Daisy
Wind pulled Violet’s hair across her cheeks and eyes until, frustrated, she tucked it all back into her cloak and held her hood tight over her face.
The Smokewood, just outside of Dragon’s Rest, was named for the fog that curled between the silvery trunks of the spindly trees, as well as the bare gray rocks of the mountain around which their roots twisted and wound.
A bee buzzed near her head, blown off course by a gust of wind.
“You’re a bit early, my friend,” said Violet to the insect. “But another month or two and there will be plenty of flowers for you.”
Spring was slow to arrive in the mountains, but it was beginning to show signs, the ground spotted with saffron-centered crocuses, dainty snowdrops, and clumps of purple hellebore.
The color combination would look lovely in her designs for opening day, which was drawing ever closer.
She spotted a young sapling, impressionable and perfect for her uses, and took her knife—reclaimed from Bartleby again that morning—to one of its green boughs.
It felt good to be here in the woods. Since Pru had introduced her at Market Day and Quinn had taken her under her wing, Violet had faced no more suspicion at the hands of the locals, but she had come to discover that socializing and interacting with them was difficult for her.
The other villains at Shadowfade Castle had never been Violet’s friends—they were her competition, and abandoning that suspicious mindset did not come easily.
She suspected—or hoped, at least—that the practice of being friendly would grow on her, that it would become more natural with time, but for now, it left her feeling exhausted.
A day in the woods, with no one else around her but the early spring wildflowers and the birds that sang from the treetops, was like drawing a bucketful of fresh water from a well she’d thought dry.
Behind her, leaves crunched.
She turned, her magic already rushing to the bare branches in that direction, ready to command them to her bidding.
Twigs grew sharp at their ends like knives on the whetstone of her power, and the dead leaves on the forest floor rustled, ready to whirl around her like a cyclone, blinding anyone who might hurt her.
But it was Nathaniel Marsh who appeared through the trees, a wicker basket hanging from his elbow.
His attention was on a patch of moss slung from a branch, and she watched with interest as he reached to collect it.
He wasn’t scowling for once; in fact, he looked tired, those coal-dark eyes heavy-lidded but intent on his task, lips slightly pursed, black hair tossed by the wind.
He had allowed his stubble to grow longer than usual, and it roughened the sharp edges of his jaw, cast his cheekbones in a shadow that made him look…
“gaunt” was the wrong word, but foreboding. Secretive. Intriguing.
Violet released the dark magic, cheeks burning with shame for letting the Thornwitch’s instincts take over and for the thought that escaped before she could cage it—that it had felt wonderful to use magic the way she always had when she was wicked.
“Hello,” she said, stepping out from behind the tree. She winced at the change that settled over his features, something like panic, and then the stern mask that hardened his expression to stone.
“Miss Thistlewaite.” He nodded to her, staring down at his basket to rearrange his goods.
Forearms, she thought dimly, watching his coat sleeves with something like resentment.
There was something jumpy about him today; he seemed less willing than ever to make eye contact with her.
He hadn’t caught her staring during her brief lapse in judgment yesterday, had he?
He was one to talk if he had—all those unreadable looks in the greenhouse!
All that scowling! The exceptionally indecent way he had rolled up his sleeves and wrapped her purchase!
And now he wouldn’t even meet her eyes! It was rude, wasn’t it, to spend so much time watching her and then turn it off like this with no notice?
How was she supposed to figure out the rules of the game if he kept changing them?
“I wish you would call me Violet,” she said coaxingly, banishing the odd sense of frustration she felt when he wouldn’t meet her eyes. “Really. I want you to.”
His face spasmed like he was in pain. “You want—” He spluttered, choking on his words. “You want,” he said again, this time more to himself than to her.
Three moons, he was strange. “Is it such a difficult ask?”
“It’s not that.” The poor man looked like she’d thrust him beneath a spotlight in front of a packed crowd—and she might not know him well, but she knew enough to guess that was his worst nightmare. “Violet. Yes, I can call you Violet.”
She caught her lip between her teeth—this was the most they’d gotten along since, well, ever, and she wouldn’t ruin it by laughing. “What brings you to the woods?” she asked instead.
