Page 41 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

She reached for the frayed thread of earth-magic still buried in her blood and found pain waiting there, familiar, and sharp. She accepted it and offered the boy some peace in return.

She offered a memory of shade beneath ancient trees, of roots holding deep in soil, of water moving under stone, of a mother’s hand smoothing hair from a fevered forehead. She offered sleep as a door one could walk through without being taken.

Jacob’s breathing changed. His hand relaxed. The tension in his face softened, not entirely, but enough. His head tipped against his mother’s shoulder. The child fell asleep with such sudden completeness that his mother nearly sobbed.

Elowen did not speak for several seconds. Aelira released Jacob’s hand and stood. Pain moved through her palm, small but bright. She curled her fingers into her sleeve.

The mother looked between them. “What did you do?”

“I helped him relax.”

Elowen’s expression suggested she found that explanation offensive to intelligence. Reasonable. Aelira would have found it offensive as well.

But the healer only looked back at the sleeping boy, and whatever question she wanted to ask remained behind her teeth. She was wise enough, perhaps, to recognize that the answer mattered less, for the moment, than the child breathing evenly in his mother’s arms.

By morning, half the village seemed to know. Aelira spent the next several days attempting, with diminishing success, to remain uninvolved. The problem with small communities was that they noticed competence. One helpful act became a reputation. A reputation became requests. Requests became obligations before one realized what was happening. It was profoundly inconvenient.

The elderly farmer whose barn had become infested with pale roots arrived shortly after sunrise on the second day. The village priest sought her out before lunch, carrying a cracked stone tile from beneath the chapel floor and speaking too loudly about old blessings. A mother came near evening with drawings made by her daughter, roots spiraling across every page. Two hunters described hearing something beneath the northern ridge at dusk, not a voice but a low vibration that made their teeth ache.

Each encounter provided another piece. With each piece, the shape beneath the surface became more troubling.

The roots spread slowly but consistently. Children experienced the dreams first. Animals reacted next. Then came the strange behavior. Sleepwalking. Moments of distraction. People staring north without realizing they had turned their heads. Villagers losing pieces of time. A man entering his cellar and emerging an hour later with mud under his nails and no memory of kneeling beside the foundation.

Something tugged at the edge of their attention. Not enough to command. Just enough to invite. The distinction unsettled Aelira more than she cared to admit. Commands could be resisted. Whispers were followed willingly.

By the third evening, the rain had finally passed. The air carried the rich scent of wet earth and pine, and for the first time since Aelira’s arrival, Briar Hollow looked almost normal. Children played near the square. The blacksmith argued loudly with a merchant over the price of horseshoes. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed without forcing it. The sound drifted through the evening like sunlight through cloud.

Aelira sat outside Elowen’s house with her notebook open and did not write. Instead, she watched. Against her will, she had begun to know their names.

Elowen, who slept too little and noticed too much.

Jacob, who slept now only if his mother tied a blue thread around his wrist because he believed it reminded him how to stay inside his body.

Old Walker, whose barn roots turned toward music and away from iron.

The priest, who knew less than he pretended and feared more than he admitted.

The baker’s wife, who left bread on Elowen’s doorstep each morning as payment no one had requested.

The girl was Wren.

The little girl had first appeared two days after Aelira’s arrival, though appeared was perhaps too generous a word. Wren materialized. At first, Aelira became aware only of a shadow falling across her notebook.

Then a small voice asked, “Why do you write everything down?”

Aelira looked up. The girl could not have been older than seven. Perhaps eight. Dark curls escaped from an untidy braid. Dirt stained both knees of her trousers. Her hands were blackened with charcoal, as were her cheeks, one sleeve, and apparently a portion of her ear.

Aelira glanced at the mess.

The girl followed her gaze. “I fell.”

“You appear to have fallen repeatedly.”

The child considered this. “That sounds right.”

Aelira immediately liked her. A dangerous development.

“I’m Wren,” the girl announced, and then sat beside Aelira without invitation, as if the matter required no further discussion.