Chapter 4
four
. . .
Solenne
I watch her from the trees.
She doesn’t know I’m here. She’s pacing in circles near the spring, murmuring under her breath and waving her hands like they’re caught on invisible strings. Her hair is tangled in curls and briars, a rich tangle of amber and chestnut that glows when the sunlight hits it.
Her skirt is muddy and clings to her thighs, soaked with dew and creek water.
Her fingers spark with wild magic, and the glow of it trails behind her like stardust she can’t quite control.
Her mouth moves constantly with spells, scolds, and questions, all whispered like she’s trying to talk herself into being real.
She’s chaos.
But she’s beautiful.
Like a storm made of marigolds.
Sun bright and sobbing, shaking with energy she doesn’t know how to name.
Her cheeks are flushed, warm and ruddy from crying or from running, I can’t tell.
Her lashes are long and clumped with mist, her eyes wide and amber like dark honey.
There’s a smear of dirt across her collarbone, and a vine trailing from the hem of her skirt.
Her magic coils through the clearing like ivy in springtime … untamed, eager, and aching to bloom.
I haven’t seen a human in decades. Not since the last hedge witch walked into the wood with fire in her hands and fear on her lips. That was the day I buried the outer trail in thorns and told the trees to forget the path.
But this one found it anyway.
Or maybe it found her.
The clearing hasn’t looked like this in years.
The moss is softer. The air is sweeter. The spring sings louder.
And around her … flowers I didn’t call into bloom.
Petals bursting in a ring of forget-me-nots and chickweed, silver vines curling like question marks.
The frog is new. It’s reciting a love poem about tulips, utterly entranced by her.
The roots pulse beneath my palm as I crouch low in the undergrowth, watching. They whisper their confusion to me. Their wonder.
Whatever she is, the forest feels her. Not as an invader. Not exactly.
As a question.
And I don’t know the answer.
Her scent is wild mint and fear. Her magic is unshaped, leaking through her fingers like honey that’s been left too long in the sun. She’s a contradiction … every inch of her too much and not enough. The kind of girl you bind or break.
But I don’t want to do either.
I should turn away. I have to turn away. That’s the pact. That’s the price. Stay hidden. Stay bound. Keep the wild places secret and the sacred places safe. No contact. No connection.
But I don’t move.
She drops to her knees, trying to twist a charm around her wrist. It snaps. Her breath hitches. Her whole body curls like she’s bracing for impact.
And I feel it.
Not the magic. Not the fear.
The ache.
Something in her is breaking. Or maybe it’s something in me.
She looks up suddenly, like she feels me.
And for the first time in so many years, someone sees me.
Really sees.
Our eyes meet.
She doesn’t scream.
Her lips part on a breath. Her fists clench. The frog bows.
And I step out of the trees.
Not because I want to.
Because I have to.
Because something in me rebels.
The pact was always a whisper. An agreement passed from grove to grove, root to root. But something in it feels brittle now. Thin. Like bark gone dry.
I don’t remember the last time I broke a rule.
But I remember what it felt like to choose.
And I choose her.
I cross the edge of the grove without hesitation. My feet touch the moss where hers once pressed. A single bloom opens beneath my heel.
She watches me like she’s afraid to blink. Her mouth trembles. Her magic still hisses under her skin, but it slows. Calms.
I take another step. And another.
Her eyes are locked on mine. Her breathing evens, just barely.
I don’t speak.
I don’t know how to say hello after a lifetime of silence.
But I take one more step.
And the forest doesn’t stop me.
A breeze rustles the leaves above us. The spring bubbles gently between us.
And for the first time in decades, I am not alone.