Chapter 4 #2
‘I should probably have a look through some notebooks,’ I tell him. ‘See what I can find. Then we can collect some herbs from the orangery and head off in a bit?’
With a slight shift in his seat, Ruben looks apologetically at me.
‘Any chance we can grab those herbs first and read through the notebooks in the carriage on the way to the third?’
My stomach sinks. Things are truly dire then. Time is of the essence, and I get the impression that he already believes he’s been away from her too long. Which means she really has gone downhill since I last saw her.
‘Sure thing. We can do that,’ I tell him, standing.
‘Thank you. Truly, thank you,’ Ruben says with such gratitude that I feel like maybe, just maybe, some real good could come out of me winning the Retterheld after all.
The houses in the courtiers’ arc are all fairly similar: ostentatiously large, with plenty of room for entertaining or holding covert conversations. But there’s one thing that makes our home entirely unique.
The orangery was a wedding gift from my father to my mother, who, prior to their marriage, was still living in the temple of Etta with Dinah.
She had visited the house plenty of times, both when they were courting and when they were betrothed, but my father said he could always tell there was part of her that was relieved to return to the temple, not because she didn’t want to be with him, but because of the lack of plants.
The Goddess’s Garden is the largest garden in the entirety of Wrohelm, and walking among the temple’s vegetation was always where my mother was most at ease.
According to my father, she got the type of grin from looking at herbs and plants that other ladies of the court got from looking at jewellery.
Which is why he arranged to have the orangery built within our home.
So many memories of my mother are sealed in that room. The way she would sometimes sing to herself as she tended the plants when she thought no one was watching. Or more often, talk to them with such tenderness and familiarity that it was like she was talking to old friends.
Right from the beginning, she taught me the differences between similar-looking plants. Such lessons were essential because one specimen could cure an ailment while the other could cause anything from a mildly upset stomach to an illness that would leave you bedridden for weeks.
‘Never assume, Rosey,’ she would say. ‘You test the fruit and the seeds, both sides of the leaves and the stems. And don’t forget the scent.
Learn the scents of the leaves and berries, not just the pollen and petals.
Mishaps happen, and things get moved around even here.
And never allow part of the plant near your lips until you’ve checked all those things. You understand?’
She would say such things before showing me two near-identical specimens and asking me to name what was what and explain their uses, as well as if or how magic could be used to make them more potent.
Of course she never seemed to do any of those tests unless she was teaching me.
Instead, she would just glance at a plant and be able to tell you every detail about it, from the uses of its roots to the aroma of its sap.
Back then, I thought it was something she’d learned through practice and trial.
But as I step into the orangery, I’m no longer so sure that her knowledge was entirely learned.
No, I begin to suspect it was, at least in part, gifted.
As I enter the window-lined room, with slate floors beneath my feet and ceilings high enough for small trees to flourish, relief rushes through me.
As with the plants in the kitchen, mum’s water irrigation system has kept working all this time.
The plants are wild, cluttered and with weeds everywhere, but they are alive.
I look around the dense jungle and draw on what I remember of Noleen from before I left the slums. The rattle of her cough. The pallid sweat on her brow. What could help with that?
The question barely enters my head when something catches my eye.
‘Can you see that?’ I ask Ruben as I move deeper into the space.
He hurries from where he was standing by the door, looking around. ‘What?’
‘That plant there.’ I point to a flowerless, flat-leaved shrub that appears to be glowing ever so faintly. ‘How does it look to you?’
‘Er … green?’ he says, trying to be helpful.
‘That’s it?’ I press. It’s definitely glowing, and its luminescence seems to be increasing in vibrancy. He might not have Benny’s special eyesight, but it’s definitely something he should be able to pick up on. ‘What about the one next to it?’
‘Also green, but a bit bushy?’ His voice is hopeful, like he’s praying he’s said the right thing. But his description has me certain that I’m seeing something he’s not.
My magic is somehow illuminating the plants I need.
