Chapter 8 #3
George looked disappointed. “What if the priest doesn’t want to send a message back to you?”
The witch hunter frowned. “He will. I will write that I expect him to reply, at least acknowledging receipt of the letter.”
George grumbled something about payment, but she didn’t have to listen to it. She’d done what he asked and fetched his messenger. The two of them could sort out the rest without her.
“I’m going out to help my mother with the garden,” she announced, ignoring the frown the witch hunter sent her way.
She didn’t know what more she could do to help him. Hopefully, he had pen and paper packed away in those saddlebags of his for they had none.
She passed through the back door and stepped directly into their small garden.
She’d made wide paths through the rows, adding new beds over the years, and the garden provided a great deal of their food through the year.
Her mother enjoyed tending to it. It was something she could do even without her sight, harvesting most of the vegetables by feel, using her hands to check the soil for moisture and pluck pests from the leaves.
Rowan had had to help her with it more in the beginning, but now the garden was almost entirely her mother’s domain.
Unlike their worn and ramshackle house, the garden was a lush and magical place.
The soil was good here, despite their proximity to the Black Woods or maybe because of it.
During the summer, you could stand in the middle of the garden and only see green and growing things no matter where you turned.
You could forget you were in Toam or that you even had neighbors out here.
Just trellises of peas and beans and heart-leaved moonseed.
Medicinal herbs and spices and vegetables.
The garden was where they spent most of their time until the winter winds drove them indoors.
Her mother had been preparing the beds in anticipation of the first frost, gathering seeds and clearing out dead plants for compost. She expected to find her there, kneeling over the beds, but instead found her at the very back corner as far away from the house as she could get, sitting on a flat black rock where she sometimes liked to take a break from her work.
She’d planted flowers there. During the summer, they were a bright mix of red and purple and yellow blossoms, but they’d mostly faded as the season turned toward autumn.
Her mother couldn’t see the flowers and they had no medicinal value.
When Rowan had asked her why she bothered, she said she liked the smell and that any beauty she could add to the world wasn’t wasted.
Her mother’s face was lifted to the sun, but she turned her head unerringly toward Rowan as she approached.
“How are the chickens?”
Her mother gestured to the basket at her feet. “We have more eggs.”
“Great,” she said unenthusiastically, joining her mother on the big rock, not wanting to rush back into the house. “What are you doing still out here?”
“I thought I’d let the captain sleep,” her mother said. “I was praying for his healing.”
“Of course you were.”
There must have been an edge to her tone, because her mother’s expression crumpled in disappointment. “Rowan…”
“That will probably be the one prayer God actually answers for you. He’s awake now, in there talking to George about sending a message to the priest in Sulen.”
“Is he? Good. I gathered some spade leaf to make a tea. It’s good for the blood. And some more yarrow for a salve. I’ll get started on that as soon as he’s done with George. You’ll need to change his bandage again. It smells off.”
She gathered her basket and Rowan helped her up. Linking arms, they walked together down the flat path that led directly to the door. The straight paths made it easy for her mother to get around on her own, but Rowan still always felt better holding her arm.
Just before they reached the house, the door opened and the witch hunter stepped outside.
He’d found a change of clothes in his bags and was fully dressed down to his boots.
The uniform made him look taller, somehow bigger than he’d been inside.
His blond hair glinted in the sunlight. The gold captain’s braid sat proudly on his broad shoulder.
He blinked in the light like he was coming out of a cave, which was good because it allowed Rowan to get a hold of herself after seeing him look exactly like the man that still haunted her nightmares.
His gaze swept dismissively over the small yard before focusing on her and her mother coming up the path.
His mouth opened on a greeting that never came.
Instead, his body went rigid as he stared at her mother, taking in the brand on her forehead before moving to study the rest of her.
The blood drained from his face. For a moment, Rowan thought he might actually faint.
His memory had returned after all.
She felt her mouth twist in a bitter smile. “Admiring your handiwork?”
His gaze snapped to her and he studied her as well—her hair, her face, and finally her eyes.
“I know you.”