The garden was alive again.
Not just thriving—overgrown. The neat rows they had trimmed the day before were once more tangled in green. Vines clung to trellises that had been bare the night before. Feverfew and mint bushes had exploded outward like puffed skirts. Even the calendula had reseeded across the walkway in bursts of stubborn orange.
Tazien, who had stepped out behind her with a yawn and a stretch, stared. “Uh… did we hallucinate clearing this yesterday?”
“No,” Ilyari muttered. “We definitely spent five hours sweating and organizing. Look at the compost barrel—it’s still sealed.”
She pointed to the tightly lidded barrel where they’d dumped all the pulled weeds.
“But this… it’s like it all grew back. Or regrew. But without weeds.”
Tazien tilted his head, examining the tidy, well-placed growth. “This isn’t wild growth. It’s like it… remembered how it was supposed to look and tried again.”
Ilyari nodded slowly, then narrowed her eyes. “We’re not wasting time on disbelief. If it’s going to replant itself, we’ll let it. No weeds means we move to phase two.”
“Drying and bundling?” he asked, already moving toward the herb beds.
“Exactly. We’ve sold fresh. Now we prep dry goods. Everything else goes to Indrale.”
They worked fast and quiet, moving with practiced rhythm. While Ilyari clipped bundles of sage and thyme, laying them on the drying rack inside the workshop window, Tazien snipped spearmint and lemon balm, tying the ends with bits of twine.
Midway through the task, Ilyari’s eyes lit up.
“Wait—Eiggim said they were low on red clover.”
Tazien straightened. “They did?”
She nodded, already darting down the center garden path, scanning both sides. “There were patches along the eastern fence yesterday. I thought about pulling them.”
She rounded the bend—and there they were.
Thick patches of red clover, the blooms blushing like small clustered rubies, spilling out onto the gravel walk like they’d been waiting for her.
Ilyari knelt and began clipping.
She didn’t stop until her arms were full—massive bunches bound together like summer bouquets.
When she returned, Tazien gave a low whistle. “You could fill three crates with that.”
“I’m hoping for a bonus,” she said with a smirk.
They loaded the poles carefully, adjusting the weight of the satchels so that none of the clover would bruise or bend. The baskets went over their arms, balanced and padded with spare cloth to protect the more delicate flowers.
Once they were ready, they set out.
The city was already stirring when they reached the market district—bakers shouting first breads, vendors sloshing cold water over crates of fruit, and porters shouting for cart clearance. They turned toward the second alley, the one thick with the scent of spice and sugarroot, and made their way back toward Phindrase & Leaf.
The vine-covered storefront appeared like a secret sanctuary, golden light spilling from its windows and warm smoke curling from its chimney.
Ilyari smiled.
As soon as they pushed the door open, the bell gave its usual chirp—and the familiar scent of toasted herbs and floral blends wrapped around them like a hug.
“Delivery for the greatest tea shop in Kaisulane!” Tazien announced, shifting his pole dramatically.
Indrale popped up from behind a pile of wrapped tea bricks. Her enormous glasses slipped down her nose. “You’re late. And I was out of clover by breakfast.”
Ilyari stepped forward, holding up the red clover with both arms. “Not anymore.”
Indrale gasped, clutching her chest with mock drama. “You brought me half a field!”
“And a promise kept,” Ilyari said, smiling as Brinna emerged from the back room with two empty crates and a grin.
Together, they unloaded the herbs into the sorting bins, Eiggim arriving just in time to trip over his own boots and nearly drop a glass jar when he caught sight of Ilyari.
“Morning,” he squeaked.
“Good morning,” she replied, already organizing the bundles with practiced ease.
Behind her, Tazien raised his eyebrows and puffed out his chest, flexing unnecessarily while making eye contact with Eiggim like a silently growling guard dog.
Brinna smacked him with a measuring spoon. “Tea sellers don’t bite, boy.”
By the time they finished the exchange, the crates were full, the clover had its own shelf, and a handful of Vatra clinked into Ilyari’s pouch—confirmation of another day’s worth of value pulled straight from the Willowgrove garden.
The Eastmarket stables smelled like hay, sweat, and a hint of half-sweet manure that never quite washed out of the soil. The lesser noble who ran it, Lord Atren Delweir, stood with one boot on a feed bucket and a pitchfork in hand, already giving orders to the boys mucking out the western pens.
“Horse and cart?” he repeated, wiping his brow. “Well, now… I usually charge more for folk in robes.”
“We’re not in robes,” Ilyari said flatly, brushing a fleck of straw off her shoulder.
“Which is why I said ‘usually.’” He grinned, all teeth and stable grit. “Got an older Tarlwin mare I can’t breed anymore. Still pulls like a sky-tram. And a one-horse cart—solid build, no rot, wheels only wobble on uphill turns.”
Tazien raised a brow. “Charming. How much?”
Delweir leaned on the pitchfork. “You want it without coin, you’ll muck my stalls for a month. Want to pay? Seventy-five Vatra for the cart, hundred and ten for the mare. No haggling unless you smell like you’ve cleaned hooves.”