As I walk through an archway of dark berries, my nostrils fill with the scent of elderberry.
I waste no time digging the dirt away from the roots before collecting more of the beckoning foliage.
By the time I’ve collected all the plants that were glowing at me, I have a basket with over half a dozen specimens, only two of which I knew the names of before I walked in.
I pause at the threshold of the orangery, basket heavy in my hands, reluctant to cross it. This room has always been a place of beginnings. First lessons. First failures. First quiet triumphs.
I wonder which this moment will be. My first attempt at healing – will it be a triumph or a failure?
Walking out of the orangery feels like stepping away from my mother’s support all over again. I can feel her here, like her spirit is walking beside me. And I fear that if I leave this place, that moment of connection will be gone.
But the plants shift in my wake, as if urging me onward, and I know that Mother would have done the same. I should try to heal, even if I fail.
I draw in a steady breath and leave the orangery, knowing I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.
I hastily collect knives, a pestle and mortar, and a couple of my mother’s notebooks that I still have from my time in the slums, although Ruben assures me there’s no need for me to bring my little stove.
With that, there’s only one thing left to do. And it hurts just as much as I knew it would.
‘So I guess you’re going to be gone by the time I get back,’ I say to Benny. ‘Which makes this goodbye?’ My chest aches at the thought.
‘I was thinking,’ Benny replies with a casual shrug, ‘maybe I could hang around for a couple of extra days. Keep an eye on you. There are some people I want to visit in the fourth, anyway. Some things I need to straighten out.’
‘The fourth?’ I frown. ‘What does the future Duke of the Eastern Isles have to do with people in the fourth?’
‘Wait, you’re a future duke?’ Ruben stops in his tracks.
Benny’s jaw tightens slightly as he shoots me a glare for my slip, and then he turns back to Ruben, smirk back in place. ‘I’m just a friend of Rose’s,’ he says. ‘But I’ll get out of your hair and let you get going.’
‘Wait,’ I entreat Benny. ‘Stay here. With me. Won’t you? Better here than one of those stuffy, fancy inns.’
‘You sure?’
‘Definitely. Ask Summer to make up a room for you. If we only get a few more days before you go, I’d like to see you as much as possible while I can.’
Benny smiles. ‘Yeah, me too. Okay, sure. I’ll get my belongings moved here. Thanks for having me, Kultavaris.’
‘Sorry to put pressure on you, but we should get going,’ Ruben says anxiously. ‘I’ve already left Mum too long. She’s not great on her own. I really have to get back.’
‘Of course,’ I reply, offering Benny a swift hug before parting.
‘Happy to give you one too,’ Benny offers Ruben, opening his arms wide at my friend, who shakes his head and lets out a slight laugh.
‘Nice to meet you, Benny,’ he says instead, waving a hand in farewell as he walks away.
‘Oh, we should definitely meet again soon,’ Benny mutters audibly as we leave.
‘Is he always such a terrible flirt?’ Ruben questions as we walk outside.
I think about it and shake my head. ‘No, not really. You should definitely take it as a compliment.’
He gives me a crooked smile. ‘Maybe I will.’ He laughs lightly.
Ruben is the type of man who turns heads wherever he goes, even more so now that he’s dressed in finery. Putting this talent to good use, he has no difficulty in hailing a carriage, even in the pouring rain, and we hastily climb in with all of my baskets of plants and notebooks.
I ignore the drumming of the rain on the wooden roof. It most certainly does not make me think of Kyor.
‘So whereabouts is your new house?’ I ask as we move, rocking with the cadence of the carriage. ‘Other than in the third ring?’
‘Not far from the temple,’ he tells me. ‘Given that it was Etta’s trials, and her favour for you, that gave us this opportunity, I wanted to stay close to her. To show my gratitude. To remember who I owe.’
Something in his voice makes my chest tighten. His is not reverence borne of fear or ambition, but a simple, honest acknowledgement that luck does not arrive without cause.