CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ALYSSUM
Was I dreaming?
Sporadic glimpses were all I could manage.
Blinding sunlight speared through and around, illuminating her in a glow so fierce I could barely make out her features.
She hovered over me, dark curls sweeping against her forehead as I floated through the air.
Angular eyebrows, resting low. Worry, maybe?
Or confusion. Those eyes—a piercing silver, with a burst of color around the pupil that made me wonder what Morwyn would look like if the sun were green.
Full lips, slightly parted, breathing heavy.
Who was she yelling at? More importantly, who sculpted that jawline? Was it the stars themselves?
Safe.
I awoke with a start, unintentionally causing Milo to jump back and yelp.
I found myself sitting up before I was ready and it was all I could do not to immediately heave.
I tried to take in my surroundings, but the world was humming and spinning in tandem, and I had to press my eyes shut to remain upright.
I held my face with one hand and gripped the stone table beneath me with the other, suppressing a full-bodied groan that bubbled in my throat.
Everything felt… charged. As if the very air itself disagreed with my presence.
“She’s awake! Master Catrin, she’s awake!”
I could not summon the will to shush him as his words echoed loudly in my mind, but the uncontrollable cringe that bared my teeth seemed to be enough.
“Sorry!” Milo whispered.
A gentle swishing noise accompanied by the pitter-patter of bare feet alerted me to someone’s approach.
“This is for you. Drink,” a woman said, her voice melodic and comforting.
I cast a blurry glance her way, only to be met with soft features, coiled strawberry-blonde hair contrasting with cool-toned, dark brown skin, and brown eyes swept with permanent smile lines.
Something about her demeanor was immediately soothing, although not enough to dispel whatever ailment had befallen me.
So I reached for the ceramic mug in her hand, downing its contents in one tortuous gulp.
The liquid was thick and tart, tasting faintly of dirt, licorice, and salt.
“Disgusting,” I managed, covering my mouth to ensure the concoction stayed where it belonged.
“No one drinks salted myrtle for fun,” she said with a soft smile. “But you feel better now, don’t you?”
Reprieve was almost immediate. The air calmed, my mind relaxed, and my eyes began to focus.
The wooden cottage I had awoken in appeared to be half shop, half kitchen.
The room’s lighting was dim, the darkness permeated only by hazy sunlight melting through small, infrequent windows and the glow of a hearth, its crackling firelight elongating the shadows.
More herbs and plants than I could count created a canopy of green above my head, all hanging in various states of dehydration and perfuming the space with competing scents both woodsy and floral.
Bleached wooden shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling, displaying vial racks, trinkets, and dozens of worn books with peeling spines and illegible titles.
Rickety wooden tables peppered the cottage, some scattered with writing utensils, others with massive, wide-open books showcasing drawings of plants I’d never seen before, and even more with small bowls and vials brimming with liquids and powders I could not identify.
Before the hearth lay a round, stone table overflowing with ingredients for the stew bubbling in the hearthside cauldron.
Beneath the leaves and roots and dried meat, I spotted a mortar, a small scale, and the waxy residue of candles.
The stew smelled divine, and the wafting scent of freshly baked bread gnawed at my empty stomach.
As Catrin washed her hands in a large washbasin by a frosted window, I ran a hand through my hair, fingertips purposefully grazing the point of impact on my skull. I anticipated a lightning bolt that never materialized.
“It’s healed,” I said, disbelief pitching my voice.
Milo grinned as he removed his satchels and belt, setting them on the cluttered bookshelf he leaned against. “This is her first time meeting a true herbalist, Master Catrin.”
“I can see that,” she mused.
I took a moment to do a quick self-assessment.
I ran my hands over my head and arms, stretched out my legs and feet, and rolled my shoulders back in awe.
The soreness stiffening my joints all morning had vanished.
Was this the same herbalist Bjorn had sent Vicar to?
Of course, asking that question would immediately disclose my connection to Lunamor, so I bid the thought away.
“This is even better than what Milo gave me. What did you call it… mermoss?”
“That’s not my fault. I’m not allowed to make potions yet,” Milo said, puffing out his chest indignantly with crossed arms. “Or elixirs.”
Catrin, as though she hadn’t heard him, started tidying up.
