Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Tansy
I burn the garlic.
Only a little. Just enough to make the cottage smell like burnt garlic and warm rosemary, with a whisper of something nostalgic beneath …
like old herb cupboards and evenings spent barefoot on wooden floors.
I cough once, fan the pan with a nearby herb bundle, and glance over my shoulder like I’m going to get scolded.
But Solenne just watches from the doorway, silent, unreadable, the faintest crinkle at the corner of her eyes betraying her amusement.
“Sorry,” I mumble, stirring faster. “I swear I’m usually better at this. It’s the pan’s fault. Or maybe the altitude. Is this technically a hill?”
Solenne tilts her head. “It’s a grove.”
“Right. Grove air. Very tricky.”
She doesn’t respond, but she does step closer. I feel her quiet presence like warmth in the air, heavier than sunlight, more attentive than shadow. She sits on the rug near the hearth, long limbs folding neatly beneath her, and waits. Not for me … just … with me. Like the moment is enough.
I try not to oversteep the tea. I fail. But it still tastes good, especially with honey. There’s a jar on the shelf labeled “Morning Gold.” I open it and nearly weep. It smells like citrus and sunrise.
Dinner is a chaotic affair. I’ve used at least four different wooden spoons and one mushroom cap to stir things. I’m not sure what half the spices are, but they smell warm and comforting, so I trust them. A few of them sparkle faintly when they hit the pan. Probably fine.
When I finally serve our mismatched bowls, something between stew and spell, I hesitate. “It’s safe,” I promise. “Probably. The garlic is a little aggressive, though.”
Solenne lifts a spoon, tastes.
And nods.
I beam. “That’s the highest praise I’ve ever gotten.”
We eat on the floor, legs crossed, the fire crackling low beside us.
I sit closer than I probably should, but not close enough to scare her.
There’s something grounding about her presence, like moss underfoot or a heavy quilt at the end of a bad day.
I keep sneaking glances. Her profile is sharp and softened all at once, like the bark of a birch tree, white gold and knotted with hidden meaning.
I hum while I eat. Just softly. A tune I don’t realize I know until it’s already half out of my mouth. Solenne doesn’t interrupt.
After we finish, I gather the bowls and stack them with quiet reverence, then sink back onto the rug with a sigh. My legs stretch toward the fire. Solenne remains still, a study in patience.
The silence is comfortable now. I break it anyway.
“I wasn’t supposed to cook,” I say.
She looks at me.
“I mean, I did. Sometimes. When no one was watching. But mostly we weren’t supposed to do anything that wasn’t part of the rite schedule. Meals were scheduled. Everything was.”
Solenne’s voice is soft. “Your family?”
I nod, pulling my knees up to my chest. “They weren’t cruel, not exactly. Just … precise. Every ritual had a script. Every meal had a blessing. Every emotion had a counterspell.”
“And you?”
“I cried too much.”
Her eyes flick to me, steady.
“They tried to bind it out of me. The feelings. The magic that came with them. I ruined half a dozen circles just from …” I make a vague hand motion. “Feeling things.”
She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t look away either.
“I used to think I was broken,” I say. “Then I thought maybe I was cursed. Then I thought I was dangerous.”
The fire pops. I flinch.
Solenne shifts. Gently. Just enough to lean closer.
I stare at the flames. “The truth is … I didn’t run just because I was scared. I ran because I was starting to like it. The wildness. The way it makes things grow. The way it makes me feel.”
My voice shakes. “And that scared me more than the binding circle.”
There’s a pause.
Then Solenne reaches out and tucks a curl behind my ear.
It’s the softest thing I’ve ever felt.
No magic. No ritual.
Just a hand. A touch.
My breath catches.
Thunder booms loudly, making us both jump.
The storm outside rolls in heavy and sudden, wind rattling the vines at the windows, rain slanting sideways against the cottage walls. A flash of lightning illuminates the shelves, the herbs, the steam rising from the kettle.
I flinch again. Harder this time.
Solenne’s hand hovers.
Then she shifts fully to face me and holds out her palm. “May I?”
I nod.
She takes my hand in both of hers, warm and steady. Then, in a voice like velvet over stone, she murmurs a spell.
It doesn’t sound like Latin. Or anything I recognize.
It sounds like the wind through leaves.
It sounds like moss learning how to grow.
I feel it settle in my chest.
“What was that?” I ask, breathless.
“A grounding rite.”
“It worked.”
“I’m glad.”
I squeeze her fingers. “Will you teach me?”
Our hands stay clasped. She nods once.
And we sit there, palm to palm, cross legged on the rug as the storm howls around us. I close my eyes. I breathe.
She breathes with me.
Time softens.
When I open my eyes, she’s close.
Not just physically, though our knees are touching now. But close like moonlight through sheer curtains. Close like the scent of rosemary on your skin after a long bath.
Our foreheads almost touch.
And though we don’t speak … the vines at the windows bloom anyway.