Chapter 3
three
. . .
Tansy
I wake tangled in overgrowth I don’t remember conjuring.
It’s barely morning. The light is pale and milky through the leaves, speckled like lace across the forest floor. My dress is damp with dew, and my cheek is pressed into moss so soft it almost feels like breath. For a split second, I don’t move.
The quiet here is different.
Not sterile, not silent like home.
This quiet listens.
I sit up slowly, brushing petals off my chest. Not mine. White and blue, delicate things, shaped like stars. My hands ache, my fingertips pulsing faintly with leftover magic. I flex them once, twice. They still glow faintly.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
A ring of something shimmers at the edge of the clearing, light grass and silvery vines, curling protectively around me. My magic must have done this while I slept. It feels … tender. Unruly, but tender. Like a half-formed wish.
“I didn’t mean to,” I mutter, and try not to cry.
I sit cross legged in the moss and pull my satchel into my lap. My fingers tremble as I dig through it. Charm bracelet. Journal. Honey. Compass. I don’t even know what I’m looking for. Maybe something to prove I’m not dangerous. Maybe something to prove I am.
My skin prickles.
I grab a sprig of sage and try a binding spell I half remember. My voice is hoarse.
“Steady hands, grounded root, calm the storm and mute the shoot—”
A sharp pop interrupts me. I blink.
There’s a frog sitting on a stone nearby.
“I dreamt I was a tulip,” it croaks solemnly.
“What?”
It continues, voice low and tragic.
“And wilted in the arms of dawn, a lover never met.”
“Oh gods,” I mutter, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I charmed a frog into reciting sonnets.”
The frog bows, as if to say, you’re welcome.
I groan and push to my feet, still half laughing through the panic. “OK. That’s fine. That’s normal. You’re just … poetically unstable. That’s fine.”
I wipe my hands on my skirt and force myself to focus. Food. I need food.
I remember vague foraging rules from when I was ten. Berries in odd numbers. No mushrooms with gills. Check for red stems. I recite them under my breath like a litany.
“No thorns. No mold. Nothing that smells like licorice.”
There’s a patch of chickweed nearby. Edible. Probably. I chew it slowly, half hoping it’ll give me strength and half hoping it’ll knock me out cold.
I pace as I eat, muttering. My thoughts spiral into soft loops. Did I pack enough water? Did I remember to charge the compass? What if I’m still leaking magic? What if I’ve already poisoned the forest? What if I never stop?
I kneel beside a patch of violets. My fingers hover above them. I think I remember reading somewhere that violets mean watchfulness or modesty, or something like that. It makes me feel like I’m being seen, even though the clearing is empty.
I talk to myself to soothe the spiral. “OK. You’re alive. You didn’t explode. The forest hasn’t eaten you. Yet.”
Then I find the spring.
My boots scuff the edge. The water is so clear it doesn’t look real. Just light caught in motion. I kneel beside it, dipping my fingers in.
And a ring of forget-me-nots explodes across the bank.
I yank my hand back, breath catching. “No. No, no, no, no—”
I fumble for the sage again. “Steady hands, grounded root—”
The frog watches me calmly from his rock.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I hiss, trying to tie a binding charm around my wrist. My fingers are shaking too hard.
The spell slips.
The charm snaps.
My magic flares, stuttering like a misfired heartbeat.
“I can’t do this.” My voice is too loud in the clearing. “I can’t. I ruin everything. Every time. I try to help, and I break it. I try to be good, and I end up making frogs poetic.”
The forest doesn’t answer.
But the wind shifts.
It’s subtle. A hush. A breath held too long.
My body stills.
Something’s watching me.
I spin too fast, nearly toppling into the spring.
I look up … and she’s there.
Standing at the edge of the clearing. Silent. Barefoot. Hair like moonlight spilled over bark. Skin that glimmers faintly in the green. Eyes like rain and roots and something older than fear.
A forest girl.
No. Not a girl. A guardian. A myth.
She’s tall. Not in a looming way, but in a grounded way, like she was planted here centuries ago and just decided to open her eyes.
I don’t breathe.
She’s watching me like I’m something strange and breakable. Like she doesn’t know if I’m sapling or sickness.
My heart kicks against my ribs. “Hi,” I whisper.
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
I curl my hands into fists, magic pulsing beneath my skin.
And still, she doesn’t move.
Something flutters in my chest. Not fear. Not yet.
Hope.
Because for the first time in my entire life, someone is looking at me, really looking, and they aren’t running.
They’re just … watching.
The frog bows again.
The forget-me-nots bloom a little brighter.
And the stranger with moss in her hair doesn’t look away.