Her throaty accent sounded like that of Kräkti, a continent located at the very top of our realm. It seemed impossible thatshe’d found her way here, but Lore appeared to be a place that drew everyone from everywhere. In fact, so many different languages were being spoken all at once that they mixed together with infectious percussion to make an addicting, never-ending song.
“Thank you for this.” I motioned to my dress and the new clothes in my hand. “Your art is amazing.”
“Your old clothes. I want them.” She pointed behind her back to the sodden mess bundled in my hand.
“These?” I held them up.
She nodded quickly.
“They are mostly ruined,” I said grimly.
“Just wet and dirty,” she said.
And tattered, snagged, and fraying.
I set them on the table next to her, not wanting to interrupt her work. She investigated the ruined pieces, bringing them so close to her that they disappeared into her veil. She then moved another piece of fabric to where my clothes had just rested.
“A trade,” she said.
It was a forest-green cloak. Embroidered on the edges like living stories were woodland creatures. Flowers and trees skirted the bottom. A few buttercups popped up as well. A happy coincidence that my favorite flowers were on this. Best yet, on the cloak’s hood were two shapes that looked eerily familiar—on one side a hedgehog, and on the other, a crow.
And the clasp that held the cloak together looked like the exact squirrel that stole the Crown Jewel Tulip. That couldn’t be possible, though.
I looked up to ask the seller more, but she had vanished.
“I can’t take this,” I said to Hesper. The cloak was worth far more than the wretched fabric I’d given her.
“It would be a great offense if you did not accept the gift.”
“Why? I only had old clothes to give her, nothing that was worth this.”
“That was not just a seller. That woman is a seer.”
Coldness covered my body despite the heat of Lore’s summer afternoon. I had not heard tell of a seer for many years. And for good reason. One could only hold seeing magic if they were descendants of the moon herself. Many of those lineages had died out by now—their power diluted by the centuries. Stories say that one knew a seer because they glowed in the dark like the moon. Now, it is only by their eyes that anyone would know they have that magic.
The seller reemerged from behind her tent to bid us farewell, and I saw her eyes for the first time. Silver. Like slivers of the moon. My heart quaked.
“Clara, are you all right?” Hesper asked, her words barely slicing through the buzzing in my mind.
I gave her a tight nod, then bolted out of the tent.
The last time a seer had come into my life, they had ruined everything.
The best way to mend a broken heart is to never let it near hurt again.
—opening line attempt 89
My mind still reeled from the seer’s gift when Hesper and I settled into our room for the evening.
Unlike Wormwood, this room was big enough for two people. A large feather bed was centered against the wall to our right, and in front sat a stone hearth. No fire blazed in it, though. The balmy summer breeze did not need any additional warmth. The only coldness in Lore came from me.
I intended this afternoon to be for cheering Hesper up; lightening the weight that retelling her story must have put on her. And yet here I was, thinking of my own untold tale. Old wounds didn’t heal with time; the scars just became harder to see until the moment they were ripped right open again, fresh blood pouring out from a place you thought was cinched up forever.
No number of pastries could soften the shock of meeting a seer. I began to fuss around the room, trying anything andeverything to rid myself of the thoughts piling up. I methodically emptied out my travel pack then repacked the items. Then, I took to the room itself. A few bits of the paper-lined walls were peeling away, so I pressed them back to where they belonged. An exercise of futility has rarely, if ever, helped an oncoming sense of dread, but I tried, nonetheless.
There were a few plant pots on the hearth, each filled with a blood-ruby ivy. None of them were in bloom—but their vibrant red leaves poured over the pot. The blooms were so rare, even Patti herself couldn’t grow anything other than the foliage. My heart pinched at the thought of home, and for a moment, I thought I saw a single leaf curl in. But it could have been a trick of the firelight. I only managed to make things die when I had magic.
If I had ever managed to obtain more than just a few wildflowers here and there when growing up, I was sure I would have killed the entire crop. But seeds were impossible to come by in that sequestered village. All we had were stubborn roots and plants that had gone to seed so many times over the centuries, a child’s magic would have no effect on them.
