I ran down the hill, skidding to a harsh stop just above the bed.
In the midst of the newly upturned earth grew a single sprout.
The radishes. The seeds must have been closer to germinating than I thought. Was that even possible, given the state of the garden?
Or?
Or maybe…my heart treacherously hoped.
Impossible, I said.
“Clara Thorne, will you please acknowledge that you did that?” Hesper beseeched and knelt down by the garden bed, inspecting the new little life growing in the garden.
A shot of anger ran through me. I was so sick of having these conversations with her. I knew what magic felt like, and I knew intimately when I had expended magic. Nothing like that had been even close to happening ever since I left Moss. When I tried, I couldn’t get anywhere. Even now, when I sang to those seeds, there was no emptying of myself.
Everything was silent, unmoved.
Did Dwindle have magic? Like Moss?
“I think it might be a coincidence,” I said, even though I barely believed that. “Or maybe it’s—”
“It’syou,” she cut in. “How long are you going to be in denial about this?” Her voice rose as she stood to her full height.
The bliss of the day shattered all at once. The warmth in my chest blew out like a candle.
“Hesper, you have watched me try. I have beentrying.”
“No, you have been planning, you have been controlling, you have been rationing. You have not been letting anything go.”
Never enough, I thought. My old ways of thinking crept back up like poison ivy.
I’d just spent the day doing back-breaking work for her to say the equivalent ofrelax.
I marched back inside the cottage without another word, letting a perfectly honey-and-lemons-lovely day turn to ash come nightfall.
The next morning, I saw the sprout had died.
Her tongue tasted like beginnings and ends, and I was stuck in the in-between.
—opening line attempt 341
I hastily scrawled the line out, crumpled the page, and threw it into the growing pile behind me.
Edge sat on the windowsill, peering outside. He had just finished his flyover of the surrounding area, reporting back all good news. There was no sign of the Prince regathering any forces. It seemed he had depleted what small legion he had back in Lore. We were safe for now.
Warty had plopped himself right next to Edge as soon as he returned and was now nibbling at today’s scone delivery. They had officially taken up full-time residence in the library, which was now my room. The red floral armchair made for the comfiest of beds (once it was properly dusted, of course).
I sucked on my teeth, pondering what to write next. It wasn’t like going out in the garden would do much good; I might as well give writing a hearty shot. Maybe I could pen agreat book in whatever prison Eldrene would throw me into once I failed this quest.
Only a few days had passed since the Sprout Fiasco.
Hesper and I were at odds with each other yet again—the relative peace we found in fixing up the cottage evaporated like morning dew. She was annoyed at my using the sprout’s death as proof that it must have just been a weed or a bit of growth I had missed in my work. I was perplexed at her insisting that I grew the seed with this magic I apparently possessed.
Also.
Nothing had grown.
Of course nothing had grown. What did I expect? A full cup of tea to be poured from a dry, empty pot? Still, I pressed on. I would not become a pitiful, weeping mess and cite that failing people was my greatest fear. No, that was for me to cry about by myself as I washed in the mornings. I wallowed in self-pity only then, metaphorically slapped myself back into reality, and then set to work.
