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Worry constricted me at the thought of leaving Lysander alone. If I’d been with him, maybe he wouldn’t have been attacked in the first place. Blinking quickly, I fought to keep my voice even.

“Don’t—don’t leave him alone.”

Outside, I started down the short path to the road.

Passing the gardens, I brushed a chamomile stem.

The floating aroma carried a memory of my father, pouring boiling water from the kettle.

Whenever we were stressed about food or money, he’d make chamomile tea.

‘Drink your daisies,’ he’d tease, after I’d remarked how the yellow and white blooms resembled daisies.

Deep down, I sought that comfort. Though, my mind was ill-prepared to see my father, knowing what came of him in the end…

and what faced Lysander. Feeling worse than before, I hurried down the remaining path and slipped through the small, white gate.

I closed it firmly behind me.

I walked along the road that led into the town of Scrying Hollow, so named after the Hollow that snarled at our cottage’s back.

It was springtime, and the ditches were filled with purple hyacinths and primroses.

All around, wild buttercups covered the rolling hills in a sea of yellow.

Out here in the flowers and sunshine, one could almost pretend.

Almost forget what lay behind me, waiting.

I passed the lane leading up to our neighbour’s home and a shout startled me.

“Lili!”

A lovely-looking, freckled boy named Ruven waved. We were born a month apart, and owing to proximity, we’d been close growing up. Some of my fondest memories came from Ruven’s family’s goat farm. Once upon a time, our parents had said we’d marry. Of course, that was before my father died.

After that, I’d no mind to ask for any man’s hand.

Ruven jogged down the lane, his copper-hair bouncing the entire way. Arms open wide, Ruven’s sweet, sing-song voice carried on the breeze. “And then I saw a pretty girl, walking in the glen. She turned and put a smile on, her lovely name was Liliwen!”

I shielded my eyes against the sun as Ruven approached.

The youngest of five boys, Ruven managed to escape the farm life and apprenticed with the blacksmith.

The work became him; his shoulders were twice the size as when he’d started.

Ruven wore a bright smile. Over the years, I’d learned it was impossible to appreciate his smile without reciprocating. Despite my heartache, I smiled back.

“I wanted to ask you”—Ruven’s brows furrowed—“what’s wrong?”

I wasn’t surprised he knew something was amiss.

What did surprise me was that he hadn’t already heard.

News in the village travelled quicker than startled deer.

Not trusting myself to look at Ruven, I kicked the dirt and mumbled, “Lysander. He, uh… He was attacked.” I begged Ruven wouldn’t ask where Lysander had been attacked.

While I’d promised my father I’d never enter the Hollow again, it was obvious that the fruits of Lysander’s foraging had not come from the safe spots he’d insinuated they had.

“Oh, Lili.” Ruven sidled next to me, letting his hand rest on my arm. “I’m so sorry.”

Eager to change the subject, I backed away and pointed toward town. “I have to get a few things for Lysander.” Ruven nodded, but I halted. “What is it you wanted to ask me?”

“Nah.” Ruven rubbed his neck. “It’s… It’s not the time.”

“Well, you must tell me now.” I crossed my arms. “I’ll be worrying about it all day, and I don’t need anything else to worry about.” My voice faltered on the last word. I bit my lip and looked away.

In a kind attempt to draw attention away from my inevitable breakdown, Ruven started. “Well, I wanted to ask you a favour. I’m not sure if you heard…about Lauren?” Lauren was the town’s blacksmith and Ruven’s mentor. “She passed. Last week.” Ruven quickly amended, “She had a heart attack.”

I had heard. Unfortunately, I’d taken to staying home most days, and the thought of attending another ceremony for death sickened me. I should have gone to see Ruven, or at least sent him a note.

“I’m so sorry, Ruven. I should have come over.”

“It’s okay,” Ruven said, in a way that meant it was okay.

He rarely said things he didn’t mean, and it comforted me to know he held no malice.

Ruven continued, “The, uh, the upside of that unfortunate event is that I’ll be graduating next week.

” He beamed and stretched, cat-like and proud.

“If all goes well, you’re looking at the new blacksmith. ”

While Ruven’s brothers adored the farm, Ruven had never wanted that life. Pride, as if I’d succeeded myself, warmed my cheeks. “That’s wonderful! I’m so proud of you.” I, too, rarely said things I didn’t mean, and Ruven’s ears turned pink. It was his turn to kick the dirt and look away.

