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Eden

THE INFIRMARY WAS inviting, quite unlike the cold, harsh stone corridors I had traversed to reach it. The room was warm and soothing, filled with the calming scents of lavender and chamomile. Their soft floral aromas blended with the faint tang of medicinal herbs. A golden glow spilled from a modest chandelier. Its flickering light danced across the pale plastered walls and exposed wooden beams, casting a gentle haze of comfort over the space. I hadn’t expected the sense of safety it presented.

The front room appeared quaint yet organized. It served as a place where order met care, where everything had a purpose beyond mere functionality. A large wooden desk stood at its center, worn smooth by time yet polished to a warm sheen. Neat stacks of parchment, ink bottles, and quills covered its surface. Their careful arrangement suggested routine—someone who knew where everything belonged. A vase of dried flowers rested to one side, with their muted hues adding a personal, homely touch, a softness that felt out of place within the castle walls.

Beside the desk, a chair upholstered in faded fabric sat waiting, inviting despite its age, as if it had witnessed countless hours of quiet contemplation, with careful hands tending to more than just wounds. My gaze drifted toward a corner shelf filled with jars and vials. Their contents comprised a collection of dried leaves, ground powders, and tinctures suspended in glass. Each jar was labeled in careful, slanted handwriting, though the ink had faded with time.

I stepped closer. My fingers itched to reach out, trace the delicate loops of the script, open a jar, and breathe in the knowledge contained within it. Whoever worked here took pride in this place. Every carefully arranged item and every softened edge made the room resemble a sanctuary more than an infirmary. Even the stone beneath my feet had been softened by a rug with a faded floral pattern, warming the space in a way I hadn’t thought possible. This served as a restorative space, not just for bodies.

As I peered around the desk, I was left speechless. The second room opened into a larger, more enchanting space, which was an unexpected contrast to the quaint front room. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with books, journals, and scrolls—a scholar’s trove and a healer’s sanctuary. The faint scent of aged parchment and dried ink mingled with the ever-present fragrance of herbs, filling me with a sense of dedication and wonder. My fingers brushed the cracked spine of a worn leather-bound tome as I approached.

At the room’s core stood a long wooden table cluttered with the unmistakable tools of the trade—mortar and pestles, small cauldrons, and cutting boards darkened from use. Tiny glass bottles filled with amber liquid and powdered mixtures lined the surface. Above, bundles of drying herbs hung from the ceiling beams, their green, and brown stems swaying in the still air, filling the space with a rich, forest aroma.

A window at the far end allowed a sliver of moonlight to filter through. Silver streaks spilled across the wooden floor, catching on the edges of scattered parchment and polished glass vials. The way the light danced in the room made the space pulse with far more than just knowledge.

I could spend long nights hunched over this table, my hands dusty with crushed petals and ground roots, ink, and charcoal staining the creases of my fingers as I scribbled notes into my journal. I would wake to the smell of steeped tonics, the soft flicker of candlelight illuminating unread books waiting to be devoured. I had spent years learning in darkness, in silence, and in secrecy. I would have a space to work, study, and heal—something I had never experienced before. A home, of sorts. The thought took my breath away.

No.

It wasn’t home. It wasn’t mine to claim. I forced a breath and steadied myself, tracing the rim of an empty glass bottle with the tip of my finger. It could be… if they let me stay.

Calder’s voice brought me back to the moment.

“Your name?”

I hesitated, not having given it much thought. I hadn’t needed to until now. Eden Therrin was a name too heavy with old wounds, one I wanted to leave behind me. If I spoke it here, in this place, it would tether me to everything that had been. I wanted a fresh start. An alternative name.

One of my own.

“Quinn Larkspur,” I said, the name unfamiliar yet fitting.

Calder arched a brow. If she suspected the lie, she didn’t press. Instead, she held out her hand. I offered her my journal, placing it into her palm. She took it with care, as though its weight might betray its secrets, and flipped it open, scanning the pages with an intensity that tightened my chest.

The silence stretched before she spoke again. “The beginning,” she murmured, tilting the journal toward the light. “It’s all herbs and flowers—basic uses, trial and error notes.” She paused. A faint crease formed between her brows as her fingers traced the edge of a page. “Topical ointments, salves… nothing too intricate, but detailed. Painstakingly so.”

I resisted the sting of her words. It had taken years to compile those notes, test every mixture on myself, and record the effects. The writing and diagrams on those pages exceeded mere study—they were survival.

