Chapter 17 #2
"Also an accident." Her basket's filling.
"The first wolf I treated was dying. Fever so high I could feel the heat from a foot away.
Nothing worked. The yarrow, the compresses—nothing.
He was just—going. And I'd been using moonbright for dyes and teas for years but never on wounds, because why would you put flowers on a wound?
But I didn't have anything else. So I crushed the petals, mixed them with water, smeared the paste on his chest, and went to sleep because I figured he'd be dead by morning. "
"But he wasn't."
"Fever broke before dawn. The wound started closing by itself. I thought I was losing my mind."
The rooster screams from the cart. We both look up. Back to the flowers.
I pick a flower. Drop it in the basket between us. Careful with the petals.
Purple past the knuckles, both of us.
Her arm brushes mine when she reaches.
"The leaves go here?" Kestria, from somewhere to my right.
"Separate pile." Melori doesn't look up. "Away from the petals. And check the stems for bugs—there's a beetle that eats the roots and the frass can contaminate the paste."
"Frass?"
"Bug droppings."
"You could've just said bug droppings."
"Frass is the technical term."
"Frass sounds like a curse word."
"It should be. Very underutilized."
The sun shifts. We keep picking. My knees don't ache. My body heals everything. I don't have to stop. She will ache. Won't say anything about it.
I stand. Stretch. Empty my flowers into the larger basket by the cart.
When I come back, I crouch in a different spot. Closer. Close enough that my arm touches hers when I reach.
Actually touches.
"There's a field," I tell her.
She looks up.
"Near pack territory. Half a day's walk from the den. Larger than this one."
"Larger?"
"By a lot."
Her hands stop. "You said there wasn't any in the territory."
"I didn't know what it was."
"What?"
"I ran through a clearing years ago. Air hurt to breathe. I left and didn't go back. Didn't know the name for it until today."
Her eyes go wide. Then fast—moving, calculating. Her mouth opens and her whole body leans toward me and the energy coming off her is—
Hands still. Brain running full speed.
"Keer. If wolves avoid it naturally, that's because the plant affects your biology at a base level.
Which means the potency of a larger field would be—the concentration in the soil alone—I need to test the petals.
Compare them to these. If the purple ratio is higher in a larger natural field, the paste could be twice as strong, maybe more, and the processing time might—"
"Mel."
"—drop to a single day if the base concentration is—"
"Mel."
"What?"
"Breathe."
"I am breathing. I'm also realizing that everything I've been doing could've been twice as effective if I'd known about a field that was right there this whole time, which is not your fault, I know it's not your fault, but I might need a minute to be frustrated about it anyway."
"Take your time."
"Thank you." She picks a flower. Drops it. Picks another. "Okay. I'm done being frustrated."
"That was fast."
"Yeah well, being frustrated doesn't get flowers picked." She turns back to the basket. "Will you take me there?"
"To the field?"
"Yeah."
"When?"
"Tomorrow. Next day. As soon as the paste from today's batch is steeping."
I pick flowers. Steady. Matching her rhythm.
"I'll take you."
Her face changes. Soft. Open. The constant motion stalls and she goes quiet.
I want to touch her face.
I watch the flowers instead.
"Thank you."
My hands pause on a stem. "For what?"
"For telling me. About the field. That's—" She stops. Starts again. "That's really useful."
"You're welcome."
Stiff.
"You don't say that very often, do you?"
"Say what?"
"You're welcome."
"People don't usually thank me."
"People should thank you more."
No answer. Reach for another one. But my shoulder presses against hers. Don't pull away.
The sun moves. We fill three baskets. Then four.
Light's changing. Loading the baskets into the cart is a negotiation—goats taking up half the space, chickens in cages, supplies piled on supplies, the broken slat from the male goat's escape making everything worse. She wedges baskets into gaps. Stacks where she can.
The rooster tries to bite her hand through the bars.
"Later." She pulls her hand back. "We'll fight later."
He screams.
"I know. I know. Life is hard for aggressive roosters."
More screaming.
"You're going to lose your voice."
The screaming drops to a lower volume.
"He bit me."
She turns. I hold up my thumb. Red mark—small, already fading.
"He's asserting dominance."
"Over me."
"He doesn't know you're the Alpha. He just knows you're near his hens."
"His hens."
"Roosters are territorial. You're a large male in proximity to his flock. He's doing his job."
I look at the rooster. The rooster looks at me. More hostility than most wolves I've fought.
"I respect it. I still want to eat him, though."
"You'll have to go through me first."
"That's not the threat you think it is."
"It absolutely is. I'm scrappy."
Kestria drags herself to standing. Petals in her hair. Dirt on her face. She looks better than she has in days.
"Are we going?" she asks. "Or are you two going to keep flirting over the rooster?"
"We're not flirting," Melori answers, face turning bright red, at the same time I say, "We're not."
Kestria's face goes very still. Then she turns around and starts walking.
She's shaking again.
We're flirting. Kestria knows it. Keer Jr. probably knows it.
I take up the cart straps. Shoulders settle into the familiar hunch. Start walking. Smoother than before.
The animals are tired now. Goats plodding. Chickens roosting. Even the rooster reduced to angry muttering. Light fading through the trees.
"What's the processing time?"
I haven't turned my head. Just angled it toward her.
"For the paste?" she asks.
"Yes."
"Two days for basic potency. Three for stronger. The petals have to be crushed within six hours of picking, then mixed with water and left to steep."
"You'll need help."
"I'll manage. Always do."
"Dara can help. She's been learning."
"She's gotten better." The path curves ahead. "I showed her the technique for wound cleaning. She picked it up fast."
"She said you're a good teacher."
Melori's foot catches a root. "She said that?"
"She said you explain things like they matter."
Her face opens.
The quiet holds. She doesn't fill it. I don't fill it. Forest sounds around us. Chest tight.
"I just tell people what I know." Her voice quiet.
"That's more than most do."
We walk. Pack territory close now. Smoke from the fire pits. Distant voices.
"The goats need shelter before dark," she announces.
"I'll have someone help you build it."
"I can build it myself."
"You've been working all day."
"So have you."
My eye cuts to her. Back to the path. "You're stubborn."
"You mentioned that before."
"It bears repeating."
"Well, you're—" She stops. Starts again, differently. "Also stubborn."
I grunt.
We emerge from the trees. Clearing opens up. Smoke and structures and people doing normal things. Heads turn at our approach. The Alpha pulling a cart of livestock. Two women beside him. Baskets of wheat on their arms.
Nobody comments. They've learned not to.
I stop near the ridge.
"Here."
"The drainage—"
"I'll have someone dig a channel. It'll be fine."
I'm standing here working the cart straps while she watches. Hands working leather through the buckles without looking down.
"Fine. Here."
"Mel." Kestria watching her with the expression that means she sees everything. "You should start on the paste. Before the petals lose potency."
"Right. Yes. The paste." Gone. Basket against her chest. "I need to—the processing area. Set up by my dwelling. Crushing station, water, containers—did I bring containers? I brought containers. The clay ones with the wax seals. And the mortar, I need the—"
"I'll bring the other baskets," Kestria offers.
"Good. Yes. Thank you." She's walking backward now. On uneven ground. My hand twitches at my side because if she falls—
She doesn't fall.
"Tell Dara to find me if she wants to learn the crushing technique. And I need clean water—stream water, not standing water. And cloth for straining. And—"
"Go, Mel."
She goes.
Walking away from the cart and the goats and me. Talking to herself already—paste, containers, processing, Dara, cloth for straining. Hands gesturing at nothing, hair come loose. Purple smudges on her forehead.
I don't move until she's gone.