Chapter 25
Aric
FAUNWOOD IS JUST AS I remember, though everything seems smaller now that I’m not a kid anymore.
The cobblestone streets wind between homes and shops, and everywhere I look, there’re signs of autumn—pumpkins stacked on doorsteps, dried corn overflowing from wagons, window boxes bursting with late-blooming flowers.
I hold Poppy’s small hand as we walk, and she keeps pausing to look at simple things, like the fluffy orange cat sunning itself on a low stone wall and the group of children kicking a ball to one another and then laughing when a shopkeeper comes to wave them away.
We pass a bakery—the source of the bread we had for breakfast, according to the sign in the window—and the smell makes my mouth water even though I’m still full. Next door is a bookshop with a window display that makes Poppy stop in her tracks.
“Oh,” she whispers, pressing closer to the glass. “Look at that one. The Secret Language of Dreams: A Comprehensive Guide to Oneiromancy.” Her eyes are wide behind her glasses.
“Want to go in?” I ask.
She hesitates, glancing up at me. “I don’t know. I already have so many books . . .”
“You can never have too many books, Brains,” I assure her. “Come on.”
Before she can tell me no, I pull the door open and usher her inside.
The bookshop is cramped but cozy, with shelves crammed floor to ceiling with books and the smell of old paper and leather hanging in the air.
Poppy disappears into the stacks almost immediately, seeming to forget me altogether as she discovers books.
Though she doesn’t see me, it makes me grin. She’s such a bookworm.
I follow at a slower pace, running my fingers along the spines.
I’m not really one to read for fun, but I like being here with her, watching her in her element.
And I’m perfectly happy to follow her around, trailing her from stack to stack, seeing the joy on her face as she pulls books delicately from the shelves, like they might fall apart if she moves too fast.
She finishes her browsing thirty minutes later and emerges from the stacks with three books clutched to her chest, looking slightly guilty.
“I don’t know which one to get,” she says before I can speak. “They all sound so good.”
I take the books from her, already heading toward the front of the shop to buy them with the little bit of money I have in my coin pouch. “Then let’s get them all.”
Poppy tries valiantly to purchase the books herself, but I’m insistent, and she finally lets me pay the shopkeeper. The man ties the books into a bundle with a coarse brown string, then hands them to me, and I pass them to Poppy.
“Maybe you can read me a chapter tonight,” I say. “Teach me about dream magic.”
She turns an adorable shade of pink, making me laugh as we leave.
After the bookshop, we continue to wander through the village, and I see something that immediately looks familiar: a small shop with a wooden sign hanging above the door depicting a mortar and pestle surrounded by herbs. There’s only one word on the sign: Apothecary.
My memory of the place hits me with unexpected force, and I stop walking.
“Aric?” Poppy’s voice seems to come from far away, and she doubles back, having walked past me without realizing I’d stopped. “Are you okay?”
I blink, pulling myself back to the present. “Yeah. Sorry. I just . . . I’ve been here before. A long time ago.”
She follows my gaze to the apothecary, then looks back at me with a curious tilt to her head. “Would you like to go in?”
I’m not sure I do—I’m a bit nervous of how I’ll feel when I step inside—but I find myself nodding anyway.
The bell above the door chimes as we enter, and the smell of herbs and dried flowers washes over me—rosemary, lavender, something earthy and musky I can’t quite place.
Bundles of plants hang from the ceiling beams, and the walls are lined with shelves holding jars and bottles of every size and color.
A woman stands behind the counter, grinding something in a stone mortar.
She’s tall, with dark skin and long black hair streaked with gray, pulled back in numerous thick braids.
Thin spectacles are perched on her nose, and when she looks up, her dark amber eyes fix on me with an intensity that makes me feel like she’s looking straight through me.
Maybe I should just leave now.
“Welcome,” she says, her voice rich and warm. Then she pauses, head tilting slightly, the pestle in her hand falling still. “Is this your first time in?” Her lips pull up just a bit on one side, and for some reason, I get the feeling she already knows the answer to that question.
I swallow hard. Does she remember me? No way. It’s been twelve years.
Poppy glances my way, waiting for me to say something.
My chest tightens, and I have to clear my throat before speaking. “No. I was here once, when I was a kid.” I cast my gaze around the shop, trying to avoid the direct stare the shopkeeper is giving me. “We visited for Yule. I just wanted . . .”
Wanted what? To remember? To step into a space where I can recall being with both my parents, before Ma died and everything changed?
The woman puts the pestle down and wipes her hands on a cloth. “Remembering is good,” she says softly. “Our memories are what guide us as we move forward in life.”
Poppy and I exchange a quick look. Is this woman a mind reader or something? The thought makes a shiver go down my spine.
“You visited with your family,” she goes on. “Your mother sought something to help with her headaches.”
At her words, the memory hits me like a wave: Ma’s hand in mine, Pa browsing the shelves while Ma talked quietly with this woman about her migraines, the way the sunlight came through the window and made all the bottles glow like colored gems. I remember wanting to touch everything and Ma telling me to be careful.
“Yeah,” I manage. “That was us. But . . . how do you remember that?”
The woman removes her glasses from her nose, letting them dangle from a thin chain around her neck, then comes around the counter.
“You’ve grown,” she says, obviously not interested in answering my question.
But there’s something kind in her voice that makes my throat feel tight.
“Your mother had the same eyes as you: hazel flecked with gold.”
She’s right. Pa has always said that he sees Ma when he looks me in the eye.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Poppy eases her hand into mine and gives it a squeeze, grounding me.