He cleared his throat and tugged at the sleeve of his dark shirt. “I was wondering if…well, if you could make me a tunic?”

Ruven had barely finished before I shook my head. “Ruven, I—”

“Lili, you used to make the most spectacular garments!”

I did, but that was before. I didn’t have it in me anymore. My room was filled with black fabrics, meant for one thing, and one thing only. “I only make uniforms. For the guards.” Ruven’s shoulders slumped, dragged down by disappointment. Thankfully, he pushed the subject no further.

“I should go,” I said.

Ruven glanced around. “Would you like me to walk with you?”

“Thank you, but no.” I gestured at the empty road. “I doubt the Hound will snatch me out here in the open.”

“We lost three goats this week, in the pasture across the stream. That’s nowhere near the Hollow.” Ruven shifted and rubbed his jaw. “Nowadays, the Hound cares not.” Ruven was right. Though less frequent, it wasn’t unheard of for the Hound to attack outside the Hollow’s borders.

“I’ve waited seven years to have a conversation with my father’s killer.” I patted my father’s blade, tied to my belt. “If the Hound comes for me, I have a few things I’d like to say.”

Ruven knew I could take care of myself. He also knew that if he questioned my capability, our conversation would sour.

Waving me off, he said, “I’ll say a word tonight, for your brother.

Perhaps there’s some magic left in this world.

” I grimaced but appreciated the kindness.

With a wave, I continued on my own. I passed the end of the farm, where a brown goat bleated through the fence.

'Perhaps there’s some magic left in this world.'

Magic was gone from this world…mostly. Townsfolk used to say there was a spark of magic in my work, sewed into the fibres of every garment.

Old Prunetta once told me she’d been shot with an arrow, only to have it bounce off her jacket and leave her unharmed.

I knew the jacket she spoke of, for I’d sold it to her the day prior.

Of course, Old Prunetta was fond of wine and smoke-leaf.

On my left, I passed an apple orchard. White blossoms dappled the branches, swaying in the breeze.

Lottie swore that when I stitched her up, the wounds healed faster. I’d always dismissed it as ingenuine flattery, if only so I’d continue playing doctor for her. Maybe there was something to it?

A wagon passed by; I ducked my head to the driver.

While possessing a touch of magic was indeed a splendid gift, it did come with some…caveats. To protect what little magic remained, those that displayed talents tended to be taken. At least, that’s what the queen told the children when they were brought to the castle, to serve her and the kingdom.

When I was six, a distant cousin of mine, Bronwyn, had been taken.

I didn’t know much of Bronwyn; my mother’s side of the family disowned my mother when she wed my father.

All I knew of Bronwyn was gathered from gossip.

Apparently, she’d had a way with the creatures of the Hollow.

At first, the townspeople just thought she was a bit… strange.

That all changed when the lamia came.

The town lost six children, but when the lamia snatched the seventh, Bronwyn intervened.

She spoke to the lamia, convinced it to drop the child.

The next morning, Bronwyn was taken to the castle to serve.

The town held a celebration, but I remember the way Bronwyn’s delicate, brown curls bounced against her tear-stained face as the wagon carried her from her home.

Passing the old mill, I offered a lacklustre “Mornin’” to the miller’s apprentice, who heaved a sack of flour into a waiting wagon.

Gradually, the farmhouses and fields gave way to town homes.

White buildings with dark beams and thatched tops.

I veered from the road that led up the hill to the castle gates and headed to the heart of the town.

Pausing, I peered in the fabric shop window.

Today, a stunning mauve satin hung on display.

My imagination spun, creating beautiful dresses and gloves.

Reluctantly, I continued on. Pierre’s apothecary sat in the cobbled town square, behind a three-story fountain, next to the bakery.

The doorbell tinkled when I entered, and Pierre peeked from the back. He toddled along a wall packed with colourful glass bottles. Pierre adjusted his crescent-shaped spectacles and smiled. I didn’t return the gesture. Pierre was a gossipy, middle-aged man, and I didn’t much care for him.

“You’ll be wanting the Queensfoil then?”

I told you:

News travels fast.

Pursing my lips, I nodded. Of course, Pierre already knew why I was there. How many others had he told of Lysander’s condition? Pierre turned away, pulling out a drawer behind the counter. Wasting no time at all, Pierre said, “Do you reckon that blacksmith, Lauren, really died from a heart attack?”

Through gritted teeth, I replied, “Yes.”