Three changes of clothes. My most important herb pouches. The mortar and pestle my mother used before me. A battered journal full of recipes and notes. A winter coat that's seen better days but keeps me warm. Everything else: all my supplies, my larger equipment, my beloved plant collection will have to stay.
"Just for a few days," I tell the calendula as I water it one last time. "I'll be back before you know it. Try not to die of neglect."
Mrs. Hadley insists on packing me food for the journey. Fresh bread, hard cheese, apples from the market. She also slips a small bottle into my bag when she thinks I'm not looking. I check after she leaves.
Brandy. The good kind.
I tuck it back in with a smile.
The coach to Thornwick leaves at two. Thornwick is the village nearest to Grandmother's cottage, though "nearest" is relative when you're talking about a house deep in the forest, miles from civilization. From there, I'll have to hire a car or walk.
Probably walk. I've never been good at hiring things. People look at me, comfortable in my skin, magic that smells like herbs instead of power, and assume I can't pay. Or worse, they recognize the Ashwood name and get weird about it.
I lock my apartment door and head downstairs, where Mrs. Hadley is waiting to fuss.
"You'll text," she commands. "Let me know you arrived safely."
"I'll text," I promise.
"And if it's terrible, iif she's left you something awful then you come straight back. You hear me? Straight back."
"Mrs. Hadley..."
"I mean it, Iris. You've made a good life here. You don't owe that woman anything just because she's family."
The words lodge somewhere under my ribs, warm and uncomfortable.
"I know," I say softly. "Thank you."
She hugs me, smelling of flour and rosewater, and then releases me with a sniff. "Off with you, then. Before I get maudlin."
The walk to the bus station takes ten minutes. The streets of Millbrook are familiar and comfortable: narrow cobblestones mixed with newer pavement, shops with cheerful signs, neighbors calling greetings as I pass. This is home. This is where I belong.
The cottage in the woods is just an obligation. A brief interruption.
I keep telling myself that all the way to the station.
The driver helps me load my bag and I'm one of only three passengers heading to Thornwick, which isn't surprising, and I settle into a worn seat near the back with my bag on my lap. Through the window, I can see Millbrook's main street, the apothecary's green sign, the whole small life I've built.
Certain responsibilities.
I close my eyes as the coach lurches into motion.
"Just a few days," I whisper to no one in particular. "I'll handle whatever it is, and then I'll come home."
The first day of winter is three weeks away.
I have a feeling my small, perfect life is about to get significantly more complicated.
The bus pulls away from the station, carrying me toward the woods and whatever mysterious responsibilities Grandmother has left me.
I really should have brought more brandy.
Iris
The bus dropsme at the edge of Thornwick just as the sun is setting, which feels appropriately ominous.
Thornwick is the kind of village that appears on maps with apologetic footnotes. Population: maybe two hundred. Notable features: one inn, one general store, and a collective suspicion of outsiders that could curdle milk at twenty paces. The villagers watch me disembark with the studied disinterest that means they'll know my shoe size and dietary preferences by morning.