“I’m Niamh,” the woman says. She glances at Poppy. “And you must be the young witch from Coven Crest. Aurora mentioned you’d be visiting.”
“Poppy Waverly,” Poppy says. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Niamh nods, then looks back at me. “Your mother was a kind woman. I was grateful to meet her, if only the one time.”
“Thank you,” I say quietly.
For a moment, the shop is silent except for the soft rustle of hanging herbs swaying in an unseen breeze.
Then Niamh moves back behind the counter, giving us space. “Is there anything I can help you find today? Healing salves? Sleeping draughts? Love potions?” She says the last with a small knowing smile, one of her dark brows arching in the corner as she tosses us a look.
Poppy’s cheeks flush. “Oh, no, we’re just browsing. But thank you.”
I force myself to shake off the weight of my memories and look around the shop properly. There are so many interesting things here—hand-carved wooden boxes, bottles that catch the light, small vials of shimmering oils. On one shelf, I spot a display of colorful crystals.
“Poppy,” I say, gesturing to a bright purple one. “Isn’t amethyst good for dream magic?”
“Yeah,” she says softly, then releases my hand and walks over to examine the selection. She picks up one of the crystals, lifting it so it catches the light. “Amethyst can help provide clarity in dream states. It bridges the gap between the conscious and subconscious mind.”
“Let’s get it,” I say, reaching for my coin pouch, which is definitely lighter now after buying those books.
“Aric, you don’t have to—”
“I want to,” I insist, gently plucking the amethyst from Poppy’s fingers, then carrying it to the counter.
Niamh wraps the crystal carefully in cloth. As she does, she glances up at me again. “You have your mother’s kindness,” she says quietly. “She would be proud of the man you’ve become.”
I have to blink hard against the sudden burning in my eyes. I don’t know who this woman is, but I want to believe her. “Thank you,” I whisper.
She hands me the wrapped crystal, then places a small vial of something golden on the counter beside it. “For headaches,” she says. “No charge. I know final exams can be taxing.”
I stare at the vial, then back at her. It’s not time for final exams yet, but it’d probably be rude to tell her I don’t need it. So I give her a grateful smile and say, “I appreciate it. Really.”
She nods, her amber eyes warm. “Take care of yourselves. And give my regards to Aurora when you see her.”
We leave the shop, and the tightness in my chest eases a bit. Outside, the autumn sunlight feels almost too bright after the dimness of the shop. I stand there for a moment, the wrapped crystal in one hand, the vial in the other, trying to steady my breathing.
Poppy pauses beside me and tips her head back to look up at me, the sunlight catching her lavender eyes behind her glasses.
“Are you okay?” she asks softly.
I look down at her—at this incredible witch who somehow makes everything feel less heavy without even needing to try.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m great.”
We start walking again, slower this time, and Poppy says quietly, “If you’re okay with it, I’d love to know more about her. Your mom.” Her eyes meet mine, and then her gaze goes to my neck, where I’m wearing Ma’s ring tucked under my tunic.
And suddenly, as we walk, I find myself telling her about that trip twelve years ago.
About how Ma wanted to see the countryside in the winter and how Pa drove the wagon himself instead of hiring someone, even though he had no idea what he was doing.
How I ate so much pie that I got sick and made the wagon ride back to Wysteria an actual nightmare.
Poppy laughs at that, and the sound is bright and clear in the autumn air.
“I never thought I’d come back to Faunwood,” I say as we approach a small square where people are setting up for what looks like a market. “But . . . I’m glad I did.”
She looks up at me, her gaze soft. “Me too.”
I’ve wanted to kiss her so badly this whole trip, and I can’t resist it anymore. Slowly, I lean down and press my lips to hers. And Poppy kisses me right back, her lips still tasting of chamomile and honey from the tea we had back at the inn.
When we pull apart, she’s wearing that shy smile I love so much.
This place holds memories of my past, of Ma and Pa and a time before everything got complicated and I learned true pain for the first time. But it also holds new memories now, with Poppy.
And maybe that’s exactly what I needed—to remember, but to keep moving forward. And I’m glad Poppy gave me the opportunity to do that.
“Well,” I say, glancing up at the sun and using its position in the sky to determine what time it is—something Ma taught me when I was a boy. “Should we go meet Aurora now?”
Poppy nods once, her cheeks beautifully red from our kiss and the cold. “Yeah. I think so.”
HALF AN HOUR LATER, AFTER following Professor Silvermoon’s handwritten directions down a winding dirt path called Brookside Road, we emerge in a clearing in front of a yellow cottage surrounded by pines and tall aspens that’ve only just started shedding their leaves.
There’s a big garden off to one side of the cottage, two horses grazing in a fenced paddock to the other, and two young girls—one with bright yellow hair, the other with long messy white hair—laugh freely as they sit together on a big tree swing.
When the older of the two, the one with the yellow hair, sees us, she says, “Are you here to see Mama?”
Beside me, Poppy nods. “Professor Silvermoon sent me. I’m Poppy Waverly.”
The girl smiles. “Mama told me Auntie would be sending someone. She’s inside.
Come on.” She stands from the tree swing, then helps the younger girl down.
Holding hands, they both set off across the autumn grass at a run, their bare feet thumping against the earth as they go.
We follow behind them, crossing the clearing to the cheerful yellow cottage.
Before we step onto the porch, Poppy looks up at me, nervous energy radiating off her. “Ready?” she asks.
I grin and squeeze her hand. “Let’s do this.”