Calder continued. Her fingers flipped through more pages. The candlelight caught in her expression—a mix of curiosity and skepticism wrapped in exhaustion. “Later,” she muttered, “it changes. General remedies, tinctures, poultices…”

She stopped, tapping her finger against a section where I had scrawled names and ailments in uneven handwriting. “Other people’s needs. Their pains and illnesses. You started keeping track of them.”

I nodded. “I did.”

Calder lifted her gaze from the pages, fixing me with a stare that saw far too much. “Why?”

The single word reverberated in my mind. Why? Because nobody had ever kept track of mine.

I hesitated, unable to speak. Her gaze was too steady and perceptive, squeezing the truth out of me regardless of whether I wanted to give it.

“It started as a matter of survival,” I admitted, my voice just above a whisper. “I needed to learn to keep myself alive. But… it became more. I saw how much I could help others. Their needs became just as important as mine.” It was the most straightforward answer I could give—the truth, but not all of it.

Calder’s assessing eyes raked over me, peeling back layers I had kept hidden my entire life. Her gaze lingered in places that left me exposed and raw.

“You’ve spent much time under the sun,” she murmured, her tone soft, as she read the unspoken story etched into my skin. Her words became a blade pressed to a nerve. “Freckles, tinted skin… even the way you stand. You braced against the elements. It’s all written on you.”

A piece of me wanted to recoil from her words, deny them, and correct her. But she was right, and that unsettled me the most. She had unraveled me piece by piece, with observations that felt too personal and precise.

I nodded, unsure how to respond. My hands clasped the hem of my cloak, my fingers gripping the fabric to anchor myself. I had spent so long hiding behind masks, careful smiles, and chosen words. Yet she tugged at the fringes of everything I had been reluctant to let show.

Calder straightened. The fleeting softness in her tone vanished as quickly as it had come. The moment of quiet assessment had ended. She snapped my journal shut and set it on top of the desk with a decisive thud . Her lips curved into a faint, testing smile.

“Create three things from your journal—ointments, tinctures, or anything else.” Her eyes turned to me. “But you won’t be using your notes. If they are truly yours, you won’t need them.”

My hand lingered on the journal for a moment, fingers twitching over the worn leather cover, before I resolved to let it go. Its weight had always been a comfort. It proved my knowledge and everything I had survived. Now, it amounted to an untouchable test.

My fingers quivered as I withdrew my hand. “What would you like me to make?”

“That’s for you to decide,” she said, turning toward the opposite end of the room and glancing over her shoulder. “Follow.”

Although smaller, the next room had shelves covering the walls, filled with jars, vials, and bundles of dried herbs. The aroma overwhelmed me—elduven, sharp, medicinal. Layers of dried roots, preserved flowers, and infused oils created a dense fragrance that lingered on my skin.

Calder gestured around us. “Everything you need is here,” she announced, eliminating any space for doubt. “You have until sunrise.”

The flickering light of the sconces cast long, shifting shadows across the stone floor. Breathe. Stop shaking. I had to prove myself. I memorized my notes, each formula, and each ratio etched into my memory, scarred.

Her gaze made the room suffocating. Every move I made gave the impression of being watched, weighed, and dissected. My fingers clung to the worktable. “Well,” I said, forcing a smile that felt like wearing an ill-fitting mask. “Let’s see if I can impress you.” The words came laced with the same constructed ease I had mastered over the years.

Calder only clasped her hands and watched. Scanning the shelves, my mind sorted through the possibilities before settling on the first remedy—a simple burn salve I had made countless times. My fingers skimmed the jars and bundles, selecting comfrey root, calendula petals, and beeswax. Each ingredient had become an old friend—familiar and reliable.

I arranged them with precision, hoping Calder would notice. With a quick strike of flint and steel, I ignited a small flame beneath a brass cauldron, the metal catching the warm glow of the firelight. The wax melted, and the scent of honey infused the air as I mixed in the herbs. The once-separate elements blended into a smooth, golden balm that was thick and glistening when I lifted the spoon.

Calder’s silence hung heavy, but I fixed my smile and glanced at her with a practiced air of ease. “First one’s done,” I chirped, sliding the jar toward her. She didn’t respond or acknowledge the effort, but her eyes tracked my every move.

