Chapter 17
seventeen
. . .
Solenne
A few months later…
It’s solstice. The longest day, the softest dusk.
The sun hangs low and lazy in the sky, casting honey colored light across our wild garden.
Golden blossoms spill from the stone beds.
Lavender and basil grow tangled together, thick and unruly.
The air is fragrant with mint and marigold and the faint, sweet trace of magic.
Our cottage door is open.
Inside, the kettle hums a soft, familiar song. A stack of clean mugs waits on the counter, and a bowl of sugared strawberries glows red and syrupy in the window light. But most of the gathering has spilled outside, drawn by the scent of blooming thyme and the promise of warm bread and company.
They come slowly, at first. A dark-skinned witch in a wine-colored shawl, her eyes lined with charcoal and laughter.
A pale, freckled fae with dew still clinging to their lashes.
A copper-skinned crow shifter who brings a gift wrapped in dried corn husks and watches everything with a tilted head and a half smile.
We sit together on the garden bench, the old wood draped in vine and velvet. I wear no glamour, no crown of leaves or woven flowers. Just a linen dress and bare feet, my hair unbound. I feel … at ease. Rooted. Changed.
Tansy is beside me, her fingers sticky from berry juice, curls pinned up and already escaping. She’s glowing, though she always glows now. It’s the kind of glow that comes from being loved, and letting it show.
We talk about seeds. About what’s blooming this season and what might come next. We pass around scones and plum tarts and mint tea strong enough to knock the sleep from a stone.
Eventually, someone asks, voice full of reverence, maybe even a little mischief.
“What do you call this place?”
Tansy glances at me. I smile at her.
She turns back to them, eyes bright. “Home,” she says. “The wild kind.”
And the vines at the garden’s edge bloom white in reply.