Chapter 1 Iris #2
It's everything I ran away from.
"I don't want it," I say quietly.
"Maybe not." Mrs. Hadley pats my hand. "But you've got it anyway. And you've got three weeks to decide what to do with it."
Three weeks. The first day of winter. The turn of the wheel and magical law demands I take control of the cottage before then or let it rot.
I look around my tiny apartment, at my plants on the windowsill, my cluttered workbench, my narrow bed visible through the curtain. Everything I own fits in this space. Everything I've built fits in this space.
It's small. It's cramped. It's absolutely perfect.
And Grandmother's last act is to drag me back to the world I escaped.
"Typical," I mutter.
Mrs. Hadley squeezes my shoulder. "Three drops, by the way. For the rheumatism tincture?"
"Three drops," I confirm absently. "And tell them to warm it slightly before application. Works better."
She leaves me alone with the letter and my thoughts.
I should get dressed. I should finish the nightmare salve. I should go downstairs and help with the morning customers, because Wednesday is always busy and Mrs. Hadley can't manage alone.
Instead, I pick up the letter and read it one more time.
Certain responsibilities.
Magical matters.
Do not dawdle.
Even dead, Grandmother is giving me orders.
The contrary part of me: the part that chose kitchen magic over combat spells, that ran away to work in an apothecary instead of taking my place as an “Ashwood mage” wants to crumple the letter and throw it away.
Wants to ignore it completely. Wants to prove that she doesn't get to control me, even from beyond the grave.
But the practical part of me, the part that's forty and sensible and knows how magical inheritance works, knows I can't.
If I don't go, the solicitor will come looking. The estate will sit empty, and abandoned magical houses have a tendency to become problems. And there's that phrase: certain responsibilities. Knowing Grandmother, that could mean anything from maintaining protective wards to...
I don't let myself finish that thought.
"Fine," I tell the calendula, which has returned to its judgmental tilting. "Fine. I'll go. I'll see what she's left me. And then I'll come back here and pretend it never happened."
The calendula doesn't look convinced.
Honestly, neither am I.
By noon, I've finished the nightmare salve (labeled with careful instructions), helped Mrs. Hadley with the morning rush (seventeen customers, including one who wanted to argue about the price of feverfew), and packed my life into a single canvas bag.
It doesn't take long. I don't own much.
Three changes of clothes. My most important herb pouches.
The mortar and pestle my mother used before me.
A battered journal full of recipes and notes.
A winter coat that's seen better days but keeps me warm.
Everything else: all my supplies, my larger equipment, my beloved plant collection will have to stay.
"Just for a few days," I tell the calendula as I water it one last time. "I'll be back before you know it. Try not to die of neglect."
Mrs. Hadley insists on packing me food for the journey. Fresh bread, hard cheese, apples from the market. She also slips a small bottle into my bag when she thinks I'm not looking. I check after she leaves.
Brandy. The good kind.
I tuck it back in with a smile.
The coach to Thornwick leaves at two. Thornwick is the village nearest to Grandmother's cottage, though "nearest" is relative when you're talking about a house deep in the forest, miles from civilization. From there, I'll have to hire a car or walk.
Probably walk. I've never been good at hiring things. People look at me, comfortable in my skin, magic that smells like herbs instead of power, and assume I can't pay. Or worse, they recognize the Ashwood name and get weird about it.
I lock my apartment door and head downstairs, where Mrs. Hadley is waiting to fuss.
"You'll text," she commands. "Let me know you arrived safely."
"I'll text," I promise.
"And if it's terrible, iif she's left you something awful then you come straight back. You hear me? Straight back."
"Mrs. Hadley..."
"I mean it, Iris. You've made a good life here. You don't owe that woman anything just because she's family."
The words lodge somewhere under my ribs, warm and uncomfortable.
"I know," I say softly. "Thank you."
She hugs me, smelling of flour and rosewater, and then releases me with a sniff. "Off with you, then. Before I get maudlin."
The walk to the bus station takes ten minutes. The streets of Millbrook are familiar and comfortable: narrow cobblestones mixed with newer pavement, shops with cheerful signs, neighbors calling greetings as I pass. This is home. This is where I belong.
The cottage in the woods is just an obligation. A brief interruption.
I keep telling myself that all the way to the station.
The driver helps me load my bag and I'm one of only three passengers heading to Thornwick, which isn't surprising, and I settle into a worn seat near the back with my bag on my lap. Through the window, I can see Millbrook's main street, the apothecary's green sign, the whole small life I've built.
Certain responsibilities.
I close my eyes as the coach lurches into motion.
"Just a few days," I whisper to no one in particular. "I'll handle whatever it is, and then I'll come home."
The first day of winter is three weeks away.
I have a feeling my small, perfect life is about to get significantly more complicated.
The bus pulls away from the station, carrying me toward the woods and whatever mysterious responsibilities Grandmother has left me.
I really should have brought more brandy.