Moonbright

Chapter 1

The petals bruise purple under my thumb.

I press harder, grinding them against the stone mortar until the color bleeds out and the sharp, sweet smell rises.

Moonbright.

The flowers only grow wild out here, pale and stubborn in the shadows where the trees crowd thick. I found them years ago—followed the deer trails until I stumbled into a whole field of them, faintly blue in the fading light.

That's why I stayed.

The paste thickens as I work, the texture coming together just right.

Not too wet.

My fingers are stained purple-blue up to the knuckles, and there's a smear across my forearm where I pushed my hair back without thinking.

Eh, I'll wash it later.

Maybe.

The color fades eventually, and there are more important things to worry about—like whether I sealed the last batch properly, or if I remembered to check the drying rack this morning.

I didn't.

I'll do it after this.

I scrape the paste into a clay jar—third one this week—and seal it with wax. The shelf above my worktable is looking thin. A few tonics, some salves, dried bundles of herbs tied with string. The paste jars used to take up a whole row. Now there's gaps.

A clatter from outside breaks the quiet. Then a squawk. Then a crash that sounds expensive.

Oh no.

I shove back from the table and cross to the door. The cottage isn't big—four walls, one room, a loft for sleeping—and I built most of it myself over the years, adding pieces as I needed them.

The roof doesn't leak anymore.

That took a while.

Outside, Nugget is standing in my dye pot.

In it.

The pot's overturned, pink liquid spreading across the dirt, and she's standing in the middle of the mess looking deeply offended. She didn't cause this. The dye pot attacked her.

"Out."

She doesn't move.

"Out of the—you're standing in—"

She fluffs her feathers and pink dye sprays in all directions. Some of it hits my shirt.

I grab her around the middle before she can redecorate anything else. She squawks, flapping, spattering more pink across my arms, my face, probably my hair. Wet spots everywhere.

Great. This is exactly what I needed today, and I still haven't checked the drying rack.

"You're a disaster."

She makes a grumbling sound that's probably agreement.

Her feet are pink, her chest is pink, and there's a stripe across her beak that makes her look diseased. She's going to be a pink chicken for weeks.

I set her down near the coop, where the others are scratching at the dirt. They take one look at her and scatter.

"Yeah, I don't blame you guys."

The pink dye pot is a loss—I'll have to make more—and my spare shirt's still gray and faded, which means I'm wearing this one until I can gather enough petals to start over.

Oh—maybe I will try yellow dye for now.

Wait, then it would just look like I let something pee all over my clothes. Which—no judgement. Actually—yeah, a little judgement.

Maybe I can try those really bright blue petal flowers near—

Nugget struts past me, completely unbothered, and pecks at the spilled dye.

"That's not food."

She ignores me.

Fine. She'll figure it out.

Back inside, I wash my hands and check the damage. Pink splotches on my sleeves, pink streak across my collarbone. I pull my braid over my shoulder—yep, pink in the white strands too—and sigh.

Could be worse.

Could be yellow.

I pull open the storage chest and take inventory.

Dried yarrow, good.

Comfrey root—running low.

I should gather more before the ground freezes, but when did I last check the patch by the stream?

A week ago?

Longer?

Focus.

Clean bandages, plenty of those. The clay pots of drawing salve are down to three. I need to render more fat.

Ugh, I hate rendering fat.

It takes forever and the smell gets into everything.

But I'm going through salve faster than usual, which means the wolves have been busy this season.

New moon's only a few days off, and they always get worse around then—more fights, more bites, more of them showing up at my door with torn-up legs and guilty expressions.

They show up injured, I fix them, they leave. Simple arrangement.

Although—they could be a little less bitey about it. I've had five wolves growl at me mid-stitch this week alone. One tried to snap at my hand while I was pulling thorns out of his paw. You're welcome, by the way.

And some of them hate each other. I don't know what the beef is, but two of them got into it right outside my door last week and I had to go out there with a broom. Knocked it against the doorframe twice and they both sat down. Just—sat. Like I'd caught them stealing bread.

More of them come to me now. Word gets around somehow.

Or they just remember. The first one I ever treated was years ago, back when I was still sleeping in a tent and eating whatever I could trap. He had a gash across his shoulder that wasn't healing right, probably infected. I cleaned it, packed it with herbs, and he let me. Held still the whole time.

After that, they just kept coming.

