The Will and the Wilds

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Most mystings find the smell of lavender repulsive.

A chill wind snakes its way through the wildwood, whispering of misfortunes to come. My hands pause against moist soil between oon berry and rabbit’s ear in my mysting garden as I turn to face it, listening. It’s the height of summer in Fendell, but one can never be sure what will emerge from the wildwood, or when.

But the stone dangling from the silver bracelet around my wrist is quiet, assuring me the wind is simply wind. Still, I feel the instinct to move, to stretch out my legs, which have cramped from tending my herbs, so I stand and brush my hands across the apron over my skirt. Stepping out the narrow gate, I wind around the house to the open cellar door, which leads to the earthy room where thousands of mushrooms grow. There are always some ready for harvest, while others are just sprouting from their mulch and soil.

“Papa?” I call down into the darkness. “I’m finished. We can go.”

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