Every Little Thing She Does
Renard
Gardening is meditative for me, especially when nobody else is there to gawk at your dirt-caked hands or get nosy about what you’re planting.
My mates think I tend to these beds because of class and because I like botany, which is true, but the real reason is what happens in my head when the world is still dark and the only sound is the scrape of trowel against flagstone.
At the moment, the annex courtyard is mine alone.
The sky is the color of cold soup, a wan nothingness that has not yet decided whether to be morning or just more of the same night.
Our courtyard is not big—an open space with a small patio, a lot of grass, and enclosed by the annex and the library.
My garden is a mix of old, tough perennials from before my time and new imports I’ve added with only the barest pretense of a landscaping plan.
Fitz and Chess will sometimes linger at the back table if I’m out here, but right now, our home is empty.
The younger tiger is walking our lapin to ballet, and everyone else is exercising or out doing things to start their day.
My hands are halfway to the wrists in the soil, turning into a root cluster that looks like the desiccated foot of a small pred.
It isn’t—it’s just the skeleton of a failed tulip experiment; the bulb rotted from the inside out.
I pitch it into the compost pile. The dirt here is too heavy for tulips, but the night-blooming herbs love it.
There’s a metaphor in there, and I’d rather not chase it, so I let it go in favor of other thoughts.
Returning to my current row, I press a thick bulb into the hole with my thumb.
As I do, my mind does what it does when I’m out here.
It replays last night’s excursion in a loop, picking apart the details for what I missed.
Our hunt, the passage the Raj wanted checked, the forest and its silence.
I’ve been ruminating about the way the birds left a thousand yards before we got there, as if even nature knew it was a place that it should not venture forth to reclaim.
Even if we did not see them, it’s very much a confirmation of my suspicions, I believe.
I feel a distinct, smug thrill at being right.
Vampires are absolutely squatting in that forest. The thrill isn’t what it could be, though, because I know it means the danger is real.
Bloodsuckers have a way of announcing themselves, even when they are playing at being subtle.
They have not done so yet, and though the occasional student disappeared over the summer, it was in the same way they did at the other schools where there were not any of their kind lurking.
There’s also the fact that I sensed something odd outside of the vamps, but neither Aubrey nor I saw it.
However, I am certain now that our beautiful bunny did.
After thinking it through for the fiftieth time, she went very quiet on the walk back, and then quieter still when we debriefed at the kitchen table.
It was not exhaustion or normal upset. She was holding a thought she hadn’t found the words for.
Our mate doesn’t lie to us, so I know that she’s just trying to figure out what she knows and why no one but her noticed it.
That’s not exactly correct, though I don’t have the slightest inkling what tweaked me.
She’d know that if she just opened up, but this is very hard for her—Dolly went through the acquisition of unexpected gifts twice already, and this, too, is new.
I move my row a half inch, because the spatial symmetry will annoy me if I don’t.
Gardening is as much about subtraction as addition; I pull the latest bulb out, brush its roots clean, and re-seat it an inch to the left.
Since my beds are narrow, I’m planting a deliberate design that isn’t the academy’s, but mine.
The pattern I’m reconstructing is from memory, and from the hasty, blurry photographs I took of the Charles vault documents before we stored them.
Before the wars, before the Treaty, before even the first line of my family’s paperwork, gargoyles and Fae worked together.
The stories were told in the library of my clutch, and they spoke of how not only my kind, but all mythicals were close with those beings.
Wards set not only by stone or blood but by roots and pollen and green things that did not die in winter.
It's inefficient as hell, but when it works, it’s invisible and unbreachable.
Most predators forget living things can repel them as easily as metals, violence, and technology.
The memory of Fionola’s hands is what guides me.
She once corrected my thumb placement on a bundle of silverleaf, because the energy needs to run from the plant to your pulse and not the reverse.
My ex-fiancée was patient with me back then.
I have a knack for remembering how things feel under my hands, even if I don’t retain the words.
While I cannot name the plants in Old Fae anymore, and I only half recall the spell, my tactile memory from planting the ones we need is perfect.
I am actually doing better at recounting the memories without the gloom I used to shoulder like an unputdownable burden as I did before.
Spacing them evenly, I plant a run of pale-stemmed herbs along the south wall.
I add a handful of night-blooming herbs that soak up more moonlight than sun and return it to tiny white blossoms that fluoresce at night.
The last seeds are the most important—two types of climbing moss that, when pressed together, will fuse and grow as one, their rootlets making a tiny, permanent memory of whatever is passed over them.
This plant knows what is in its sphere—if I can figure out how the hell to retrieve that information is another thing entirely.
Today, the pleasure of this slow work is muted by an undercurrent of anticipation—my desire to be done and move on to the next thing is making me anxious.
I have to prep the photos from the vault to give to those who might help as soon as I know exactly which individuals that may be.
I know that being so hyper to do something that I can’t finish will not go well, but I can’t stop myself from working to find intel that we can use to prevent Fionola from igniting a war that will absolutely change the entire world.
I’m halfway through the north bed when I pause to wipe my hands.
The air is chilly enough now that the tips of my ears feel numb.
Autumn is moving much more quickly than it used to—it’s only the second week of September.
I check my progress, make a mental note of which gaps I still need to fill, and kneel again so I can complete what I’m doing before it gets too nippy.
Unfortunately, the Charles vault notes were incomplete, but a good quarter of them were in a script I cannot read.
It wasn’t High Fae, but perhaps a precursor, a dead dialect used only by scholars and Council dicks who stole from the people they exiled.
I have a theory that it’s deliberate, a kind of encryption, and that the only people left alive who can read it are Fae of the old bloodlines or the few prey families who partnered with them before the purges.
That’s where the Captain’s puffin elder comes in.
I know the Captain is mostly incapable of subtlety, but the elder his crew visited may either recognize the language or know someone on this continent that does.
Prey animals that live solitary lives, such as his clan, are as secretive as mythicals who self-exiled to stay away from the Society and councils like my parents.
I believe that somewhere in that lonely group, someone will be able to help.
But I must rely on the Captain and Raina to communicate with the prey who can get my photos to their isolated stronghold and bring back whatever knowledge they can impart.
After I finish here, I’ll photograph the undeciphered pages in as high a resolution as my phone will manage.
I’ll find one of the crew to take them to the Captain, and with luck, the old bird will be in a generous mood when our raccoons contact him.
If this works, it could mean a lot more than just a marginal improvement to our wards.
Fitz’s tech upgrades are great, but hardware can be hacked.
Old magic is still the best kind when you want to keep things out, and I refuse to be surprised by Fae or vampires or the Council again.
The clock in my tower peals, and I’m startled to discover that while I’ve been working so hard, time has gotten away from me.
It’s now a quarter to eleven, so I'll finish the last row, pack away the hand tools, and stand up.
Flexing my shoulders to work the tightness out, I look down at myself.
My hands are black, nails packed with dirt, and the skin around my cuticles is ragged and raw.
I cannot go retrieve ma petite to find out what she saw if I look like a swamp monster.
Taking one last look at the garden, I smile as I note the rows are even and the new herbs are already settling in.
I nod to myself and turn to head inside to wash up.
I have just enough time to clean up and change into something presentable before I’m due at the Shird to intercept my lapin after her voice class.
My work here is done, but the rest of my day awaits.
I arrive at the Shird’s ground-floor corridor three minutes before the hour. I took time to clean under my nails, but you can’t totally erase the tint of garden soil without a much more thorough scrub.
C’est la vie—Dolly will not mind if I’m a little earthy, I do not think.