“Brum-Brum’s a very cooperative conversationalist, just not with words.”
“Speaking of peeking inside heads.” Casimir waited until I met his eyes. “Brumous ‘said’ the two of you found your stepmother having a conversation with a rogue werewolf. Can Zane try to readyourmemory of that? Brumous only showed the rogue’s face and shared his scent. Not much for us to go on.”
“I guess so, but I don’t know if it’ll work because of the—”
“Whisperbind,” Casimir finished when I couldn’t.
“Won’t hurt to try.” Zane moved to sit on the edge of the couch facing me. “All right, farm girl. Bring the memory to the front of your mind so I don’t have to dig around for it.”
As he framed my face in his palms, I stared into his gingerbread eyes and let myself remember.
24. By My Side
~ Three weeks ago ~
Seri
The early spring sun was warm on my back, but the soil beneath my fingers felt wrong.
Worn and lifeless, like it had forgotten how to breathe.
I knelt in the middle of the vegetable garden, my hands sinking into the dirt. It used to be so different. Papa would hum as he worked, his big, calloused hands moving with a magic that made everything grow. He’d kneel, suspenders slipping off his bony shoulders, and sing to the seedlings until they stretched toward his voice. The tomatoes were always plump and red, the carrots straight and sweet, and the air smelled like green things thriving.
Now, the rows were patchy. All the early spring crops I’d planted last week were struggling despite the sun and water and love I was giving them. I laid one side of my face against the furrow, listening for the heartbeat of the land Papa swore lived beneath us. Only silence answered.
“Come on,” I whispered, brushing my fingers over the leaves of a tiny kale plant. “You can do it. Just try, okay? Please?”
The kale didn’t answer, of course. It just sat there, unimpressed by my pleading. I sighed, sitting back on my heels and wiping my forehead with the back of my hand. My hair had escaped its braid, and a few stubborn curls stuck to my damp skin. I could almost hear Papa’s voice, teasing me.
“Seri, you’re fussing again. Plants don’t need fussing. They need patience.”
I wasn’t sure I had any of that left. Not when Arabesque’s shadow fell over everything, turning the homestead into something cold and unrecognizable. I didn’t know how much longer I could keep pretending everything would be okay.
ThatIwas okay.
Reviving the garden wasn’t just about the vegetables; it was about reclaiming my home, about finding a way to escape Arabesque and her daughters.
I glanced over my shoulder at the house, its windows dark and uninviting. They were probably inside, scheming or lounging or doing whatever it was they did when they weren’t making my life harder. Josslyn was safe for now, tucked away in her room, the baby monitor clipped to my waistband, and Brumous was napping in the shade of the old oak tree right next to me.
At least they’re okay. That’s something.
My hands moved faster, pulling weeds and loosening the soil. I poured water from the can, watching it soak into the ground like a promise. Maybe if I tried hard enough, if I poured enough of myself into this little patch of earth, it would remember what it was meant to do.
“I’m not giving up,” I muttered, more to myself than the plants.
Brumous stirred under the tree, his blue eyes blinking open. He padded over, his paws leaving prints in the dirt. He tilted his head as if to say,Plants sad.
“Yeah,” I admitted, brushing a hand over his fur. “But we’ll fix them.”
He nuzzled my hand, his presence always a comfort. I leaned into it for a moment, letting myself breathe. A beetle scurried by, its iridescent shell catching the light before he snapped it up.
“A little extra protein, huh?” I smiled as I petted his ruff.
The garden might be struggling, but it wasn’t gone. Not yet.
And neither was I.
My gaze drifted to the empty chicken coop, its door hanging crookedly on broken hinges. The silence there hurt my heart. No clucking, no scratching, no flurry of feathers. Just emptiness.
