The question catches me off-guard. "I... I don't know. I think I forgot how to grieve centuries ago. Forgot how to feel most things."
"I think that's the saddest thing you've ever said."
"It's just the truth."
"It's notjustanything." She's studying me with that intense focus she gets sometimes, like she's trying to see through to something hidden.
"Can I ask you something?" I whisper.
"Yes, of course.”
"Why not war magic like Mistress Elspeth?"
The change of subject is deliberate, giving me space to retreat from dangerous territory. I'm grateful for it.
"I assumed you chose what called to you," I say carefully. "Magic tends to align with nature."
"I tried war magic." She says it flatly, matter-of-fact. "When I was sixteen. Grandmother insisted. Said I was wasting my potential on 'hedge craft.' That I could be powerful if I just applied myself."
"And?"
"And I was terrible at it." She laughs, but there's old pain in it. "Couldn't throw a fireball to save my life. My defensive shields were like wet paper. Every spell I tried either fizzled or exploded spectacularly. Grandmother was..." She trails off.
"Disappointed."
"Appalled is more accurate. She said I was wasting my potential. That I was weak. That if I just tried harder, wanted it more, I could be like her." Iris turns to look out the window. "But I didn't want to be like her. I wanted to make things that helped people. That healed them. That made their lives better in small, quiet ways."
"So you chose kitchen magic."
"So I ran away to kitchen magic. To somewhere I could be good at something, even if it wasn't what she wanted." She looks at me. "Do you think that makes me weak?"
The question is vulnerable. Real. She actually cares what I think.
"No." I say it with absolute certainty. "I think it makes you strong."
"Magnus doesn't think so."
"Magnus is wrong." The words come easily now. "You're not weak, Iris. You're creating peace. Do you know how rare that is? How much power it takes to heal instead of destroy?" I move closer, drawn by something I can't name. "War magic is easy. It's just force applied with intent. Any mage with enough power can learn to throw fire or raise shields. But what you do, making people feel safe, healing hurt that goes deeper than flesh,creating spaces where people can rest, that's real power. The kind that actually changes things."
She's staring at me like I've said something profound instead of obvious.
"Your grandmother moved mountains," I continue. "Literally. I watched her do it. But mountains move back. Stone crumbles. What you're building, this space, this safety, this kindness, that's permanent. That changes people from the inside."
"You really believe that?"
"I know it." I touch her hand lightly, briefly. "I'm living proof."
For a moment, we just stand there in the warm kitchen, surrounded by the smell of bread and herbs, and something settles between us. Understanding, maybe. Or just the acknowledgment that we're both trying to be something different than what we were trained to be.
"Will you show me?" I ask suddenly. "Your magic. Not the food magic. I've felt that. But the growing magic. The life magic."
She lights up. "Really? You want to see?"
"I want to understand. What you can do. What makes it different."
"Okay." She's already moving toward the greenhouse. "Yes. Come on."
The greenhouse is warmer than the rest of the cottage, warded against winter's bite. Inside, plants grow in various states of recovery: herbs she's been nursing back to health, seedlings she's coaxing to life despite the season.
