Page 58 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Fern knew not to linger. She nodded quickly and followed the indicated path before she could be noticed.

Once she was sure no one was looking, she took a peek inside the small package in her hands.

Inside lay a small slice of honey cake, the top embossed with a candied violet.

She would have cried if not for the fear someone would discover her, so she shoved it into her mouth, crumbs falling as she chewed and swallowed so quickly she hardly tasted it.

But the hint of sugar and butter remained, and it was enough to take the edge off the grief.

Fern put the small handkerchief in her pocket after wiping her hands.

The eastern beds were slightly lower than the rest of the garden, where the smell of the iron-rich soil leached into the air. Pale green radish tops crowded together with the soft, tangled mats of feathered carrot fronds, while spinach plants spread broad and low, their leaves thick and dark.

A few workers were already there, crouched along the rows with baskets at their sides. They didn’t look up when Fern arrived, and she settled where she could between them.

Her parents had kept a small garden in the space between their house and the tavern, and if she squinted just enough, she could pretend the woman to her left was her mother.

She lowered herself carefully into the soil, skirt gathered to keep it clean—she wouldn’t get a new one ‘til winter, after all—and reached for the base of a radish plant. When she pulled, the plant resisted at first, then gave with a quiet, wet release. A pale root came free, round and crisp with dirt clinging to it in broken flecks.

She set it into her basket.

The carrots required a little more skill and patience. If she pulled too sharply, the greens snapped and left the root behind. Instead she worked her fingers down into the soil beside them, loosening the earth before easing them upward.

Spinach was simpler but more repetitive. The leaves stacked quickly, turning into weight in her hands that she knew would be cooked down to less than a mouthful.

As the sun climbed higher and the work settled into a comfortable rhythm, time slipped quicker than it had in weeks, and Fern found, without meaning to, that her shoulders were lowering. She could never allow herself to feel fully at ease, but they weren’t braced in quite the same way as inside the castle.

A basket was passed down the row when hers filled, emptied into a larger crate waiting at the path. She was ignored for who she was, but the simple acknowledgment of her work, her existence, was almost as sweet as honey cake.

By mid-morning, the beds were thinning out, leaving small hollows in the soil where roots had been. Fern wiped her wrist across her forehead and left a smear of dirt there without noticing, and looked up, as though some unseen force had lifted her chin.

She locked eyes with Jules, and her breath caught in her chest.

He looked much worse than she had days after her own attack. In fact, she was almost fully healed, while his face was still quite swollen, his arm in a sling and his gait uneven.

She knew she should be thankful he was alive, that he was well enough to walk.

But seeing the aftermath was a fresh wave of guilt, a tide bringing the small bit of peace she’d managed to find in the day’s work back out to sea.

He tipped his head a fraction, offering her a small smile.

She returned it, eyes wet as she mouthed, I’m sorry.

Jules shook his head.

Don’t be.

He then walked away to rejoin the group of wolfkin men, a bucket in his working hand.

Fern wanted to watch him more, but the woman next to her grunted loudly, pointing towards the next section with her chin.

“Potatoes after this,” she said sharply, as if knowing Fern needed the reminder to stay the course. She moved along, her fingers digging into the cool, dark earth.

Fern didn’t mind the dirt under her nails. It would take time to pick them clean in the cold waters beneath the castle, but the day spent in the sun, with the wind in her hair and something other than stone to kneel on, hardly made the future work a deterrent to her current enjoyment.

The early potatoes were roughly the size and shape of duck eggs in her hands, and she rubbed their skins before placing them in her basket as if they might be just as fragile, humming quietly to herself.

Her wolf had stirred inside her, lulled by the quiet safety.