Chapter 13
Elodie
I can’t do this.
Maybe I never truly believed I could.
I planted some ordinary seeds first. The kind that germinates quickly in any condition, in any season, they don’t even require watering.
They grew.
Then I planted some that demanded precision. Measured amounts of light and water.
They grew.
I planted a seed that was described as temperamental. Difficult and unforgiving, is what the scholars had written.
It grew.
But not even a whisper of green from the Widowsbloom, no curl of life, no disturbance in the soil.
Nothing.
And now I have only two seeds left. Apparently, I can grow anything except the one thing that matters. I reread all the research and used the techniques that even they thought were promising. Heated soil had shown a marginal response in their trials. But when I repeated it…
Nothing.
Collapsing into the chair at the workbench, I shuffle the notes mindlessly.
I need a break, some air, some way to think about something other than this stupid plant.
Glancing outside, I see Thomas sat on the benches in the outdoor garden, as he usually is.
The cloak Rowan gave me to sleep in lies folded on top of the workbench.
It’s as good an excuse as any. Grabbing it, I head out to meet him.
“Good afternoon, miss. Everything ok?” he asks.
“I need a break. And I need to return this cloak to the High Warden. May I please return it to his quarters and get some fresh air?”
“You may, but I will need to come with you.”
“I figured as much. That’s fine. Lead the way,” I say, gesturing ahead of me.
Thomas gives me a quick smile before walking ahead back towards the castle entrance.
Our footsteps echo softly against the stone floor, passing servants who avert their eyes.
Guards stationed at intervals who give quick nods and greetings to Thomas.
I lose track of direction quickly, knowing I am more reliant on following Thomas than I’d like to admit. Thomas slows, and then I hear it.
Deep, furious shouts and the sharp sound of smashed glass.
“Is that the king?” I ask Thomas, who is trying to push me down another route as I speak. I move on instinct, my curiosity getting the better of me.
“Miss, you can’t be here. Please, you need to follow me,” Thomas hisses under his breath, but I decide to ignore him.
The King’s voice carries through the corridor, sharper than when he first spoke to me.
Angrier.
Then I hear him.
Rowan.
“She is making progress, sir.” I hear him say.
Progress?
If they’re talking about me, he’s lying. Rowan knows that isn’t true.
“Miss, please don’t make this difficult,” Thomas pleads with me.
“Okay, I’m coming,” I whisper. Then I hear the King, firm and certain as he says,
“You know the plan, Rowan,” he says. “You know what you must do if this fails.”
What plan?
Before I can even think about what he means, Rowan replies, “You have my loyalty."
“That’s it. I warned you, Miss,” Thomas says, pulling my elbow and leading me away. I don’t fight him. I let him drag me away, the words replaying in my head as I try to figure out what it all means.
Is the plan simply just get the plant and fix the gates?
Or is it something else?
Thomas leads me to Rowan’s quarters, where I drop his cloak off in silence before he leads me back to the glasshouse.
Once past the glass doors, the air is transformed, feeling less spacious and more stifling.
The warmth of the glasshouse presses around me, thick and cloying.
I kneel beside the bed of seeds, the soil undisturbed, the Widowsbloom unchanged.
My thoughts drift back to home, to the list of daily tasks on the whiteboard every morning.
About how I used to moan about that list. But now, I’d give anything to wake up tomorrow and see that list of jobs.
Hear Sam telling me his plans for the weekend, challenging me to a game of chess on lunch break.
Pleading with the soil, I place my palms gently on top of the cool earth before resting my head on my arms and closing my eyes.
“She’s been like that for an hour, sir. I’m sorry to call you down, I just…”
I hear the faint murmur of Thomas’s voice through the glasshouse, followed by heavy footsteps.
Rowan.
I’ve been sitting in the same position for hours now, unsure what to do with myself. My mind has been in a continuous spiral.
“Didn’t take you for the praying type.” His voice cuts through the glasshouse with an echo. Turning my face to him, my tears have dried on my face.
