Iris
The calendula is judging me.
I can feel it from across my cramped workroom. Three pots ofCalendula officinalis,Marigold,lined up on the windowsill like disapproving aunts at a family dinner. Their orange blooms tilt toward the weak winter sun, petals stubbornly clinging despite the frost on the glass, and I swear the middle one is giving me the botanical equivalent of a raised eyebrow.
"I know, I know," I mutter, crushing dried lavender between my fingers. The scent rises sharp and soothing. "I said I'd repot you last week."
The calendula doesn't respond. Obviously. Because I'm talking to plants in my nightgown at seven in the morning, and while plants *do* respond to intention and care, they draw the line at actual conversation. Usually.
I've thrown my work apron over the nightgown of faded blue cotton stained with years of tinctures and salves. It's not exactly professional attire, but since "professional" for me means shuffling three steps from my bed to my workbench, I'm calling it acceptable.
I add the lavender to the mortar and reach for the chamomile. My workbench is cluttered with the organized chaos of someone who knows exactly where everything is, even if it looks like a hedge witch's fever dream. Amber bottles crowd against bundles of dried herbs. A neat row of salves waits to be labeled. Beeswax pellets gleam like tiny golden pearls in their jar.
This is my favorite time of day. The quiet before Mrs. Hadley downstairs opens the apothecary, before customers arrive wanting tinctures for their aching joints or sachets to help their children sleep. Before the world intrudes with its demands and expectations.
Just me, my plants, and the gentle work of making things that help.
I grind the pestle in slow circles, feeling the herbs break down, release their essence. The magic hums low in my chest, not the dramatic surge of combat magic or the sharp crack of weather-working. Just a quiet, steady warmth that seeps into the mixture, coaxing the herbs to be their best selves.
ComfortI whisper into it.Peace. Deep sleep and gentle dreams.
The salve will help with nightmares. Mrs. Pemberton's grandson has been having them since his father left, and no amount of warm milk or soft words seems to settle him. But this will. I know it will.
I'm measuring out the last of the beeswax when someone knocks.
Not on the apothecary door downstairs. Onmydoor. The one that leads directly to my apartment. The one that precisely three people know about, and two of them wouldn't be awake yet.
I glance at the clock: half past seven. Mrs. Hadley is an early riser, but she'd just call up the stairs, not knock like she's summoning the constable.
I wipe my hands on my already-stained work apron and pad across the room. My apartment is small enough that "across the room" means approximately eight steps. The main space serves as workroom, kitchen, and living area, with a bedroom barely large enough for a bed tucked behind a curtain. The whole thing smells perpetually of herbs and beeswax, which I consider a feature, not a flaw.
At forty years old, I've finally stopped apologizing for the life I've built. This cramped apartment above an apothecary might not be what my grandmother envisioned for the Ashwood heir, but it's mine. Every cluttered surface, every herb bundle, every moment of peaceful morning work is mine. And I'm happy. Genuinely, bone-deep happy in a way I never was trying to be something I wasn't.
When I open the door, there's a messenger in postal livery standing in the narrow hallway, looking deeply uncomfortable. He's young, maybe nineteen, and he holds a thick envelope like it might bite him.
"Miss Iris Ashwood?" His voice cracks slightly on the name. The Ashwood name does that to people. It carries weight, expectations, a whiff of old power and older battles.
"That's me." I lean against the doorframe, suddenly aware that my dark hair, threaded with silver now, though I've never hidden it, is in a braid that's more optimistic than functional, and I probably have lavender in my eyebrows. My nightgown and work apron do nothing to hide the soft curves of my body, earned through years of testing recipes and enjoying the results without an ounce of shame. I like the way I look. I like the life that shows on my face and body.
His eyes widen slightly, probably comparing the comfortable, rumpled hedge witch in front of him to whatever he expected an Ashwood to look like. I'm used to the reaction. I stopped caring about it around thirty-two.
He thrusts the envelope at me like he's serving court papers. "Urgent delivery. From the Ashwood estate. I need you to sign."
The Ashwood estate.
My stomach does something complicated.
I sign his ledger with fingers that have gone oddly numb, take the envelope, and close the door before he can see my face do whatever it's doing.
The envelope is heavy paper, expensive, sealed with wax that bears my grandmother's sigil: a mountain ash tree with roots that look uncomfortably like grasping fingers. I carry it to my workbench and stare at it for a full minute, maybe two, while my half-finished nightmare salve sits forgotten.
Grandmother Elspeth.
I haven't seen her in six years. Haven't spoken to her in eight. Haven't thought about her in... well, that's a lie. I think about her every time someone asks about my family, every time another mage mentions the legendary Elspeth Ashwood, battle-mage extraordinaire, the woman who once held back an army at the Pass of Sorrow with nothing but her will and a very bad attitude.
Every time I look at my own small magic and feel it come up wanting.
Except, I don't feel that way anymore. Not really. It took me until my late thirties to realize that my grandmother's disappointment said more about her than it did about me. My magic isn't weak. It's just different. Quieter. Kinder.
