Page 36
After a moment, Asma speaks again. “The girls and I will check the beds soon. His Highness requested it once he returns. He also said he will bring more bags of winter camellia seeds.” A chuckle escapes her. “It is quite confusing, considering the frost has already settled.”
“He did?” Elara asks, lifting her head. “When will he return?” A sudden racing of her pulse accompanies the questions, driven by the memory of the previous night’s silent retreat and the lingering worry that her presence has somehow offended him.
Asma lifts her shoulders in a small shrug. “I am not sure,” she says. “Only that he instructed us to check the preparation beds and add more winter blossoms.” She exhales, looking down at the bare soil. “I do not understand his insistence. They will be striking, but there are many other plants that survive this season.” After a small pause, she looks back up. “Would you like to learn?”
Elara looks up, startled. “Learn? I thought you, Celestia, and Claire taught me everything yesterday.”
Asma lets out a laugh. “We taught you the beginning. There is more to it than planting and watering.” She gestures toward the empty patch. “If you wish to tend them, you must know how to help them, not weaken them.”
Following a hesitation, a nod marks her consent to the interaction. Asma kneels close by, her joints creaking as she settles onto the damp earth. She reaches down into the soil to check a hidden node with careful ease.
“Look at the earth,” she says. “The moisture freezes when the winter air overwhelms it. The frost has already taken its toll.” She releases the soil and presses her palm down. “This is damp. Too much water traps the roots beneath. They begin to fail beneath the surface, unseen, turning to ice before they can grow.”
Asma reaches down, her fingers parting the dark, wet earth to expose the fragile white threads of a struggling root system. She takes Elara’s hand, guiding Elara’s fingertips until they press directly into the cool, suffocating mud. The damp pressure forces Elara to feel the hidden resistance beneath the surface, a visceral lesson in how a well-meaning gesture can destroy what it intends to nurture.
“They need the correct measure, at the correct time, especially during the winter,” Asma smiles. “Everything that lives requires balance, Your Highness. Excess can be as destructive as neglect.”
The words take root in Elara. Her thoughts turn inward, pulled toward memories of rigid rules and watchful restraint that were always disguised as care. Silence settles over the damp earth as she absorbs the weight of the lesson, her gaze fixed on her soil-stained fingertips. Moving before her hesitation can stop her, she reaches deep into her pocket and pulls out the rough linen pouch, holding the small bundle out between her palms.
“Asma,” Elara says, her voice low. “You gave me these winter poppy seeds earlier. If the correct measure and time are what they need, could we plant them together now?”
Asma’s eyes widen in pleasant surprise, a warm smile breaking across her features as she looks from the linen pouch up to Elara’s face. “It would be an absolute honor, Your Highness,” she replies softly, her joints creaking as she shifts her posture to clear a fresh, untouched patch of dark earth between them.
Asma guides Elara’s hands to the new plot. “Touch the soil before you water,” she instructs, pressing Elara’s hand into the earth. “If it feels damp a few inches down, the roots are satisfied. If the earth crumbles and dries beneath your fingers without being frozen to ice, then you water. Only during the middle of the day, when the sun is at its highest, so the moisture absorbs before the nighttime frost freezes the roots.”
Sinking her fingers into the cool dirt to nestle the new seeds beneath the surface, Elara absorbs the instruction carefully. “Middle of the day, when the sun is at its highest.”
“Good.” Asma releases her hand and rises, brushing soil from her apron. “If you wish, come at dawn tomorrow. I will show you how to maintain the soil and prepare the beds for the new seeds His Highness intends to bring.”
She walks toward the far side of the garden, lifting a bucket and watering only a small selection of plants with measured restraint. Elara watches her movements, then turns back to the empty beds before her. Her jaw tightens, worry still present. Turning back to Asma, wishing to ask questions, she pushes her hesitancy aside.
“Do you have any idea why Cael would request to grow more winter camellias?” Elara asks.
Asma’s smile fades, replaced by a soft look of understanding. “I am sure it is to grow more flowers in the garden, since the winter is removing every blooming color left.”
Elara’s lips part. “How is the garden usually like when it is not winter? Perhaps during spring?”
“Ethereal,” Asma says quickly. “It is filled with complete greenery, every kind of flower with different colors and shades, many fruits growing with ease, and each one of them lasts long. Honestly, it is one of the main reasons why I loathe winter. It is only cold, and it takes things away from you.”
The garden gates open with a drawn-out screech. Footsteps follow, and two voices rise together. “Welcome back, Your Highness.”
Elara stills. Freezing in place at the sound, her attention shifts to Cael as he guides his white steed through the palace gates. He wears a black silk tunic traced with silver embroidery, secured by a wide, decorated belt and structured shoulder guards that grant his frame a rigid authority. Dark breeches complete the attire. In his hand, he carries his silver sword, faintly stained, the markings dulled by a hurried attempt to clean it. His silver crown catches the afternoon light, casting glimmers across the stone.
The garden gates open with a drawn-out screech. Footsteps follow, and two voices rise together. “Welcome back, Your Highness.”
Elara stills. Her attention shifts to Cael as he guides his white steed through the palace gates. He wears a black silk tunic traced with silver embroidery, secured by a wide, decorated belt and structured shoulder guards that grant his frame a rigid authority. Dark breeches complete the attire. In his hand, he carries his stained silver sword, the markings dulled by a hurried attempt to clean it. His silver crown catches the afternoon light, casting glimmers across the stone.
Elara’s gaze drifts to his hands. His ring is absent.
She almost scoffs at the sight. Despite her not wishing to trust him or be here in this new kingdom, she never removes her own band in public, upholding the visual vow of their marriage. Seeing his band off sinks Elara’s heart in a way she would not expect.
“Your Highness,” Asma calls across the garden, setting down her wooden supply crate to hurry toward Cael, her apron lifting with her rushed steps. “You have returned earlier than expected. We did not anticipate your arrival until evening.”
Cael inclines his head in acknowledgment. He places several bags of pink poppy seeds into her hands, his attention moving beyond her to find Elara, who is still kneeling in the bare earth.
“Her Highness has been tending the winter camellias,” Asma says, gentle amusement coloring her tone. “With determination, though she nearly drowned the soil with her concern.”
Rising to her feet as a hot flush spreads across her cheeks, Elara brushes the loose dirt from her green dress, a wave of self-consciousness taking hold at the sight of the dark stains marring the fabric. “I was only trying to help.”
