5 - Highsun 9 / 1 - Ash Moon - 1
The path to town was still damp from the night's rain—slippery enough that my boots slid over the mud in a way that was neither convenient nor agile, though it was fun, I suppose. It smelled of damp earth and late-summer humidity, a mixture that made me feel both sticky and vibrant all at once.
How I hate yet love summer…
Inspired by the short tune of a bird somewhere in the trees above, I distracted myself from the weather with a hummed tune my mother used to sing all the time. It was nothing special, just a melody she'd create while stirring pots or hanging herbs to dry. It filled quiet moments the way sunlight warms cold mornings.
My voice was off-key and embarrassing compared to what had been her lovely, lilting version, but still—the notes traveled with the wind, around the tree trunks and through the leaves, and nature echoed my delight.
The basket of herbs and small glass vials bumped against my hip making little chink noises off beat with my hums and steps, but I didn't mind; the delicate sounds added to my happiness as they reminded me of pay to come, even if it was sure to be as low as last week's… Still, even my few coins were earned honestly.
My garden has been lacking all year… The herbs I grew were sturdy and fragrant—the soil of my land was enriched with old magic my great-grandmother had used when she settled down in this forest nearly a century ago, but with my mother's death last winter, I had been, well… depressed. I didn't buy seeds when I should've. Didn't plant when I should have. Didn't consider the fact that magic can only help so much, and that I should've planned for my own survival better…
Seeds were expensive—even though I needed them, I couldn't afford them…
Thankfully, the apothecary usually bought my products without issues, even if it was only half of what I had brought to her a year ago… I frowned as I thought of winter's inevitable arrival, and how, at this rate, I'll be stuck surviving off of tea and boiled potatoes, if I somehow manage to get one and make it sprout…
I looked up at the blue sky, trying to estimate the time, and apparently got too distracted; I didn't notice the root until it caught my foot and my basket swung wildly on my arm, the vials inside rattling, and I let out a surprised yelp as I stumbled forward a few steps. For a heartbeat, I thought I was going face-first into the mud…
As I looked up, I noticed to my left—where my hand had shot out towards to balance myself—there was now a bush where a few shoots had previously been. Its tiny white flowers were still bursting into bloom as I watched, opening as if someone had whispered a threat to them.
I froze.
"Damn it…" I muttered under my breath, pouting at my tingling hand and then at the flowers like they were co-conspirators. "You can't do that on purpose when I actually need you to?" I snorted and admired the overgrown stalks now hanging awkwardly. A silly wish rose unbidden: if only I could make flowers bloom whenever I wanted—imagine the money I could make, the feasts I could buy myself. Maybe even have meat for supper…
I pout at the thought of food, and groan at the idea of not having tripped over roses or even mushrooms that I could've sold, and finally shake my head as I stepped away from the useless bush. Still, after adjusting my basket on my arm and continuing down the path, I admitted that the flowers made the woods look prettier, at least.
Another hour of humming and pessimistic thoughts later, the red roofs of the town appeared below. The streets were already busy. Merchants had rolled out carts, bakers had propped open doors, and children ran around as they played. It wasn't a big town, but it was lively in a way my quiet little cottage never was.
The apothecary sat near the center square, squeezed between a cooper's workshop and a bakery that always made the whole street smell like cinnamon, and always made my stomach growl.
The bell above the apothecary door chimed as I stepped inside, and I was immediately enveloped by the mingled scents of dried herbs, lavender oil, and something sharp and medicinal. Mistress Calla looked up from a jar she was polishing. Her kind face broke into a small smile when she saw me, which I mimicked.
"Good afternoon, Mistress Calla," I said softly—I've never been good with people…
"Amelia, dear! Back again so soon?" she asked. Her gray hair was pinned up in its usual tight bun, and her round cheeks crinkled kindly as she smiled. "You're up early. Let's see what you've brought."
I carefully set my basket on the counter where medicinal salves and cosmetic creams were lined up on the sides.
"The chamomile's still a bit damp, but the valerian root should be really good."
She began inspecting the bundles with practiced fingers, and held up the vials to check their clarity. As usual, I felt worried she'd not buy them, but then again, I knew she always bought whatever I brought, and never treated me like the nuisance—or worse, beggar—I felt I was sometimes, even when my potions weren't worth much. That was enough to make me grateful for her.
"These are lovely," she said, holding up the chamomile. Nodding, she handed me my payment, which was more than usual, and I almost let a sob slip as I thought of thorns still stuck in my hands and the bruises on my knees from digging for the damn valerian root.
