“Some seek warmth in fire, some in faith. The wise find it where life persists.”

  — Sayings of the Gardeners

  The cottage crouched at the edge of the village like a battered animal—roof hunched against the wind’s bite, seams stuffed with rags the color of stale bone, every patch worn thin, listing beneath winter’s weight. Dawn did not so much break as leak through the warped shutters, a sullen pallor that painted the meager room in shades of bone and ash. Eike crouched by the hearth, coaxing the last of the peat-crumbs to embers. The fire—that frail, stubborn flicker—offered little against the press of cold creeping in through every crack. Still, he fed it with careful hands, scraping at the cinders as if fierce attention alone might conjure warmth from dust.

  Lucy’s cough rasped through the silence—a thin, needling sound, stabbing deeper than wind or hunger could ever reach. Eike turned, spoon in hand. She lay swaddled in what blankets he could spare, a wisp of a thing—paler than snow, face hollowed by fever and nights ill with breath. Her eyes met his, wide and too old, reflecting the wavering fire.

  “Here.” He held out the tin cup, its battered rim rimed with ancient soot. “Drink, Luce. Broth’s hot. Mind it.”

  Her fingers, bright with patches of chilblain, wrapped around the cup. She sipped. The steam curled up, vanishing almost before it could reach her nose. He watched her, each labored breath a tally only he seemed to keep.

  Lucy coughed again, pressing the heel of her hand to her lips. “Tastes like old boots,” she managed, feigning a scowl. “Did you find turnip?”

  Eike grunted, bracing his hand beneath her bony shoulders to lift her, then tugged the blanket coarse and scratchy up beneath her chin. “Aye. ‘Bout as tender as axe-heads. Eat it all the same.”

  She smiled—a crooked, fox-bright thing that flared quick and faded. “That’s all right. I like boots.”

  He traced the sharp curve of her cheekbone with a thumb. Her skin burned against his touch, pulse fluttering beneath the pallor. “Eat. Rest after. I’ll fetch wood before the Duke’s men are about, if I’m quick.”

  Outside, wind batted at the door, lifting the latch so it rattled—a wolf at the threshold. Eike cursed under his breath. The woodpile was already nearly gone. Four days, perhaps five, before he would be forced to range farther, risking the eyes of the tally-men who prowled the outskirts in search of what little was left to take.

  Lucy snuggled closer to the hearth, staring into the embers as if scrying for comfort. “Will Mama come if she sees we’re out of wood, d’you think?”

  He hesitated. The old ache, raw and not entirely forgotten, flared like a splinter under his sternum. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his voice level. “But better not to run short and find out.”

  Her eyelids fluttered, heavy as frost. Sleep tugged at her, chancy as a worn rope. Eike reached for another blanket, the one with the patchwork flowers his mother had stitched in softer years, and drew it up over Lucy’s chest.

  A knuckle drummed twice on the door—sharp, then soft, bird-like. Not the tally-men; they banged and bellowed. Eike rose, every muscle wary. The door swung open far enough to admit a waft of cold—and Amalia, bearing the scent of crushed sage and wild mint, hair falling loose from a green-dyed scarf.

  Her presence was a rebuke to the season—a patch of living color where nothing ought to bloom.

  “Morning, Eike,” she said, her voice low but sure. “Brought you something.” Her basket, lined with wool, cradled a clay pot and a twist of leafy stems bound by twine.

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  Lucy peered from her nest of blankets, eyes bright as thawing ice. “Is it for me?”

  Amalia set her burden by the hearth, kneeling beside Lucy. Deft hands loosened the twine, revealing dried linden blossoms, a pale slug of honey hard as amber, and a sprig of mountain thyme—precious bounty pried from winter’s tight fist.

  “For you, little wolf,” she answered, tone conspiratorial, “and for any fool brother who’ll swallow it.”

  Lucy’s giggle splintered the air, thin but genuine. Eike scowled for form’s sake, fetching an iron mug.

  Amalia measured out her ingredients with practiced ease. Flowers first, then the herb, a slow pour of hot water from the kettle. The room filled with the soft, grassy scent—a memory of green, stubborn beneath the smoke-stink and chill.

  Eike busied himself with the fire. “No potion’s turning frost to spring,” he muttered, wary—part pride, part honest doubt.

