And yet here they were. With Ryland breathing down his neck. Except Gabe could understand far too easily just why he might not want to be, say, helping Pete with his poetry. Not that Pete needed much help; some of the imagery was a little mawkish, but Gabe couldn't fault Pete's ruthless wielding of the English language. He'd considered letting Ryland admire the genius of his... whatever's rhyming skill, but all things considered, probably not a good idea.
Gabe clapped his hands together, lavender scent puffing up from between his palms, and then let the stalks fall, whole, into the cauldron. "When I find out who did this - and I will," he emphasised, taking the sage from Ryland, "I'm going to..." He had to think for a moment. What was suitably appalling? "Let Pete deal with them?"