“We’ll pay,” Ilyari said quickly. “But we’ll need a driver.”
“Then you’re on your own. I rent horses, not help. Good luck finding someone trustworthy with a back that isn’t rusted shut.” He spat into the straw and went back to yelling at a stablehand.
They left the stables with narrowed eyes and a scribbled parchment proving the deal, then turned their boots toward Willowgrove—but took a long, quiet detour.
They had unfinished business.
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The apothecary.
The double doors had refused to budge before, sealed tight with age and overgrowth. But now, with their garden full and a new contract inked, the time had come to break in—not to steal, but to reclaim what was theirs.
Tazien gave the right door a hard shoulder. It groaned but held.
Ilyari backed up two paces, squared her feet, and rammed the left.
The latch cracked.
“Together,” she said, eyes gleaming.
They hit it at the same time. With a shudder and a bang, the door snapped inward.
A cloud of dust and old herb scent washed out over them—musty clover, desiccated thyme, and age.
They stepped inside.
The apothecary had been still for years, but it had not been abandoned carelessly. The ground floor was open and spacious, dimly lit by long-dulled windows streaked with grime. Sunlight filtered through in narrow beams, catching on floating dust motes like soft fireflies.
Cloth-draped furniture and bundled herbs lined the walls. A large work table dominated the center, covered in old vials, rusted tools, a mortar and pestle stained with age, and stacks of parchment too brittle to handle. Dried leaves still clung to the edge of a curved preparation bench near the back, and a wall of small wooden drawers—clearly for herbs and powders—rose behind it, each drawer marked in faded ink.
To the left, past the old wooden stairs, a small hearth alcove still bore the remains of a kettle and long-dead coals.
“This place is beautiful,” Ilyari whispered. “Even like this.”
“Look at the light catch those jars,” Tazien said, brushing a cloth off the glass display case beside the door. “This wasn’t just storage. This was a shop.”
He wandered behind the counter and picked up a sealed jar labeled in looping, almost lyrical script: Blighthorn. Do not steep.
“That’s comforting.”
Ilyari walked to the back wall, where shelves displayed dried bundles still hanging upside down. Some had mummified in place, leaves curled like spiders. A workbench below them was covered in layers of dust—except for one faint handprint that made her pause.
Tazien, meanwhile, eyed the basement door—a narrow stairwell tucked beside the wall with a chain-latch and a carved emblem: a mortar ringed with stars.
“Later,” Ilyari said, sensing his interest. “Upstairs first.”
They climbed slowly.
The second level creaked underfoot but held. It opened into a modest living space—an old circular table with two chairs, a low cabinet for tea, a simple stove with an empty kettle, and stacks of books with half-legible spines.
The back of the room held a cozy sleeping area, with two single beds flanked by a worn rug and a tiny dresser. A woven blanket still rested folded at the foot of one bed, untouched.
Ilyari sat briefly on the window seat, looking down at the garden below. “This could be something again.”
“We’re going to make it something,” Tazien said, standing near the balcony doors that overlooked the back grove. “We’ve got tea. We’ve got contracts. We’ve got… magic mold fountains. This is ours now. We will even pay someone to operate this something. Obviously someone was employed here. ”
She nodded, hand drifting toward the vines she saw curling against the glass outside.
After a moment of quiet, they returned downstairs and located the trap door near the hearth that led to the basement.
The stone steps were narrow and cold beneath their boots as they descended, a single hanging lantern flickering to life with a touch of Tazien’s mana. The cellar was surprisingly large. Three chambers branched off the hallway. The first was lined with crates, their contents rotted or crumbling. The second was storage—crockery, a few rusted garden tools, a mummified bushel of garlic.
But the third…
“Oh,” Ilyari breathed.
This room was lined with shelves. Dozens of books. Carefully stacked, labeled in a looping, beautiful hand. A long table ran along the back wall, where scraps of vellum had been nailed for reference notes—ink so faded it could barely be read. Glass jars with faded labels still stood in precise rows, and one large ledger lay at the center, aged but intact.
Tazien blew dust from its surface and carefully opened it.
The script was neat, flowing, precise.
“This book shall be a record of our effort, our study, our joy. We grew not just plants here—but purpose. Rare seeds from the southern caravans. Dried hibiscus from Chaden. Feverroot from Halstra. All traded in season, tracked by the moon and the tide of travelers. We are grateful for the employ despite our humble station.”
They turned the page.
“The garden must remain diversified. Rotate the clover with the thyme. Don’t let the mint overtake the west beds. The tea trees near the pond prefer shade—build a trellis if needed.”
Another page.
“The fae keep watch. They protect the roots when we honor them. Offer calendula and milk, never under the waning moon. I hear them in the ivy sometimes. Don’t disturb the pond without leaving thanks.”
Tazien stopped flipping.
“…They believed in fae?” he said slowly.
Ilyari leaned closer. “Fairies? That’s—”
“Absurd,” they both said at once.
And yet.
They looked around at the wild, chaotic regrowth in the garden. The way the herbs twisted toward the windows. The strange pulsing of Laileeih’s buds. The fountain.
Tazien muttered, “If there were fae, I think they quit.”
