Mrs. Hadley makes a sound that suggests she has opinions about what Elspeth Ashwood was and wasn't. "You're allowed tofeel however you feel, dear. Even if that feeling is 'good riddance and don't let the door hit you on the way out.'"
I snort. Unladylike. Grandmother would have hated it.
"The cottage though." Mrs. Hadley taps the letter. "That's something. Your own home. Space for a proper stillroom. You could plant a real garden."
She's trying to find the bright side, bless her. But we both know what the cottage means. It's not just a house in the woods, it's the Ashwood estate, the seat of my family's power. It's a statement. A legacy.
It's everything I ran away from.
"I don't want it," I say quietly.
"Maybe not." Mrs. Hadley pats my hand. "But you've got it anyway. And you've got three weeks to decide what to do with it."
Three weeks. The first day of winter. The turn of the wheel and magical law demands I take control of the cottage before then or let it rot.
I look around my tiny apartment, at my plants on the windowsill, my cluttered workbench, my narrow bed visible through the curtain. Everything I own fits in this space. Everything I've built fits in this space.
It's small. It's cramped. It's absolutely perfect.
And Grandmother's last act is to drag me back to the world I escaped.
"Typical," I mutter.
Mrs. Hadley squeezes my shoulder. "Three drops, by the way. For the rheumatism tincture?"
"Three drops," I confirm absently. "And tell them to warm it slightly before application. Works better."
She leaves me alone with the letter and my thoughts.
I should get dressed. I should finish the nightmare salve. I should go downstairs and help with the morning customers,because Wednesday is always busy and Mrs. Hadley can't manage alone.
Instead, I pick up the letter and read it one more time.
Certain responsibilities.
Magical matters.
Do not dawdle.
Even dead, Grandmother is giving me orders.
The contrary part of me: the part that chose kitchen magic over combat spells, that ran away to work in an apothecary instead of taking my place as an “Ashwood mage” wants to crumple the letter and throw it away. Wants to ignore it completely. Wants to prove that she doesn't get to control me, even from beyond the grave.
But the practical part of me, the part that's forty and sensible and knows how magical inheritance works, knows I can't.
If I don't go, the solicitor will come looking. The estate will sit empty, and abandoned magical houses have a tendency to become problems. And there's that phrase:certain responsibilities. Knowing Grandmother, that could mean anything from maintaining protective wards to...
I don't let myself finish that thought.
"Fine," I tell the calendula, which has returned to its judgmental tilting. "Fine. I'll go. I'll see what she's left me. And then I'll come back here and pretend it never happened."
The calendula doesn't look convinced.
Honestly, neither am I.
By noon, I've finished the nightmare salve (labeled with careful instructions), helped Mrs. Hadley with the morning rush (seventeen customers, including one who wanted to argue aboutthe price of feverfew), and packed my life into a single canvas bag.
It doesn't take long. I don't own much.
