Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Tansy
I wake with the faintest scent of lavender smoke curling through the cottage, soft and sweet, like the dream I just left behind. The bed is warm beside me, but empty. Solenne must have risen early again. I stretch, limbs slow and heavy, and let myself linger in the quiet.
It’s peaceful here. Too peaceful, almost.
Something in the air tastes wrong.
I sit up, the cotton sheets slipping from my shoulders as I squint toward the windows. The morning sun streams in golden, dust caught in its beams like pollen. But underneath the stillness, there’s a strange tugging, low in my belly, sharp as sour fruit.
The kind of pull that says magic is moving where it shouldn’t be.
I throw on a robe and step outside barefoot. The dew kisses my soles as I follow the sensation, heartbeat growing louder with every step. The garden greets me like it always does … vines stretching, heartblooms nodding gently … but at the edge of the grove, the trees stiffen. And I see it.
A stone.
Dark. Angular. Unmistakable.
I drop to my knees in front of it, already knowing what it is before my fingers even brush the carved surface. The sigil is clean and cruel. Familiar. A perfect loop, etched with control lines. Blood-bound magic. A recall marker.
No. Not just a marker. A tether.
My stomach flips.
They’ve found me.
A voice unspools inside me … clipped, cold, and unshakable. Magic must serve. You must be bound to be useful.
My mother’s words. Spoken during my first ritual circle. Spoken every time I cried. Every time I broke a formation. Every time I wanted something for myself.
My fingers tremble.
But I don’t spiral.
I let the magic build, soft and wild and mine. I cradle the stone in my palm, summon heat, not fire, just friction. Desire. I want it gone. I want it gone and I want something else in its place.
The stone bursts into ash.
And in the center of my palm, a single forget-me-not unfurls, blue as new sky.
I smile. It’s small. But it’s enough.
I find a smooth piece of bark, old birch peeled from the trunk near the herb beds, and I press my thumb into its surface. Then I draw. A new sigil. Not one to bind, but one to bless. One that says, I am here. I am not ashamed.
The moment it’s done, I feel the magic shift. The pull is still there, but I control the thread now. And it leads me … out of the garden, through the moss-thick paths, toward the old rootline that pulses like a heartbeat through the trees.
And there, just past the boundary, Solenne stands.
Her hair glows gold in the morning light, loose and damp, and she’s wearing a linen dress I haven’t seen before. Something old. Something ceremonial. Her hands are buried in the soil, pressed over the roots. Her whole body hums like a cello string pulled taut.
“No,” I breathe.
She doesn’t turn.
I step closer, the bark sigil clutched tight in one hand.
“You don’t have to vanish for me to be safe.” My voice is stronger now. Truer. “I’m not running again.”
Solenne lifts her gaze. Her eyes shimmer, and I don’t know if it’s grief or relief or both. But her hands ease from the soil. And the roots do not pull her down.
They wait.
So do I.
Until she stands. Until she chooses.
And I reach out.
My fingers thread with hers.
And the birch bark in my other hand begins to glow.
A new pact.
Ours.