Page 3 of Raven Rebel (Sablewood #1)

Meara

T he forest pulsed like a beating heart, an endless cycle of growth and decay, relentless in its rhythm. Meara felt entirely herself, listening to the rustle of leaves as Sablewood breathed. She belonged here, where her sharp edges fit among the wild things.

Sallow morning sun fractured in the canopy, scattering droplets of dusky light over her onyx hair. Her feet followed hidden paths, led by instinct and petrichor, while she flipped her hunting blade end over end.

Already, grassy stems with tiny clusters of white flowers lay tucked into one of her generous pockets. Yarrow steeped into tea would staunch bleeding, or if it was ground into a salve, it relieved pain.

She surveyed a patch of comfrey and crouched to harvest the dark, glossy leaves.

While a more potent and volatile treatment, comfrey was invaluable for easing the gout crippling local farmers.

After years of practice, she knew exactly how to hold the stems and slice while keeping her hands free of the harsh sap.

Her fingers stacked, rolled, and bundled the leaves in a ritual that needed no thought.

Their bittersweet scent perfumed the air as she rose.

Hedge sparrows flitted overhead, their discordant melodies floating over the thick underbrush.

Once Meara was satisfied with her haul of medicinal herbs, she looked to the sun to gauge the passage of time before plunging deeper into the woods in search of chanterelles that would fetch a good profit.

The fog of morning lingered in the shadowy depths of the forest. It swirled around her feet and coated her skin with dew.

The path narrowed and gnarled roots snagged at her skirts as she walked.

Ignoring the claws of the underbrush, she hunted for the ferns that curtained deteriorating fallen tree trunks.

The logs’ decay created the perfect conditions for the curly golden mushrooms. They glowed in the murky dim.

Her long fingers pinched off bunches at the spongy stems, careful to avoid crushing the delicate caps.

Brushing off her hands, Meara rose and stretched her neck and shoulders to relieve the tension. She should turn back toward the wild orchard of hazel and walnut trees that edged the forest, but her sister’s request for strawberries drew her further into Sablewood.

She moved cautiously northward, her heartbeat a moth fluttering against her ribs. The edge of their queendom lay ahead, where Liosliath met with the kingdom of Dornadan - a people who traded freely with and even welcomed faeries into their townships.

The forest reluctantly released her into a meadow, the stillness a void that unsettled her after the trees’ tangled embrace.

It was carpeted with alabaster wood anemones and curved foxglove swaying in a silent symphony of amethyst bells.

She crouched and swept back the greenery to reveal low-growing wild strawberries.

A few ruby berries clung to the stems, but they made up a meager handful.

Hawthorn berries glinted along their thorny cane in the border between sun and shade.

Maybe Brenna could make a mixed berry pie with them and some of the blackberries ripening in their garden.

With her sister’s warning echoing in her mind, she slid her gloves on before she set about harvesting the tiny red fruit.

A gleam of burnished bronze caught her eye. A looming stag materialized from the shadows, gliding through the trees with eerie grace.

Her breath caught and every muscle tensed in a primal wariness.

White ghosted the creature’s snout, fading to a rich coppery brown crowned in dozens of gilded tines.

Intelligent, soulful eyes met hers. Entranced, her body moved on instinct, but the hawthorn vine caught her wrist, slicing into her skin just above her glove.

With a gasp, she pulled back and glanced down at the jagged line welling with blood. When her eyes rose, the stag was gone.

The ache of disappointment stung worse than her injury.

Hissing, she pressed the corner of her apron over the cut until the bleeding stopped.

Meara stared into the shadows for a moment more before slowly exhaling and straightening.

Her fingers flexed inside of her gloves, hands aching for something ineffable.

A wildness seethed under her skin as if the forest had slipped into her veins.

The brittle silence shattered as chittering squirrels raced through the boughs overhead. With a set to her jaw, she turned southeast toward home .

The forest thinned and the air warmed, afternoon sunlight tinting the waving hairgrass a vivid chartreuse.

The copse of young hazel trees in the edge of the forest’s shadow drooped with low branches, inviting her to climb.

Their pantry supply had grown thin, so Meara reached for a low branch and heaved herself up and onto the bough.

Anchoring herself, she gave the thinner branches a vigorous shake.

Ripe hazelnuts shed from the branches and tumbled to the ground, landing among the empty hulls strewn about.

Her gathered skirts fell around her ankles as she landed heavily, her breath escaping with the impact.

Stooping, she gathered hazelnuts when something moved through the leaf litter toward her.

She jolted, leaping back and dropping the nuts in her hands.

A rat scurried over a root and past her.

Exhaling in a huff, Meara resumed gathering hazelnuts.

The afternoon matured and her stomach rumbled, leaving a hollow feeling in her gut.

Pockets bulging with her harvest, she trudged back down the path away from the woods and into the rural village.

Her mother always kept food for her in their shop, and having two sets of hands would make sorting and cleaning the ingredients go quickly.