during a temper or allow a person to breathe underwater. Surely, if there was anything that might help Hebe, it would be in there, just on the other side of the room. Thalia’s feet itched to carry her there to run amongst it all.

Instead, Mrs Sephton led Thalia to a small office space just to the left of the library’s entrance, where an older woman sat at a wooden desk. A kaleidoscopic silk scarf was wound around her throat, the end of it trapped underneath one of the many disorderly stacks of books and papers surrounding her. In the corner stood a bespectacled man made up of hard angles, from the aquiline edge of his nose to the sharp crease ironed into the front of his suit trousers. Even his mouth was pressed into a flat line as he stared Thalia. . .