“I’m not praying, I’m negotiating.” I say. He raises his eyebrows at me before leaning against the worktop and crossing his arms.
“And how’s that working for you?”
“Oh, yeah, great. Look at my successful first and second attempts,” I say, pointing at the soil which shows no sign of life. He glances down at the soil, his expression unchanging.
“You have two seeds left,” he says.
“Yep.”
He only nods. I consider bringing up his conversation with the King, but I know he would simply shut down and give me nothing.
“You know, when I was a boy, there was this old tree in the training yard. It’d been there a while, its roots running deep under the soil,” he says.
I look at him, not sure where he is going with this, but not daring to interrupt anyway.
“One year, it didn’t bloom. They planned to cut it down and get rid of it.
But the gardener, he stopped them, said it simply needed to be left alone,” he continues, “So they left it alone. The following spring, it bloomed. Bright and full.”
“So you think I need to just leave the Widowsbloom alone?”
“I think sometimes you can’t choose how something survives. You need to let nature decide for itself.”
Looking back at the soil, I concentrate hard in the hope of willing some idea to fill my brain. Hoping Rowan’s words unlock the key to my problems. But nothing comes. Returning my gaze to Rowan, feeling defeated and tired.
“I wish it were that easy. While I appreciate you trying to soothe me with your inspiring words. It doesn’t help me figure out the science behind this.” He lets out a small laugh as he rolls his eyes.
“I’m glad you find my words inspiring,” he says.
“Of course, that is what you decide to focus on.” I shake my head at him, but can’t help the small tilt of my lip that I try to hide from him.
“I have errands to run, so I’ve told Kael you’ll be eating with him,” he says, changing the subject.
“Oh. Okay, what are you doing?”
“The same thing I do every evening.”
“Which is…”
He gives me a knowing grin, tilting his head at me.
“Figure out the science behind Widowsbloom, and maybe I’ll tell you.” He winks at me.
I let out a breathy laugh, confused by this playful side of him I’ve not seen before. He turns to head out the door, leaving me alone once again, his words hanging heavy in the air.
You need to let nature decide for itself.
I turn back to the soil, releasing a heavy breath of defeat. “Well, I hope you decide quickly. It seems the king is becoming impatient,” I say to the soil.
Steam curls from the bowl between us, the chatter of noise behind us. I take a sip from my mug. Kael tears a piece of bread with unnecessary force, scattering crumbs across the scarred oak table.
“You are awfully quiet this evening. Unlike Rowan, I am actually fun to be around.” He gives me a playful wink before taking a swig from his drink.
“Sorry, I’ve had a bad day.”
“Plant stuff?”
“Yes,” I laugh, “plant stuff."
“The Widowsbloom isn’t blooming?”
“The Widowsbloom isn’t doing anything,” I admit, staring down at my food, pushing it around my plate.
“If it’s any consolation, it’s probably not you. I think we’d need a miracle to get that thing growing.”
“That is not a consolation. Do you not remember the deal I’m in? No plant means I don’t go home.” I say. Kael goes quiet, which, for him, is unusual.
“Kael?”
“Elodie.”
“You’re hiding something. What is it?” When he doesn’t respond, I set my fork down and turn to him, my eyes narrowed. He gives me a brief side eye before turning to fix his stare on his plate. Okay, he’s definitely hiding something.
“Kael, tell me.”
“Okay, okay, you got me. Shall I just confess my undying attraction to you now, or let you finish trying to pry it out of me?” He smirks slightly.
“I’m serious, Kael. I overheard the King say something today, about a plan that cannot fail.” His face turns cold, and I fear he’s going to shut down on me. But he leans in closer to whisper,
“Look, this kingdom is dying. You’ve been to the village. You’ve seen how empty it’s become. The blight took everything. Nothing has been the same since he sealed all the gates.”
“The Blight?”
