Chapter 46 #2
“Foxglove is ours, Corinne. And I don’t say that to be cruel.
My mother was right, and someday, when you’re older…
you’ll know that I’m right, too. It’s not about exclusion.
It’s about protection. Foxglove isn’t just yours, it belongs to future generations of Wilde women, and it is your duty to protect it for them. To guard its secrets for them.”
“But surely you don’t think Lewis would ever try to take this place.” Even as I argue, my mind drifts back to that night, how I kept the secrets of the tunnels from him. Of Foxglove’s worth.
“Foxglove doesn’t know how to hold a man without turning him into something else entirely—even the best ones.
It’s our legacy. Our blessing, and our curse.
This place was made by women, for women.
” She meets my gaze, eyes soft but steady.
“What I’m doing now is for Lewis’s protection, too.
Foxglove protects its secrets, with or without our help. If you love him, you’ll listen to me.”
I look away, blinking hard as Taylor moves to sit by me and leans her head against my arm.
“I know this is a lot,” Mom says, watching us as her voice takes on a new tenderness.
“And no matter what you choose—to stay or to go—you know I will love you. Always. But if you choose to stay, I’ll teach you everything my mother taught me about this place.
Even more than you can imagine or might remember.
And someday, you’ll tell your daughter.” Her eyes shift to Taylor, then to me. “And your granddaughter.”
Mom pushes up on her knees, kneeling in front of me like she did when I was a child, heartbroken over shattered toys and scraped knees.
Her hands are rough and familiar as she takes mine.
“I know you probably think I’m being dramatic, but I always kind of thought you understood this place.
Maybe better than I do. You’re like your grandmother in that way.
It meant a lot to you, even when you were young. You believed in it. You still do.”
“In her,” I correct, though I’m not sure whether I mean Grandma or Foxglove. “I believe in her.”
A gentle warmth spreads across her face, and for the first time, I realize just how much she resembles Grandma.
“This place is ours. Our sorrow, our strength, our legacy. Our home. The Wilde women have always endured. And now…I don’t want to just endure.
I want to live. Here, with you. I want to laugh here.
Cry here. Heal here. Teach here. Learn here. ”
“I promised Grandma I’d come home someday.
” Heat blooms under my skin as my fingers trace the soft grass over her grave again.
I swear I can feel her here—hear her voice on the wind, feel her touch in the breeze that blows through my hair.
“But our custody agreement makes that complicated. Taylor has school. Lewis would never understand—”
“So make him.” Mom’s eyes dart between mine.
“I want you to remember who you are, Corinne. Remember that you come from fire, flowers, and bone. You are Wilde. The storm and the shelter, in equal measure. Just like your grandmother, and hers. There is a long line of women who came before us who want you here, who have done everything—sacrificed everything—to make sure this place stayed standing for us. Because even in the darkest parts of our history, love has always been the root.”
Her words hit me square in the chest, and no one speaks for a long time. The ground underneath me seems to hum, like it hasn’t since I was a little kid. A low, living sound. Familiar.
The last of the sun is disappearing, painting the sky with flecks of light.
Taylor leans forward next to me. She brushes my hand with hers, and I take it, holding tight. Her eyes are full of tears and something fierce—fire, maybe. But lighter. Dawn.
She is the future they all dreamed of.
She is the freedom they fought for.
“Mom, I want to stay,” she says softly, like she’s worried I might be mad. “I want to learn everything. With you. Dad will let me. We’ll talk to him together.”
I can’t believe her words, can’t believe what they mean to me. Slowly, I nod, my lips trembling. Is any of this real? “Then we’ll stay.”
“Really?” Mom asks.
“Together,” I vow, wrapping an arm around my daughter’s shoulders.
The meadow relaxes, as if exhaling, and I can feel its relief on my skin. Smoke rises from Foxglove’s chimney in the distance, still there. Still strong. Still home.
Somewhere deep in the woods, an owl hoots—low and ancient. It sounds menacing, but it’s not. It’s not a warning this time. It’s a welcome. A celebration.
The three of us move closer together without saying a word. There are no words needed. We are three generations bound not by blood alone, but by the unbroken promise of protection and love, passed down like a sacred heirloom from mother to daughter and beyond.
All around us, the forest sings. The moon appears, watching, and Foxglove and her land—our land—remembers.