With a slight shift in his seat, Ruben looks apologetically at me.
‘Any chance we can grab those herbs first and read through the notebooks in the carriage on the way to the third?’
My stomach sinks. Things are truly dire then. Time is of the essence, and I get the impression that he already believes he’s been away from her too long. Which means she really has gone downhill since I last saw her.
‘Sure thing. We can do that,’ I tell him, standing.
‘Thank you. Truly, thank you,’ Ruben says with such gratitude that I feel like maybe, just maybe, some real good could come out of me winning the Retterheld after all.
The houses in the courtiers’arc are all fairly similar: ostentatiously large, with plenty of room for entertaining or holding covert conversations. But there’s one thing that makes our home entirely unique.
The orangery was a wedding gift from my father to my mother, who, prior to their marriage, was still living in the temple of Etta with Dinah. She had visited the house plenty of times, both when they were courting and when they were betrothed, but my father said he could always tellthere was part of her that was relieved to return to the temple, not because she didn’t want to be with him, but because of the lack of plants.
The Goddess’s Garden is the largest garden in the entirety of Wrohelm, and walking among the temple’s vegetation was always where my mother was most at ease. According to my father, she got the type of grin from looking at herbs and plants that other ladies of the court got from looking at jewellery.
Which is why he arranged to have the orangery built within our home.
So many memories of my mother are sealed in that room. The way she would sometimes sing to herself as she tended the plants when she thought no one was watching. Or more often, talk to them with such tenderness and familiarity that it was like she was talking to old friends.
Right from the beginning, she taught me the differences between similar-looking plants. Such lessons were essential because one specimen could cure an ailment while the other could cause anything from a mildly upset stomach to an illness that would leave you bedridden for weeks.
‘Never assume, Rosey,’ she would say. ‘You test the fruit and the seeds, both sides of the leaves and the stems. And don’t forget the scent. Learn the scents of the leaves and berries, not just the pollen and petals. Mishaps happen, and things get moved around even here. And never allow part of the plant near your lips until you’ve checked all those things. You understand?’
She would say such things before showing me two near-identical specimens and asking me to name what was what and explain their uses, as well as if or how magic could be used to make them more potent.
Of course she never seemed to do any of those tests unless she was teaching me. Instead, she would just glance at a plant and be able to tell you every detail about it, from the uses of its roots to the aroma of its sap. Back then, I thought it was something she’d learned through practice and trial. But as I step into the orangery, I’m no longer so sure that her knowledge was entirely learned. No, I begin to suspect it was, at least in part, gifted.
As I enter the window-lined room, with slate floors beneath my feetand ceilings high enough for small trees to flourish, relief rushes through me. As with the plants in the kitchen, mum’s water irrigation system has kept working all this time. The plants are wild, cluttered and with weeds everywhere, but they arealive.
I look around the dense jungle and draw on what I remember of Noleen from before I left the slums. The rattle of her cough. The pallid sweat on her brow. What could help with that?
The question barely enters my head when something catches my eye.
‘Can you see that?’ I ask Ruben as I move deeper into the space.
He hurries from where he was standing by the door, looking around. ‘What?’
‘That plant there.’ I point to a flowerless, flat-leaved shrub that appears to be glowing ever so faintly. ‘How does it look to you?’
‘Er … green?’ he says, trying to be helpful.
‘That’s it?’ I press. It’s definitely glowing, and its luminescence seems to be increasing in vibrancy. He might not have Benny’s special eyesight, but it’s definitely something he should be able to pick up on. ‘What about the one next to it?’
‘Also green, but a bit bushy?’ His voice is hopeful, like he’s praying he’s said the right thing. But his description has me certain that I’m seeing something he’s not.
My magic is somehow illuminating the plants I need.
As I walk through an archway of dark berries, my nostrils fill with the scent of elderberry. I waste no time digging the dirt away from the roots before collecting more of the beckoning foliage. By the time I’ve collected all the plants that were glowing at me, I have a basket with over half a dozen specimens, only two of which I knew the names of before I walked in.
I pause at the threshold of the orangery, basket heavy in my hands, reluctant to cross it. This room has always been a place of beginnings. First lessons. First failures. First quiet triumphs.
I wonder which this moment will be. My first attempt at healing – will it be a triumph or a failure?
Walking out of the orangery feels like stepping away from my mother’s support all over again. I can feel her here, like her spirit is walkingbeside me. And I fear that if I leave this place, that moment of connection will be gone.
But the plants shift in my wake, as if urging me onward, and I know that Mother would have done the same. I should try to heal, even if I fail.
I draw in a steady breath and leave the orangery, knowing I’ll be back as soon as I’m able.