  Amalia’s eyes flicked up—gray as gull feathers, steady. “Not trying to. Just making the wait bearable. Besides, there are things winter surrenders only to those who ask nicely. My mother would say as much.” Her lips twitched, a smile edging in with the certainty of sunrise.

  He snorted, masking a reluctant smile with the back of his hand. “Your mother ever tell you turnips were edible? Think she lied.”

  “She’d say everything is, given patience and salt.” Amalia’s gaze softened as she handed the mug to Lucy. “Slowly, now. It’s warm—and sweet as summer if you mind the taste.”

  Lucy took a cautious sip, then another, nose wrinkling. “Tastes like weeds. Or goat, maybe.”

  “Goat?” Amalia laughed, not unkindly. “That’s the mountain thyme. Makes you strong as a billy, or so the old stories claim.”

  Eike watched, silent, as color crept faintly into Lucy’s cheeks. A small thing, but undeniable—a tallow candle against the dark. He wiped a hand over his mouth. “You’ve lost sleep, coming here.”

  Amalia shrugged, busying herself with the basket. “Sleep’s wasted if you’re not working for morning.” Her fingers found another bundle—something pale and stringy, tied in a weathered scrap of linen. “Thought you’d need this, too—bark for coughing. Chew it, if she can. My father swears by it.”

  Lucy eyed the offering, wrinkling her nose. “Will I get green hair?”

  Amalia leaned in, eyes wide. “Only if you wish for it hard enough. But don’t tell anyone. Folk in this village frighten easy.”

  Lucy giggled again, the wheeze softened for a moment. The sound squeezed Eike’s heart until it threatened to bleed out between his ribs.

  Amalia glanced his way, gaze steady. He fumbled the length of bark between callused fingers. “Thank you. For her.”

  She nodded, not pressing, her attention already moving elsewhere—to the fire, the battered walls, the frost feathering the inside of the glass.

  Minutes passed, measured out in scraping spoons and the gentle murmur of Amalia’s voice—herbal lore and scraps of tale woven like threads through Lucy’s slow return to sleep. Eike found himself listening despite intent; something in her words, in the steady cadence, filled the room with possibility foreign as sunlight in deep winter.

  When Lucy slept, Amalia sat back on her heels, stretching her arms. “She’s strong. Even when she seems not to be.”

  He grunted, reluctant, voice low. “It’s this place saps folk, not the sickness. Duke’s men, frost, bad ground. Only fools believe things’ll mend.”

  She watched him—eyes unblinking, wise in a way that stirred both admiration and unease. “There’s more to mending than hoping the snow will melt by itself. Roots find their way through stone, sometimes. Folk, too.”

  He frowned, uncomfortable beneath her intent gaze. “You sound like the stories the old ones told my mother—riddles and nonsense. Didn’t feed us, back then or now.”

  “Some riddles are seeds, Eike.” She stood, tucking her scarf tighter against the cold. “Feed them, see what grows. You’re stubborn enough for it.”

  He shook his head, but watched as she moved to the door, feet silent on the battered boards. The world beyond stood wrapped in pearl-gray haze—smoke from distant chimneys mixing with fresh snow, indistinguishable from one another.

  “Will you come again?” he asked, trying to keep need from his voice.

  Amalia paused on the threshold, hands splayed against the old wood—a ward, or a greeting. “If the wind allows. If you keep tending your fire—inside and out.”

  A last, lingering look, then she was gone—her scarf a banner of improbable green in the gloom.

  He closed the door, barring it against both cold and something sharper. The fire stuttered, catching the last scrap of peat.

  Eike knelt beside his sister, brushing an errant strand of hair from her brow with a rough finger. “Not much, but it’s enough,” he whispered to the dark.

  Snow tapped at the shutter, uncertain, as though deciding whether to press its advantage. In the gathering quiet, Eike pressed the bark into Lucy’s small hand and watched the faint pulse at her wrist. He remembered Amalia’s words—roots through stone—and, just for a moment, found himself believing in the possibility of green.

  Outside, the wind prowled. Inside, firelight licked across bare floorboards, and in its imperfect glow, the stubborn heat clung, thin and trembling—but there.

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  Book?1 is complete