Next—a joint pain liniment. I reached for dried arnica flowers and cayenne pepper, a potent combination. The pestle was heavy in my hand as I ground them into a fine powder. My movements remained calm and measured, but inside, my nerves buzzed like a hive of bees. The powder combined with oil and alcohol, and I shook the jar until the scent of spice and medicine permeated the air, stimulating my senses.

“Be careful with that one,” I joked, even though my stomach knotted. “It’ll wake you up if you’re not prepared for it.”

Calder’s brow twitched. Amusement? Annoyance? I couldn’t tell.

The final remedy was more personal, more daring. I hesitated before reaching for what I needed to create a frost salve I had crafted during one of the darkest winters of my life. The nights had been long with biting frost, and I needed something to keep my fingers from stiffening beyond use. I gathered pine resin, chamomile, violet petals, and a pinch of myrrh, their scents wrapping around me with a memory. My hands trembled while I measured and ground, but I disguised it with a cheerful hum, keeping my movements fluid. I couldn’t falter. Not where she could see.

When the resin melted, I stirred in the herbs. The mixture thickened as it became fragrant, elduven, and familiar. A warmth spread through my chest from the comfort of doing something I understood.

Calder stepped closer and studied my work. “What is that?”

“A frost salve,” I replied, ensuring my voice remained bright and steady. “For frostbite and cracked skin. The violet petals help circulation, and the resin forms a barrier against the cold.”

She cocked her head and inspected the jar as I poured the finished salve inside, the smooth liquid settling into the glass. “Where did you learn that?”

“I made it up,” I admitted. “My cracked, bleeding hands left me with nothing else. It took weeks of trial and error, but I got it right.”

Calder’s eyes flicked to mine, searched and peeled me open without touching me. “And it worked?”

I nodded. My heart beat against my ribs, but I kept my mask in place. “It did. For me and others in the village. I’ve used it ever since.”

She picked up the jar, turned it in her hands, and watched the salve shift against the glass. The flickering light softened her features, blurring the sharp edges of her face. “Interesting.” She set the jar on the table and looked at me again. “Resourceful. Precise. Perhaps you’ll prove useful after all.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” I said lightly.

Calder gave me one last careful look before disappearing into another room, leaving me with a lingering sense of uncertainty and a growing unease. The fire’s heat licked at my skin, but a chill ran through me. Useful . Not skilled or talented. The word lingered in my mind, a reminder of the thin line between acceptance and exploitation. I shrugged my shoulders, trying to shake off the feeling. It wasn’t acceptance, but it was a start.

Calder reappeared from the back room, a measuring tape coiled in her hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. She strode toward me with the quiet authority of someone who didn’t need to announce their importance, and I couldn’t help but tense, my instinct to step back and brace contained beneath my controlled expression.

“What is that for?”

“For your uniform,” she said, unraveling the tape with a snap of her wrist. “Stand straight.”

“Uniform?” The word felt foreign to my tongue, a weight I was unsure I could carry.

“Yes. You won’t work in the infirmary in patchwork gowns and scavenged boots.” Her eyes perused me, lingering on the frayed edges of my sleeves, the scuffs on my shoes, the signs of life outside the castle walls. “This is a place of healing, not charity,” she added. “Appearances matter here.”

I stifled the irritation bubbling in my throat and pressed against the instinctive bitterness that twisted in my chest. “I assumed my skills might speak louder than my hemline.”

Calder’s eyes narrowed. I thought she might scold me, but the most minor twitch pulled at the corner of her mouth—a near imperceptible smirk. “Skills are a good start,” she admitted, voice still brisk. “But they’re not what the castle remembers. Stand still now.”

Her hands were efficient and no-nonsense, and the measuring tape brushed against my shoulders, waist, and arms with quick precision. The sensation was foreign and impersonal, yet unsettling. When was the last time someone had taken my measure? Since no one had bothered?

“What colors do you favor?”

Colors? As if my opinion even mattered. I hesitated because I didn’t know, but the first answer that came to mind blurted out before I could overthink it. “Green, I suppose. Or red.”

Calder hummed. “Dark colors, then. Something useful.”

“Like me.”

She stepped back, scrawling notes on a scrap of parchment that she withdrew from her apron pocket. “You’ll have your garments in a few days. Until then,” her gaze flickered toward my sleeves again, “try not to ruin what little you’ve got.”

I let out a slow breath as the weight of expectation settled deeper into my core. I had wanted this. Had fought for it.

Now, there was no turning back.