5. The Last Normal Day #2
Fern chose her sage green dress with golden floral embellishments.
It was her father’s favorite, said it complemented her skin tone.
Mother will be pleased, too. Her parents hated it when she didn’t dress the part, the part of a Keeper’s daughter.
And with tensions so high, this was the least she could do.
Fern found her parents in the sitting room. Her mother was darning socks while her father still pored over his notes.
“Well, what do you think?” Fern curtsied—poorly. “Is this good enough?”
“I was hoping you’d choose that one. You’re lovely.” Her mother rummaged through a box of hairpins, holding up a gold leaf with one solitary emerald resting on the stem. “This one is perfect.”
Fern sat patiently while her mother fussed with her hair. She twisted curls into place, tucked strands behind her ear, and made sure no flyaways could be seen. At least ten minutes passed, and her mother still wasn’t done. The attention to detail is unnerving.
“Mother, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.” She helped Fern up from her seat. “It’s time we headed to the Grove. Your father will want you to help him prepare.”
The Grove was more crowded than Fern had ever seen it. People who hadn’t attended a service in years had suddenly found their faith. Some Rootfolk approached her with nervous congratulations. Others avoided eye contact entirely as she made her way to the center of the Grove to help her father.
By the time she made it to the ceremonial platform, he had already lit the brazier above and was shuffling his notes on the stone lectern.
“Would you mind arranging the herbs?” he asked.
“Of course.”
Meticulously, she organized thistle, juniper berries, rosemary, and sage around the base of the brazier. She tried emulating her father, whom she had seen do this exact thing a hundred times before.
As she finished, the congregation began settling onto the birch benches with their twisted branch backs. They chattered away excitedly, almost as if they expected today’s service to be some momentous experience. She grimaced, crushing a sprig of rosemary. Damn The Thirteenth Count. Damn it all.
“It’s time, Fern.” Her father placed a hand on her back, his palm slightly damp with nervousness. “Go take your seat with your mother.”
The walk to the front bench where her mother waited was draining. Dozens of eyes tracked her movements, followed by another slew of hushed whispers.
Please make it stop.
Her father took his place in front of the lectern, nodding to a few people before wiping sweat from his brow. He took a deep breath and began.
“The Mother teaches us that change comes like the seasons—sometimes gently, sometimes with great force.” His voice shook, making Fern’s heart ache. “Today… today we speak of accepting what we cannot control.”
Not once, but twice, her mother glanced at her before taking Fern’s hand.
Fern tried to focus on her father’s words, but she could feel everyone’s gaze in the Grove. Her jaw clenched.
Her father continued, his voice growing steadier. “Every soul has value in the Mother’s eyes. The Rootfolk who tend the earth, even those who have lost their way—all are her children.”
He’s talking about the Deadwood again.
Fern remembered their midnight burial, how her father had insisted on dignity for the forgotten. Now she wondered if he was trying to tell her something more.
“We do not abandon those who stumble,” her father said, his eyes finding hers from across the Grove, “for we all may stumble.”
What he was saying hit hard. Especially after seeing the Deadwood’s gratitude firsthand and how callously she had regarded them just days ago. Growth came to a person in the most unexpected ways, and for Fern, she had her father to thank for that.
Her father’s voice cracked as he went on.
“When the Mother calls us to new paths, we must trust in her wisdom, even when we cannot see where those paths lead. For without trust, what is our faith?” He took a moment to compose himself, then looked between Fern and her mother.
“Love guides us forward, even through separation.”
Tears pricked the corners of Fern’s eyes as she watched her father struggle with his emotions.
“May the Mother watch over all her children…” He looked at Fern once more, a tear rolling down his cheek, “especially those who must walk difficult roads.”
Her father closed his eyes, collecting himself before stepping back from the lectern. The Grove fell silent except for the rustle of Red Autumn leaves overhead.
Then the whispers began.
“Did you hear what he said about new paths?”
“That was no ordinary service.”
“This was about his daughter, right?”
“After what happened at the Count…”
Fern’s mother squeezed her hand tighter as people began to rise from their benches. Some approached with sympathetic smiles. Others hung back, watching with curious eyes. But all attention was on her.
“Keeper Corvus,” called Anders, a man Fern had known since she was young, “that was… quite moving.” His gaze shifted to Fern. “Seems the Mother has plans for your family.”
Her father managed a weak smile. “The Mother’s will is not always clear to us, Anders.”
“Seems clear enough to me,” Anders pressed on. “An elevation such as this… some things aren’t coincidences.”
Her mother stepped in front of Fern. “We appreciate your insight, but we truly must be going now.”
The crowd was growing larger, suffocating. Fern tried to back away, but more people kept coming.
“Your daughter is Mother-touched!”
“Thank the Mother on this glorious day.”
“We have waited so long, you must let us shake her hand.”
“Please, just a moment with her!”
“I’d love to talk with you all, but I’m very busy.” Fern bowed, knees wobbling. “I’m so sorry.”
“Mother-touched!” someone called out, and others echoed it. “Mother-touched! Mother-touched!”
Fern pressed closer to her father as hands reached out toward her. This is a nightmare.
“We are leaving.” Her father took Fern by the shoulder and held her close. “I’ll see you at next week’s service.”
“Mother-touched!” they chanted as her father pushed through the crowd with her mother in tow.
By the time they reached their gate, Fern’s hands were shaking. Her father fumbled with the latch, glancing back toward the Grove where a few stragglers still lingered, watching their house.
“How about some lunch?” her mother asked quietly.
Fern took a measured breath. “I’d like that. Are there still honey cakes left from this morning? I’d… love to have one.”
As they sat around the table, the unease was worse now than it had been in the morning.
Her father refused to sit in his seat at the head of the table and opted for the chair by the window.
Her mother tapped incessantly against the wood with the back of her spoon.
All Fern wanted to do was eat a honey cake, but it tasted like woodchips.
Even Sprout’s nerves were fried, and he mewled constantly.
Every sound outside that made its way in caused her parents to freeze. A loud voice? Her father was on the edge of his seat. A cart clacking down the cobbles? Her mother’s eyes would go wider than an owl’s.
Enough is enough.
Fern slammed her palm onto the table, causing her parents to jump. “Will someone please tell me what’s going on?”
“Some things…” her father began, his voice soft. “Some things are beyond our control now.”
“Yes, father. I got that from your sermon. Perhaps you could elaborate.”