“Does Rowan tell you nothing?” He leans back in his chair as I shake my head. “Back when the gates were open, we would trade supplies, knowledge, and currency. And our kingdom, it was rich, one of the richest, actually.”
“What made yours so special?”
“Because of our butterflies. Mourningwings, they’re rare. Very rare, and as you know already, they need Widowsbloom to survive. But having a rare butterfly means we can travel outward, but there aren’t many people who can travel inward,” he says.
“So you could access everyone, but few could access you?”
“Exactly,” he says.
“So, you stole from other realms?” I ask, trying to understand what he was getting at.
“Stealing is subjective. We traded. Did we lie? Cheat? Sure.” He shrugs unapologetically. “But the richest societies universally build themselves on lies and corruption.”
I can’t disagree with him.
My world is full of corruption, and the ones right at the very top, they don’t get there by being kind and generous. They get there by being ruthless and selfish.
“Ok so… what does this have to do with the Blight?”
“There were rumours, whispers of a disease destroying lands. Some of them even flat-out lost their butterflies. And it completely cut them off. But the King just ignored it. He insisted we were safe.”
“Because you were so isolated from the others, harder to get to?”
“Because we were untouchable, no one could come to us.” He pauses now, as if the next part is something he’s deciding if he wants to share.
“His ignorance cost him everything. Rowan guarded the gates, heard the rumours, and saw it firsthand. Tried to warn the King, but he wouldn’t hear it.
Not until it was too late. He asked Rowan to travel through the gate and find out how to stop it, but Masen offered to go instead.
He never returned, but his butterfly did.
” I feel a tightening at Rowan’s name, the words settling between us.
“What does it mean if his butterfly came back?” I ask.
“Gate travelers used a code. If they found themselves in such danger that rescue would mean more lives lost, they would send their butterfly through. It rarely happened, but I will never forget that day.”
I think of Rowan’s silence, his guilt. The way he watches that gate during training. My heart cracks for him, this man who told me in his own words that he killed his friend. But now I know that’s a lie.
“Rowan told me he killed Masen.” I mumble. Kael shakes his head, a knowing look in his eyes.
“That’s because Rowan believes he did.” He looks down at the table now. “That man has had a sword to his own head since the day it happened.” A silence stretches between us now.
I feel the loss of this man that I never even knew.
“What was he like? Masen?” I ask.
“He was a man who always did what was right. He was a good man and an even better knight.” A lump forms in my throat.
“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject. “That’s enough of the serious talk. If Rowan asks, I didn’t tell you any of that, okay?” he pleads, giving me a stern look.
“Why did you?”
“Because, plant girl. It’s what Masen would have done.”
He goes to tear off some more bread before I stop him, placing my hand over his. I pull out the pocketknife from my overall pocket and slice a piece for him.
“Here,” placing the slice down on his plate, he freezes, his eyes fixed on the blade. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Where did you get that blade?”
“I’ve not been harbouring a weapon, don’t worry. It’s my friend Sam’s. It was in my pocket when I arrived.”
He doesn’t respond, his eyes fixated on the white antler handle. The worry on his face causes a panic in my stomach. “Here, you can hold on to it for me if you’d like? But don’t lose it.”
He grabs it slowly, running his hand along the sharp edge.
“Don’t tell Rowan about this, okay?” he mutters quietly. I’ve never seen Kael react so seriously about something before.
“Okay, I won’t. Is everything okay?” He shakes his head briefly before returning to his usual easy grin.
“All good. You eating the rest of that?” he asks, nodding his head at my plate. Shaking my head, I nudge my plate over to him. That was weird. But one thing lingers in my thoughts even more so, refusing to settle.
Greyhollow’s butterfly belongs to this realm. Not mine.
If, by some miracle, I grow the Widowsbloom, the Mourningwings survive, and the gates open again.
I would fulfil my bargain.
But if I don’t know which butterfly can take me home...
I stare down at my plate, my appetite suddenly leaving me.
What good is opening a gate if I don’t even know my way home?