The carriage rocks to a halt at the edge of a small, sun-drenched clearing. Beyond it, nestled beneath the canopy of a copse of olive trees, stands a modest cottage. The walls are whitewashed, the roof thatched and slightly weathered, but the place is alive with color. Pots of herbs crowd the windowsills—lavender, rosemary, and something that looks like wolfsbane. Wreaths of dried sage and bundles of wildflowers hang from the eaves, swaying gently in the warm breeze. A stone path, half-covered in creeping thyme, leads to the front door, which is painted a faded, cheerful red.
It’s quaint. Some might even say picturesque. And yet somethingabout it puts me on edge.
Nadya shifts beside me, twisting her fingers in the folds of her skirt. “I don’t even know if she’ll remember me,” she murmurs. “I was only a girl the last time we met.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out.”
It’s a little cooler here than it is at the capitol. There’s a weight in the air—something that feels like it’s been lingering since long before we arrived. I think of the stories of Bastosi witches and wonder if that strange thing I’m feeling in the air is a spell.
Sir Holden opens the carriage door, scanning the surroundings with his usual caution. After we disembark, he waits silently by the carriage as Nadya and I step onto the path.
Nadya hesitates, brushing her curls behind her ear. I can tell she’s nervous, and I don’t blame her. This matters to her. I’ve dragged her along to live in Hedera with me, essentially making her give up her life in Delasurvia, upending her daily life of being surrounded by friends and romantic interests and family. All of it for me. So I can give her this. I can be the supportive friend she’s been to me through all of this.
I reach out and squeeze her hand to let her know I’m here for her.
She gives me an understanding smile. When we reach the cottage door, she lets out a long breath before rapping on the faded, red wood.
For a long moment, nothing happens. Out of the corner of my eye, I think the curtains move.
The latch clicks.
The door opens just a crack. An older woman peers out, her eyes sharp and wary beneath the hood of a sheer linen shawl. Her skin is rich and warm like Nadya’s, though hers is marked with faint lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes. Silver streaks wind through the mass of ebony curls piled atop her head, but there’s a liveliness to her expression, an alertness that suggests she misses nothing.
When her gaze lands on Sir Holden—looming and armored—her lips thin. “I don’t take visitors,” she says, her voice low and cool.
Nadya steps forward hastily. “Auntie Tia,” she says softly. “It’s me. Nadya.”
The woman freezes. Her dark eyes narrow as she studies Nadya’s face, as if peeling back the years. After a moment, her mouth softens. “Gods above…” She pushes the door open wider, her gaze sweeping over Nadya’s curls, her warm, brown eyes, the brown skin that matches her own. “I should’ve known. You’ve got your grandmother’s face. Come closer, child. Let me see you properly.”
Nadya moves toward her, and Tia cups her face with both hands, studying her intently before sighing.
“You’re all grown up, child,” Tia says. Her voice gentles as she releases her hold.
Nadya blinks rapidly, her usual quick wit faltering. “I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me.”
Tia’s mouth twists faintly. “Family is family. You’ll always be welcome here.” Her gaze shifts to me, and she tilts her head slightly. “And if I’m not mistaken, the Princess of Delasurvia is gracing my doorstep as well.” She doesn’t fall into a full curtsey, but her frame bends a bit as she inclines her head.
I straighten, offering a polite nod. “It’s an honor to meet you, madam.”
Something flickers behind her eyes—something unreadable—but her voice remains smooth. “I met you once, when you were only knee high to me. And my condolences to you, Your Highness. I was fond of your mother, what little I knew of her. She had a kindness about her that was rare among royalty.”
I swallow the ache that rises at the mention of my mother and nod. “Thank you,” I say quietly.
Tia’s gaze lingers on me for a breath longer than is comfortable before flicking to Sir Holden. Her mouth hardens again. “I don’t like armed men near my door,” she says flatly.
“He’s only here to ensure our safety,” I explain, already bracing for his response. “And rest assured, he will stand sentry at the carriage.”
Sir Holden’s jaw tenses, but after a moment’s pause, he gives a curt nod.
Tia sniffs but steps aside. “Come in, then,” she says, waving usthrough. “If you’ve come all this way, I suppose you didn’t do it just to stand on my doorstep.”
The air inside the cottage holds a cozy warmth, fragrant with dried herbs and something faintly sweet, like honeyed pears. The space is small but well-kept, everything in its proper place. Sunlight streams through the open windows, illuminating shelves lined with glass jars, each labeled in a precise, looping hand. Bundles of herbs hang from exposed beams, their earthy scent blending with the faint tang of dried citrus. A wooden worktable dominates the far wall, its surface scattered with parchment, half-ground powders, and a delicate mortar and pestle.
A small hearth flickers beneath a wooden mantel, worn but tidy. A quaint sitting area is arranged around a low table. There’s no extravagance here, but the simple beauty of the place is undeniable.
Tia gestures toward the cushioned chairs. “Sit. You’re making me tired just standing there. Tell me what brings you to Bastos.”
Nadya and I settle into the chairs, but Tia remains standing.