“I believe the same,” Ilyari agreed.
Still, she closed the book with care and tucked it under her arm. “She mentioned caravans. And imports. If we can find when those caravans pass next…”
Tazien’s eyes lit up. “We expand the business. Exotic herbs. New teas. Three years is a long time—but not forever. We have to make Willowgrove profitable.”
“And this is how,” Ilyari said, voice soft with resolve.
The boots overhead startled them both.
Ilyari’s hand froze over the worn herbal journal, while Tazien immediately turned toward the stairwell, defensive instinct in full tilt. But a moment later, the familiar voice of Galen Thorne echoed down.
“You know,” he called, “I expected to find you buried under the manor’s third floor beams—not lurking under the garden in some dusty crypt.”
Tazien sighed in relief and shouted back, “It’s the apothecary!”
They emerged from the basement into the sunlight filtering through the dusty apothecary shop windows. The air smelled of linen, clay, and ancient herbs long turned to dust. Galen was standing in the open doorway—what was left of it, anyway—one brow raised as he surveyed the room.
“Well,” he said, stepping inside and brushing a thick cobweb out of the way. “Structurally, this place is in better shape than the manor. Probably because it’s small, self-contained, and built tight. Walls are good. Ceiling’s sound. Even the glass upstairs hasn’t warped.”
He tilted his head toward the wrecked door. “Though… the entry could use some love.”
Tazien and Ilyari glanced at each other, then at the door—currently splintered at the bottom and sagging on half-bent hinges.
Ilyari gave a sheepish smile. “We might’ve had to… push it a little.”
“It was stuck,” Tazien added helpfully.
“Mm-hmm,” Galen hummed, walking over. He pointed to the rusted iron fixture still attached to the doorframe. “That would be because it was locked.”
Ilyari’s eyes widened. “It was?”
Galen nodded. “Old lock. Probably just needed oil and a little patience.” He turned, deadpan. “You know, patience? That thing you two seem allergic to?”
Ilyari flushed and Tazien scratched the back of his neck. “We thought it was sealed by magic. Or… rot.”
“Or ghosts,” Ilyari offered weakly.
Galen gave them a long, amused look. Then, with the faintest smirk, he added, “If you’d asked, I could’ve picked the lock for you.”
That made both of them blink.
“You carry lockpicks?” Ilyari asked.
“What kind of craftsman are you again?” Tazien added.
Galen didn’t answer right away. Instead, he tapped the side of the broken lock and said casually, “Not every noble was born to silk and silver. Some of us earned our names—through coin, contracts… and a few questionable decisions in our youth.”
He left it at that.
Tazien’s eyes sparkled. “Were you a thief?”
Galen just smiled. “Let’s call it ‘talented with complicated hinges.’”
Ilyari laughed. “Remind me never to lock anything around you.”
Galen waved a hand. “No worries. You’re still kids. I only steal from adults.”
They all shared a laugh, the tension from the morning finally easing.
Then Galen glanced toward the back of the building and rubbed his neck. “Listen—I hope you don’t mind. Two of my girls came with me today. They’re about your age, Tazien. Their mother’s picking them up in an hour, but they needed something to do. Thought maybe they could sit in the garden.”
“Of course,” Ilyari said warmly. “We’re clearing the tea rows today. There’s shade by the back wall. I’ll bring them a snack.”
“Thanks.” Galen looked genuinely grateful. “I’ll be working on the front stairwell, so just holler if you need anything.”
He stepped out, calling softly to his daughters.
Two girls appeared from the path—one with tightly braided hair and a steady, assessing look, the other giggling behind her hand as she glanced shyly at the apothecary door. Both were dressed neatly in tunics stitched with fine but practical thread—clearly not noble court, but well-tended.
They entered the garden with skeptical looks, taking in the mangled rows of tangled tea shrubs, the old stone table with one leg propped by a rock, and the leaning wooden chairs Ilyari had tried to dust off.
“…This is where you work?” the braided girl asked.
“It’s being restored,” Ilyari said calmly, gesturing to the shaded spot. “We only started clearing it a few days ago.”
“Uh-huh,” the second girl murmured, still staring past her—at Tazien.
Who immediately took a strategic step back behind a tea trellis.
Ilyari, watching it all, struggled not to smirk.
“Would you like plum tarts?” she asked politely.
The girls both nodded, still trying to make it seem like they weren’t blatantly watching Tazien, who had now grabbed a sickle and was furiously cutting mint like it owed him something.
“Nice tea vines,” one of them called sweetly.
“Thanks,” Tazien muttered without looking up.
“You grow them yourself?”
“I coded them. I mean—cultivated them. Normal garden stuff. Very uninteresting.”
They giggled.
Ilyari leaned closer to him and whispered, “You’re being stalked.”
He hissed under his breath, “You said snacks, not fan club auditions!”
She laughed aloud this time.
But despite the chaos, the girls didn’t cause any trouble—and by the time their mother arrived to collect them, they’d both asked if they could come back.
Tazien, already hiding in the workroom by then, declined through the wall.
Ilyari just smiled and promised to send tea samples with Galen next time.
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