“You don’t need to blame yourself, you know,” I say gruffly. “Not for this.”
“I can’t seem to help it.”
I don’t argue. I don’t let go of her wrist, either. Her hands are warm against mine, careful in a way that unsettles me. She finishes the wrap and smooths the tape down with her thumb, lingering long enough that I feel the weight of it.
“You’re good at this,” I say, low. “De-escalation. Staying calm when most people wouldn’t.”
Her mouth tightens. She doesn’t meet my eyes. “I’m not that good at it. Not usually. Not easily.”
“You’re doing just fine now.”
That makes her still. She lets go of my hand, puts the gauze back in the tin, fusses with the supplies like she can’t afford to look at me. Somewhere above us, a floorboard gives a soft, measured creak.
“You’re not mad?” she asks.
“No. I’m not mad.”
She clears her throat, offers, “Want me to grab you some tea or something? I can finish up outside.”
“No.” I’m on my feet before she can move. “We’re done for today.”
She doesn’t push it. Instead, she turns to rinse her own hands at the sink, shoulders drawn tight. I stay where I am, flexing my bandaged fingers, the ache dulled more by her touch than the gauze. She may think I’m the one giving her emotional whiplash, but she rattles me worse.
“Thank you, Elsie,” I say finally. “It’s good you were here to patch me up.”
“Right,” she says without turning. “But if I weren’t here, you never would have been hurt at all.”
She doesn’t intend me to feel the full brunt of the guilt tucked in that sentence, I think. Or maybe she does, hoping I’ll flinch and throw it back. Instead, I let the silence stand, heavy between us, and watch the water run clear over her pale hands.
9
WELLS
We havea town hall meeting tonight. Now that Elsie’s back, one of the items on the agenda is the property transfer—which means someone’s finally going to bring up the historical designation that’s been conveniently ignored since Elspeth died.
I have big plans to stage a derailment, but my hand stings every time I so much as flex it. I’m on my way to grab some plum salve before it splits open again and ruins my evening of sabotaging Elsie’s grand plans.
I left her at the house, tucked under a blanket with a dog-eared notebook in her lap and at least two mugs of something warm on the side table. She offered to come with me, but I waved her off. Partly because I needed air, partly because the thought of her stumbling into another sharp corner while I’m benched makes my skin itch.
Not that she’s clumsy. That’s not the word I’d use. She’s capable, determined, stubborn to a fault. I’d call her a disaster waiting to happen, but even that feels unfair. She’s more like a storm that doesn’t quite know where to land.
After resting most of the afternoon, I wrapped my hand in fresh gauze, gritted my teeth, and made the short drive towardthe edge of town, where Mirabelle Grove curls out from the hillside in rows of orderly plum trees.
Achehoney’s good for bruises, muscle fatigue, tendon strain. Swallow it or rub it into your skin, and it soothes what’s been overworked, what’s tight or twisted. But for cuts—especially the kind that throb across the palm and threaten to split with every movement—you want the salve.
Sticky, opaque, the color of a snapped dandelion stem. It smells faintly of smoke and something metallic, but it seals a wound quickly enough to keep it from tearing wider.
I cross through the half-locked orchard gates without bothering to knock. Isla’s the one at the sorting table today, sleeves pushed up, breath ghosting in the cold. A couple of the orchard hands are nearby, packing jars of cider and dried fruit into crates for the general store.
The air smells faintly of woodsmoke and vinegar. Not many plums this time of year—January’s too lean for that—but Mirabelle still sells cider, preserves, dried slices sugared at the edges. Winter stores.
Although, tucked by the north fence, there’s one stubborn, forever-blooming tree. Its branches are still dusted with pale blossoms even in the dead of January. That tree is the reason Mirabelle Grove never quite empties.
The magic the founders planted here has deep roots, and this is where it chose to linger.
Isla looks up as I round the edge of the porch, hair frizzing at the ends where the wind has caught her. “Wells,” she says. “How’s it going?”
I lift my hand in answer, palm up. “Not great. Took a gutter edge to the hand.”
