Chapter 10
ten
. . .
Tansy
The sun is high, and the garden hums like it’s breathing.
I sit cross legged in the softest patch of moss I can find, tucked just between a mulberry bush and a tangle of clover.
It’s warm. Drowsy with bees. My fingers are full of heartbloom petals, milky white with a golden edge, like they were painted by a gentle god.
I lay them out in a circle on the soil, tracing an old charm pattern around them.
This isn’t a real spell.
It’s not in any grimoire. It’s not sanctioned or sacred or bound by blood. It’s just … me. Making something. Playing. Testing what happens when I let the magic feel good.
The last time I tried this, I shattered a scrying bowl and singed off my eyebrows.
Today, it just feels … soft.
“Right then,” I whisper to the earth. “Let’s try you in a spiral instead.”
I press two fingers into the dirt and hum under my breath, letting the sound ground me. A simple tune. Something I remember from my grandmother’s kitchen … before they stopped letting her sing.
The magic stirs in my chest like a flicker of sun through leaves.
I breathe, slower now—centered. The pulse of it moves through my arms, into my fingers, out through the petals.
The air hums.
Just for a moment, everything feels aligned.
Then, crack.
A branch snaps off the lemon verbena bush. It lands beside me with a heavy thud, trailing broken leaves.
I jolt so hard I nearly tumble backward. My hands shoot up, glowing faintly, magic spiking like a startled heartbeat.
“No, no, no—gods, I just got it steady!”
My voice wobbles. My heart slams against my ribs. I grab at the charm circle, desperate to contain it, but it’s already unraveling. The heartbloom petals shrivel, their edges curling with heat that shouldn’t be there.
The panic rises like bile.
I curl into myself, fingers clenched in my skirt. The voice in my head gets loud again. You can’t do this. You’re not safe. You’ll ruin it. You’ll ruin her.
But then, the earth shifts.
Not violently.
Gently.
The moss beneath me grows thicker. The ground lifts like a sigh. And when I peek through my lashes, I see it.
A soft ring of wildflowers growing around me.
Not chaotic. Not punishing.
Comforting.
Chamomile. Marigold. Calendula. A whole little wreath of reassurance, blooming just for me.
I let out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob.
“You silly, soft thing,” I whisper to my own magic. “You don’t want to break things, do you? You just want to be seen.”
I lean back on my palms, breathing through the aftershocks.
For once, the magic inside me doesn’t ache to escape. It stretches. Curious. Like a seedling poking out of its shell.
And that’s when I hear the footsteps.
Solenne.
She doesn’t say a word. Just appears through the garden gate like mist.
Her hair glows gold in the sunlight, tangled with a few stray petals like they grew there. Her dress brushes her ankles, stained at the hem from forest soil. She smells like bark and something sweet underneath, the scent of warm rain drying on stone.
She kneels in front of me, slow and steady, her hands resting loosely on her thighs.
She looks at the charm ring, then at me.
“You felt it too?” I whisper.
Solenne nods. “The garden listens.”
I reach out before I can think better of it. My fingers skim the back of her hand.
“I’ve never had magic listen. Not really. It’s always been something I had to bind or mute or trap.”
She doesn’t flinch from my touch.
She turns her palm up. “Show me.”
My throat tightens.
“What it feels like for you,” she says softly.
I want to cry. Instead, I gather my satchel from the moss and begin laying things out carefully, one item at a time, like offerings.
First, I place a sachet of mint and lemon balm on the soil beside me. The scent is sharp, calming, familiar in the way a lullaby might be. It always helps when the noise in my head gets too loud, when the world feels jagged at the edges.
Next comes a piece of dried orange peel. Its edges are curled, the color more amber than orange now. I saved it from the winter festival years ago … the day my father smiled at me without asking anything in return. It’s small, cracked, nearly forgotten. But it still holds warmth.
Last, I set down a ribbon. Soft and faded, frayed at one end, stained with tea from too many late nights. It fell out of my first spell book, the one I read under blankets, hiding the candlelight with trembling hands. I keep it to remind myself that even hidden magic was still mine.
She watches as I scatter them around the charm ring.
Then I take her hand.
“It starts here,” I murmur, guiding her fingers to my chest, just over the breastbone. “It hums when I’m lonely. It spikes when I’m afraid. It settles … when I feel wanted.”
Her hand trembles slightly. But she keeps it there.
I lean close, offering her the mint sachet. She inhales. Her eyes flutter shut.
“That smells like the first time you said my name,” she whispers.
I can’t breathe.
She opens her eyes. And she’s looking at me.
Not with pity. Not with fear.
Like I’m real.
Like I’m magic.
The spell circle pulses. Once. Twice.
I don’t know who moves first.
But our lips meet.
Soft. Searching.
Her mouth is warm and tasting faintly of tea and something wilder. Her fingers cup my cheek like she’s not sure if I’ll vanish. I press in harder, greedy for more.
The garden responds.
Vines shoot from the soil, gentle and spiraling, curling around our legs. The charm circle glows white gold. A cluster of heartblooms bursts open at our feet … five petaled, pale as milk, glowing softly from within.
Solenne gasps against my mouth.
“The land,” she murmurs. “It sees this.”
“Is that bad?”
She pulls back slightly, eyes wide. “It’s true.”
I blink, confused. “The heartblooms … what do they mean?”
Her voice is barely audible. “They only bloom when the land recognizes a bond. Something sacred. Something … chosen.”
My breath hitches. “Between us?”
She nods. “They don’t lie.”
I smile, trembling. “Then neither will I.”
She brushes her forehead to mine.
And the garden explodes in bloom.