It was only then that I properly assessed the table I rested atop. It was made of roughly hewn stone and had several restraints bolted into it, and when my attention landed there, I promptly stood.
Praise the stars those hadn’t been used on me.
“Where am I?” I asked, hoping the trepidation I suddenly felt wouldn’t make it to my voice.
“This is Master Catrin’s shop,” Milo explained. “She’s the village herbalist, though I say she could move to the largest kingdom in Morwyn if she wanted to. You won’t meet a finer healer in all the land.”
Catrin shook her head at Milo with a good-natured smile, quieting his praise. “This building serves many purposes,” she said while tidying the mess I imagined had been made while healing me. “But yes, I tend to the villagers here when necessary.”
Now that I stood, I could see that the stone structure I’d awoken upon was protruding straight up from the ground.
The wooden floorboards had been built around its base, and moss used to plug the spaces between.
The size of it, combined with the heft of the iron restraints, had my mind wandering back to Anise’s warning.
Master Catrin and Milo didn’t appear to be soul-eating fiends, but if those beasts did exist in Grenythwood, a contraption like that would be quite useful…
Catrin must have read the look on my face, for she quickly supplied, “You are safe here.”
As far as I was concerned, that remained to be seen.
In what I hoped was a covert motion, I sought my dagger, loosing the breath that hovered in my lungs when my fingertips brushed the pommel. If they meant me any harm, surely they’d have relieved me of my weapon. Perhaps I really wasn’t in any danger.
“Thank you for healing me. I’m… I’m not quite sure what happened back there,” I admitted.
“Courtesy of a generous Scholar, we have a barrier to protect us should the Threshold be compromised. You must have something on your person,” Catrin said, casting a glance my way. “Something more Hollow than your clothes.”
“Doubt it,” Milo muttered beneath his breath.
I shot him a scowl before considering her words.
An invisible barrier that reacted to anything Hollow sounded like sorcery to me.
Could my unfavorable crossing coupled with this disaster be a sign that I’d made a mistake after all?
That the Lunamorian half of me ensured my demise in the face of sorcery, and subsequently Grenythwood?
I hoped not. Fortunately, Catrin did not ask after my blood, and I did have a Hollow object with me.
Slowly, I reached into my cloak pocket and withdrew Rowland’s poppy brooch.
I ran my finger over the rubies and observed how they sparkled in the firelight.
I wasn’t sure what had compelled me to bring it in the first place.
Could this tiny object really have caused…
whatever in the depths that was? All because it belonged to a Hollow?
Clearly, Grenythwood was going to take some getting used to.
Catrin neared me now, her eyes fixed on the brooch. It was then that I noticed that the top of her head only reached my shoulder.
“May I?” she asked. Something in her countenance made me feel I could’ve said no had I wanted to, and that eased my trepidation.
With a swift nod, I extended my palm towards her.
Catrin carefully took the brooch from my hand before retreating deeper into the kitchen. She approached the second cupboard to the left of the hearth, lifted onto her toes to open it, and rummaged near its back, the clinking of vials sounding through the shop.
“Aha,” she said as she withdrew her hand, clasped now around a black round-bottom flask. It wasn’t until she brought it by the window that I gasped. That same matte, inky-black I had seen the Sentinels wearing half a month ago. The flask was made of onyxium, I was certain.
Catrin’s eyes flicked up to mine as understanding smoothed her brow. “You’re familiar with onyxium.”
I tried to swallow my surprise.
“No, no,” I insisted. Lunamor was the only kingdom with access to onyxium.
There was no discernible reason why some should exist in this tiny little shop, or what purpose it might serve for her, but one thing was certain—to admit I’d seen it before would surely divulge my identity.
“I’ve heard tales but… never laid eyes on it, until now. ”
Milo walked over to the stone table, seemingly uncaring of the restraints, and hopped onto it. His legs didn’t reach the floor, and he swung them back and forth. “Onyxium’s quite rare. I’m not allowed to study it yet.”
Catrin gave Milo a rather pointed look before uncorking the flask and tipping its contents onto her palm, a short distance from the brooch. A thick, wine-colored liquid dripped once, then twice onto her skin, before she quickly righted its position; it must have been precious.
“Is that blood?” Milo asked, entranced.
“Yes,” Catrin muttered.