He lifted his basket with those arms of his. “Foraging. Crow moss is quite useful for making poultices. And there are a handful of herbs that start their growth season out here this time of year. I’m looking to harvest them before someone else does.”
“So you can sell them in the apothecary?”
“Cheaper and more efficient than ordering from a supplier.”
She cracked a smile. “Plus this way they’re local.”
“Exactly.” He finally met her eyes. “What brings you, then? To the woods?”
Violet held up one of the boughs she’d collected. “I’m building shelves for my shop. Green wood is much easier to persuade than anything fully grown or long fallen.”
“Persuade?”
“I can create growing things from nothing or convince already growing things to do my bidding. It’s easier to ask green wood to grow and shape itself the way I’d like than a fallen log or hewn lumber.”
He narrowed his eyes, and she understood that something she’d said had set the wheels of his brain churning. Fascinated, she watched as he clearly set his thoughts aside and said simply, “So you’re foraging too.”
“I suppose I am.” She wanted desperately to ask him what he’d been thinking about, but it felt private and they were barely on civil terms. “It’s nice to be out here in the quiet, I suppose. Dragon’s Rest is a bit more crowded than I’m used to. Busy. Noisy.”
He hmmed. “I’ll admit, I took you for someone who enjoyed that.”
“Because I haven’t rusted my mouth into a permanent scowl, you mean?” She cocked her head and grinned so he’d know she was teasing. “It might surprise you to know I’ve never lived in a city. Or among many other people at all, really.”
“That does surprise me.” He leaned against the tree trunk, watching her with inscrutable eyes. “You’ve adapted to it quite naturally. Everyone in town seems very taken with you.”
She narrowed her eyes, waiting for a veiled insult or scorching remark. But it never came.
“Is that a compliment?” she asked finally.
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Is that so surprising?”
“From you? Yes.”
He looked abashed at that. “I deserved that.”
Violet softened. “It’s nice, sometimes, to escape the noise. To feel none but your own presence.”
“Sometimes, I suppose.” His expression darkened. “Though it depends which thoughts are there to keep you company.”
“That’s certainly true.” She nodded behind her and beckoned for him to follow. “Come on, I found a patch of crow moss over here earlier. I’ll show you.”
Crow moss, so named for its iridescent black sheen and feathery texture, grew best in early spring before the cold fully released its hold.
Here in the Smokewood it was abundant if you knew where to look.
Violet picked her way over roots and logs, checking back over her shoulder for Nathaniel to make sure he was still following her, and showed him to a large, flat boulder where it grew in thick patches.
They dropped to their knees in the dirt and, side by side, set about gathering.
While the basket steadily filled with downy black moss, a gust of wind carried his scent to her, a whiff of sharp mint and fresh rosemary that clouded her senses like stirring up a riverbed.
She wasn’t sure what she expected, but the herbal mix suited him. She…liked it.
When they exhausted the boulder, she was almost surprised to find he kept to her side as they set off in search of more.
“Is business going well at the apothecary?” she asked politely.
“It’s…fine.” Once again, quiet settled over them like snow, broken only by the crunching of leaves and twigs beneath their boots.
“I’m hoping to open my shop next week,” she chattered to fill the silence. “Just a few more finishing touches and I’ll be ready to grow!”
She regretted the pun immediately, but after a stilted pause he responded, “I can’t be-leaf you managed it all so quickly.”
Violet whipped her head around to stare at him, but he avoided her eyes. Had Nathaniel Marsh just made a joke? Wordplay, even?! She wasn’t certain what to make of this new development.
He changed the subject before she could probe any further. “Why do you forage for branches, green or not, when you could conjure them from nothing? Is there a difference in the strength or longevity?”
She shook her head, bristling as she thought of the mugwort she’d conjured for him, and his reaction to it. “My magic does hold up, you know, regardless of whether you think it has any medicinal use.”
Violet took a startling amount of pleasure from his abashed expression.
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
She settled and, after a moment, relented. “Growing them from nothing sometimes…stings a bit,” she said truthfully, flexing her hands and debating how much to tell him. “Starting with a living plant rather than air is easier for me.”
“So you do get magic burn,” he said, sounding strangely victorious. “I was starting to think you were some sort of legend.”