I close the chest and stretch, back cracking, and the light through the window has shifted—midday now, maybe later. I should eat. Also check the drying rack. Also see if Nugget's gotten the dye out of her system yet or if I'm going to find pink chicken droppings everywhere tomorrow.

At least it will be colorful.

One thing at a time.

There's bread from yesterday and some dried meat, and I'm chewing through both when footsteps sound on the path.

Not trying to be quiet, which is good. Means it's probably—

"Mel!"

The door swings open and Kestria's standing there, grinning, a dead rabbit dangling from one hand.

"Brought you something." She stops.

Squints.

Why are you pink? And not the on-purpose kind of pink."

"Chicken got into the dye pot."

"Ah." She nods sagely. Everything explained. "Which one?"

"Nugget."

"The mean one with no tail?"

"That's her."

"Is Nugget pink now?"

"Very."

Kestria's face splits into a delighted grin. "I need to see this immediately."

"She's outside. Go look. Bring that rabbit in first, though."

She drops the rabbit on my table and practically runs back out the door, and her cackle carries through the open doorway a moment later.

"Mel! She's so pink!"

"I noticed!"

"She's glowing!"

"She's ruined."

Kestria reappears in the doorway, still laughing. "She tried to peck me. She's furious about being pink."

"She did it to herself."

"That's never stopped anyone from being furious." She throws herself into the other chair, still grinning. "Honestly, this is the best thing I've seen all week."

"Glad my suffering entertains you."

"Always." She props her boots on the edge of my table—muddy, both of them. "I also like that you're pink now. It matches your shirt."

"It matches my hair."

"Even better."

I roll my eyes and push her feet off my table. "You weren't supposed to be back for a few more days."

"Got bored." She steals what's left of my bread. "Volmaris was dull. Everyone there just wants to talk about trade routes and grain prices."

"Riveting."

"It really wasn't. I lasted two days." She tears off a chunk of bread and talks around it. "There was this merchant who wanted to tell me about the difference between winter wheat and spring wheat for an hour. An hour, Mel. I was ready to walk into the river."

"Yet here you are."

"Barely." She chews, swallows, makes a face. "This bread is stale."

"It's two days old."

"That's what I said. Stale."

"Don't eat it, then."

"No, I'm committed now." She takes another bite anyway. "I left early and stopped in Sarveil on the way back—much better. There's a woman there who makes these little honey cakes, have I told you about her?"

"Yup. Three different times."

"Well, I'm telling you again. They're incredible. I'll bring you some next time."

"You've said that before too."

"And I mean it! I just keep eating them all before I get here." She grins, completely unrepentant. "It's a long walk."

"Three years of promises. Zero honey cakes. Tsk"

"That's not—it hasn't been three years."

"It's been three years."

"Has it?" She counts on her fingers, frowns. "When did I first show up here?"

"Middle of summer. You said you were passing through. Asked to stay one night."

"And you let me, which—honestly, questionable judgment on your part. I could've been anyone."

"You brought me a fish."

"Right! And you complained about how I cleaned it."

"Because you butchered it. There were barely any meat left. And there were teeth marks in it, Kes. Not human ones, either."

"I got better."

"You got marginally less terrible."

"That's the nicest thing you've ever said to me." She props her boots on the table again. I push them off again. "So what'd I miss?"

"The pink chicken."

"Before that."

"Six wolves this week. One with a bad leg, two with bites. Might be territorial fights happening out there."

"Wolves fighting wolves?"

"Probably. They get vicious sometimes." I shrug. "Not my problem. I just fix the damage."

Kestria watches me for a moment, her mouth opening and then closing again. Then she shakes her head.

"What?"

"Nothing. Just thinking." She picks at the edge of my table. "Don't you ever wonder about them? Where they come from?"

"The forest."

"You know what I mean."

"Not really." I get up to check the rabbit—good size, cleanly killed.

Except.

Teeth did this. Big ones.

I turn the rabbit over. The killing bite's at the throat, but the body's intact. No feeding. Whatever caught this didn't eat it.

"Kestria." I hold up the rabbit. "Did you just grab this off the ground somewhere? There are teeth marks all over it. Big ones. This is the fish all over again."

"The fish was fine!"

"The fish had bite marks in it, Kes."

She's not wrong. I did eat the fish.

I set the rabbit on the cutting board. Wolves catch rabbits all the time. Maybe she found it fresh-killed.

Maybe she traded for it and whoever traded it to her got it from a wolf kill.

Kestria's already moved on—something about the road, or Sarveil, or a cursed saddle—