Still, it was not enough for the meat I longed for. Oh well…
"You're doing well. Got that natural touch. Your mother would be proud." she said softly, studying my face, which turned pink from the praise.
I looked down at my basket as a lump rose in my throat and my eyes prickled. It's been months since she'd passed, yet some days it still felt like yesterday—the sound of her humming, the warmth of her hands guiding mine over bubbling cauldrons still felt real. I swallowed hard and forced a smile.
"Let's hope so," I said politely.
"Well, you've done good, but I think I might have something else for you…" I blinked up at her and tilted my head, "A client: the Duke's daughter. She's getting married on the 17th, and she mentioned wishing for a little extra beauty on her special day. She asked if I knew anyone who could craft a glamor potion…" She arched a brow and tilted her head quizzically.
I winced.
Glamour potions were complicated—they needed precise timing while brewing, the right ingredients, and steady magic, none of which were exactly my strengths. Plus, one that would last hours, perhaps a day, was far beyond the simple, little illusions that lasted an hour or so that I'd practiced on daisies and the pig we had last year… Since beauty was subjective, the spell needed to cover more than just physical beauty but also charm others when they'd look at the user.
Mistress Calla's tone turned cautious. "I know it's a bit of a task, but it's only meant to last for the day. You'd be paid handsomely if you can manage it."
After more consideration, she must have seen the hesitation on my face, because she gently touched my hand. "I wouldn't suggest it if I didn't think you could do it. Your grandmother was talented, Ami. That kind of magic runs in your blood."
I looked down at my fingers, stained faintly green from herb gathering. Bloodline or not, I wasn't my grandmother. But as I thought of my empty pantry, and hook meats, of how good it would feel to eat something warm and filling for once, I made my choice.
"I—I could try," I stammered; my voice sounded smaller than I wanted it to.
Her eyes softened. "Good. I thought you might. Your grandmother would. I'll send word to the Duke's steward that you'll take the commission. You'll have about seven days then, and you'll just need to deliver the potion the morning of at the latest." I nodded and lowered my basket, getting ready to leave. "Just… be careful, Ami."
I smiled nervously, feeling a mixture of thrill and terror swirl in my chest. I thanked her, wished her well, and stepped back out into the crisp air. I clutched the coins tightly, imagining actually surviving my first full winter alone if I could get the job right—and I will. I breathed in deep, my footsteps felt lighter, though my mind raced with the idea of the potion I had yet to brew, the formula I would have to get right, and the memory of my mother's gentle guidance when I'd stir ingredients carefully in our ancient cauldrons—something I'd have to do without this time… now when I could most use it.
But, I had seven days. That was more time than I usually had for commissions—though still tight, considering my typical potions took trial and error. Lots of error.
The market square was louder now as more townsfolk had come out to buy and sell before the afternoon was over. I passed stalls piled with peaches and tomatoes and squash, smelled cherry pies from a corner cart, and watched children run around, splashing each other with water near the colorfully decorated fountain in the summer heat. All of it buzzed around like a warm current, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself imagine being a part of the pure joy, buying everything I wanted—bread still warm from the oven, soft cheese, spiced cider. I imagined going back home to fill my pantry, my hearth crackling. I'm tired of eating grass and scared of starving before the year ends…
I bought the most essentials and the ingredients I already knew I'd need. As the coin pouch grew lighter and lighter, I gained courage though… I could do this. I have to. To survive my first year alone.
I rushed through the path back home; the air was cooler in the shade of the trees, and birds sang overhead, as if trying to lessen the worry and stress making my tummy hurt. I thought about the recipe I'd need to use—if I could even find it, as I hadn't read Grandmother's books since mom passed…
By the time my cottage came into view, nestled between gnarled oaks and hidden until close enough by the illusion wards my great-grandmother had set nearly a century ago, the sun was dipping toward late afternoon. Moss crept up the stone walls, and my sad, little garden moved oddly as stems, leaves, and flowers unraveled faster than normal on this enchanted ground. For now, I only had left some typical summer herbs—rosemary, mint, sage, and flowers like hibiscus and a couple of sunflowers. It wasn't much, but it was mine.
I paused at the front door, adjusting the basket on my hip. A nervous flutter stirred in my stomach. The glamour commission felt enormous now that I needed to get started. But the promise of full cupboards and warm meals outweighed the fear.
"Alright…" I muttered, "A glamour potion."
I breathed in and opened the door quickly. The cottage greeted me with the familiar scent of dried herbs and burning wood. I stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind me to officially begin.