Page 19

DELILAH

T he day had mellowed into golden hush by the time Delilah had gotten back to the store. She had just finished an order and was restocking when Hazel knocked on the apothecary door, her presence as gentle as a breeze through tall grass—but just as stirring.

Delilah had just finished bottling a fresh batch of feverroot syrup, sleeves rolled up, hair messily pinned atop her head with a twig she hadn’t realized she’d stuck there during her mixing frenzy. Thistle had claimed the sunny spot by the window, twitching his ears at every little rustle outside.

The knock wasn’t loud, but it felt important.

“Come in,” Delilah called, wiping her hands on her apron.

Hazel stepped inside, her silhouette framed by late-day light, and Delilah’s breath ceased when she saw what she was carrying.

Nestled in her arms like a wilting bundle of vines, was a child. No— not a child. A dryad. Young, maybe a decade or two in age, though their kind didn’t age like others. The little one’s skin had gone pale, bark-gray instead of mossy brown, and faint white petals drooped from their tangled hair.

“She’s been touched by what’s sickening the forest,” Hazel said, voice even, though a sliver of worry cut through the calm. “She won’t take root. Refuses water. The others are afraid.”

Delilah’s heart lurched.

“Bring her here.” Her tone was brisk, but her fingers trembled as she cleared the long table near the hearth. “Lay her down gently. I’ll do what I can.”

Hazel obeyed without ceremony, setting the dryad down like she weighed nothing, brushing her fingers through the child’s limp hair. She whispered soft words in a language older than any spellbook, the syllables curling like roots through the air.

Delilah knelt beside them, her hand hovering just above the dryad’s sternum. Her magic buzzed low under her skin, uncertain.

The little dryad’s pulse was faint. Her connection to the land—muted.

It was like someone had poured rot into the roots of a flower and locked the sun away.

Delilah drew a slow breath and pulled her satchel to her side.

She began with the base—white ash for purification, violet sage for calming, honey-thistle for strength. Each herb ground carefully, whispered over, sung to. She added a single moonvine petal—rare, potent—and let it dissolve into the salve as it turned from pale blue to glowing silver.

“She’s not just fading,” Delilah murmured. “Something’s leeching her magic.”

Hazel nodded solemnly but said nothing.

Delilah placed her palms gently over the girl’s chest and belly and closed her eyes.

She reached deep—not with force, but with invitation.

She imagined the grove at the peak of summer, green and wild and bursting with light. She imagined the whispering woods healthy again, buzzing with insects and alive with birdsong. She imagined safety, warmth, belonging.

And then she poured that image into the child.

“Take root,” she whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “Breathe, little one. The forest still wants you.”

A shudder rippled through the girl’s limbs.

The faintest flicker of gold beneath her bark. A glow. A tremble.

The petals in her hair shivered.

And bloomed.

A soft gasp escaped Hazel, who reached out as the dryad’s limbs regained color—no longer pallid, but flushed with new green and gold.

Delilah sat back, panting, her hands trembling but her heart full.

“She’ll still need watching,” she said hoarsely. “But the rot’s pulling back. Her roots are waking.”

Hazel stepped forward and—unexpectedly—dropped to her knees beside her.

She cupped Delilah’s face with warm, weathered palms.

“The forest sees your heart, child.”

Delilah blinked, stunned.

Hazel smiled softly, then reached into her wild hair and pulled a vine from behind her ear. It shimmered with life—fresh, living—and at its end, a moonblossom bloomed bright as twilight.

With delicate care, Hazel began weaving the vine into Delilah’s curls. One flower. Then another. A second vine followed, tucked just behind her other ear.

The scent was sweet. Ancient.

“This is how the elders mark kin,” Hazel said, her fingers weaving deftly. “It means you’re of the land. Of us . You didn’t need to be born to it. You only needed to come back.”

Delilah’s throat closed, the weight of years pressing on her shoulders and lifting in the same breath.

“I thought I burned that bridge,” she whispered. “When I left for Salem. When I stayed away.”

Hazel’s eyes sparkled with something deeper than forgiveness— recognition.

“You wandered,” she said. “That’s allowed. But you found your way home. That’s what matters.”

When she finished, Hazel stepped back, surveying her work with a small, proud nod.

“You wear the land now. Let it protect you.”

Delilah reached up, fingertips brushing the flowers woven through her hair, and for the first time since she’d stepped foot back into Celestial Pines, she didn’t feel like a visitor wearing borrowed skin.

She felt seen.

She felt claimed.

By something older and wider than fate.

And for once, she let herself believe she truly belonged.