Her stomach tightened.
"Found something?" Moira asked.
"Maybe." Chloe turned to the relevant section and began to read.
The text was dense, written in the kind of formal academic style that made her eyes want to cross. But the message was clear enough. When land sickened without natural cause, when crops failed and wells turned sour and animals behaved strangely, the old communities had a reliable scapegoat.
Druids.
Not earth witches. Not nature mages. Not the dozens of other practitioners who worked with soil and plants and growing things. Specifically, druids.
"This is ridiculous," Chloe muttered.
Moira leaned forward. "What does it say?"
"That druids are the most likely cause of unexplained land sickness. Because our connection to the earth is involuntary and therefore uncontrollable." She read aloud, her voice flat. "'Unlike practitioners who channel external forces through learned ritual, those of druidic blood possess an innate bond with the land itself. This bond cannot be severed, suppressed, or fully directed. As such, the druid may affect the soil without intention or awareness, making them inherently suspect when blight occurs.'"
"That's..." Moira paused, choosing her words. "Problematic."
"It's garbage." Chloe closed the book harder than necessary. "Earth witches work with nature every day. They cast spells, they channel energy, they actively manipulate growth patterns. But when something goes wrong, nobody blames them. They blame the druid who can't even explain how her own gift works."
Moira was silent for a moment. "I think that's exactly why."
"What do you mean?"
"Earth witches have a practice. A methodology. If something goes wrong, you can examine their spellwork, trace their rituals, find the mistake." Moira tapped her fingers on the table, thinking. "Druids don't have that. Your connection is in your blood. You can't show someone your spell and prove it wasn't you. There's nothing to examine."
Chloe grinded her teeth. "So we're guilty because we can't prove we're innocent."
"Historically, yes." Moira's voice was gentle, apologetic. "It's not fair. But fear rarely is."
Chloe stared at the stack of books, her appetite for research suddenly gone. This was why she'd never talked about her blood. Why she'd spent years trying to ignore the way her hands tingled when she touched soil, the way she could feel plants reaching toward her like they recognized something in her. It was easier to stay quiet. To be useful without being understood.
But staying quiet hadn't protected her in Portland. Or Asheville. Or any of the other places she'd tried to belong before Hollow Oak.
"How rare are druids, exactly?" she asked.
"Very." Moira pulled another book from the stack, flipping to a marked page. "Most of the old bloodlines died out centuries ago. The ones that survived tend to be diluted. A great-great-grandparent with the gift, passed down so faintly that descendants might never know they carry it."
"And full druids?"
"Almost unheard of. There are maybe a dozen documented cases in the last hundred years. Most of those are contested."
A dozen. In a hundred years.
Chloe thought of Wendy, her sister, with her cryptic advice and her refusal to explain anything directly. Wendy had called it "the old green." Had talked about it like it was something precious, something worth protecting.
She'd never mentioned that it also made Chloe a target.
"Does Hollow Oak have any history with druids?" Chloe asked.
Moira hesitated. "Not that I've found. The town was founded by fae and shifters, mostly. Witches came later. If there were ever druids here, they didn't leave records."
"Or they learned to keep quiet."
"Possibly."
Chloe pulled the book back toward her, forcing herself to keep reading. Knowledge was armor in Hollow Oak. That was something she'd learned early. The town respected those who understood its history, its magic, its rules. If she wanted to survive the whispers, she needed to know more than the people spreading them.
