Chapter 5
CHLOE
Morning light filtered gray and weak through the apothecary's back windows as Chloe set another tray of wilted starts on Freya's worktable.
The seedlings had looked fine two days ago.
Now their leaves drooped, edges curling inward like they were trying to protect themselves from something invisible.
Freya bent over the tray, copper hair falling in a curtain around her face as she examined the plants with careful fingers. She didn't speak for a long moment. Just touched the soil, rubbed a yellowed leaf between her fingertips and brought it to her nose.
"This isn't cold damage," she said finally.
"I know."
"And it's not overwatering or underwatering."
"I know that too."
Freya straightened, wiping her hands on her apron.
Her green eyes were troubled in a way Chloe rarely saw.
Freya Bloom had been working with plants her whole life.
She'd trained under her grandmother, one of the most respected nature witches in three counties.
If something stumped her, it was serious.
"The roots are struggling," Freya said. "Like they can't pull nutrients from the soil properly. But the soil tests fine. pH is normal. Moisture content is normal. There's no fungal infection, no pest damage." She shook her head. "I don't understand it."
Chloe stared at the tray of dying seedlings. She'd planted these herself, tended them carefully, done everything right. And still they were failing.
"Could it be me?"
Freya looked up sharply. "What?"
"The whispers at the café yesterday. People are saying my... whatever it is... might be affecting the plants." Chloe forced herself to hold Freya's gaze. "What if they're right?"
"They're not."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." Freya's voice was firm. "Druidic magic doesn't poison land, Chloe. It connects to it. If anything, your presence should be helping these plants, not hurting them."
"Then why are they dying?"
Freya didn't have an answer. The silence felt heavy as Chloe replayed other scenarios of how her gift had seemed to be more of a curse. She had to get out of her own head.
"Corin's orchard beds are showing the same thing," Chloe said after a moment. "He mentioned it yesterday. And his bees are acting strange too, according to Twyla last night."
"I heard." Freya moved to the sink, washing soil from her hands. "He stopped by the Book Nook last night to talk to Lucien. Wanted to know if there were any records of something like this happening before."
"Were there?"
"Lucien's still looking."
Chloe nodded slowly. Her mind was already turning, sorting through possibilities. If this was happening in multiple places, to multiple types of plants and creatures, then it wasn't about her. It was about the land itself.
"I want to see his orchard beds," she said. "Compare notes. Maybe if we look at the patterns together, we can figure out what's connecting them."
Freya dried her hands, studying Chloe with that perceptive gaze. "You sure that's a good idea?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"No reason." But something flitted in Freya's expression. Amusement, maybe. Or knowing. "Work always does clear your head."
Chloe ignored the implication. "I'm serious. If this is spreading, we need to understand it. And two sets of eyes are better than one."
"Three, technically. If you count Corin's bear."
"You know what I mean."
The bell above the front door chimed, and Freya glanced toward the shop. "I should get that. Can you finish potting the chamomile cuttings? They're the only things that seem to be thriving right now."
"Sure."
Freya disappeared through the curtain that separated the workroom from the shop front. Chloe heard the murmur of voices, the creak of the old wooden floors, but she turned her attention to the chamomile cuttings lined up on the side bench.
At least something was still growing.
She was elbow-deep in potting soil when she heard heavy footsteps behind her. Not Freya's light tread. Something slower, more deliberate.
"Chloe."
That low voice. She knew it before she turned.
Corin stood in the workroom doorway, filling it almost entirely. He'd pushed up the sleeves of his flannel shirt, forearms bare despite the cold, and there was soil on his hands. He must have come straight from the orchard.
"Morning," she managed.
"Freya said you were back here." He stepped into the room, and the space seemed to shrink around him. Not in a threatening way. Just... present. Solid. Like the mountain Freya had compared him to. "Wanted to check on the starts."
"They're worse." Chloe gestured to the tray on the worktable. "Freya can't figure it out. Soil tests normal, no disease, no pests. They're just... failing."
Corin moved to the table, and Chloe found her eyes tracing the breadth of his shoulders beneath the worn flannel. The way the fabric pulled across his back when he leaned forward. His hands, broad and capable, gentle as they lifted one of the wilted seedlings to examine it.
She looked away.
This was pointless. Corin Vane was quiet and steady and kind, and he treated her the same way he treated everyone in Hollow Oak. With patience. With respect. Nothing more.
She'd accepted that months ago. Tucked the small ache of wanting somewhere deep where it couldn't distract her.
"Same as mine," Corin said, setting the seedling down. "Roots can't seem to take hold. Like the soil's rejecting them."
"That's what Freya said."
He straightened, turning to face her. Those hazelnut eyes held hers, steady and warm. "You mentioned comparing notes yesterday."
"I did."
"Offer still stand?"
Chloe's heart did something inconvenient in her chest. She ignored it. "Of course. I was actually going to ask you the same thing. If this is happening in multiple places, maybe we can find the pattern."
"That's what I was thinking. I've got beds near the north fence that are hit the worst. Could use another pair of hands checking them."
"I can do that."
"Tomorrow morning? Before the temperature drops again."
"I'll be there."
"Good."
Chloe thought she saw a small smile, but forced herself that was too wishful of thinking.
He stepped back, heading for the door, but paused. "Something's wrong with the land. We'll figure it out." Then he was gone, footsteps fading through the shop.
Chloe stood alone in the workroom, surrounded by dying plants and the lingering scent of woodsmoke and honey.
She thought about his hands on the seedling. Careful. Reverent. The same way he touched everything he tended. She thought about the way he'd said we. And she told herself, firmly, that it didn't mean anything.
It couldn't. That’s just how Corin was. Wasn’t it?