Page 38 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Her pulse slowed. “Careful,” she whispered into the dark, though she was not certain whether she spoke to herself, the village, or whatever listened below it.

The world offered no explanation. Eventually, she returned to bed. Sleep did not.

Rain arrived at dawn—soft at first, then steadier, transforming the roads into ribbons of mud and painting the valley in shades of silver and gray. The weather suited Briar Hollow. By midmorning, the village looked even more like a place trying to remember how ordinary worked. People stepped carefully through the mud, exchanging greetings with determined cheer. Shop doors opened. Smoke rose. A child laughed somewhere and was hushed too quickly.

Aelira found herself beside the well shortly before midday, crouched before a cluster of pale roots that had emerged from the earth near the stone foundation.

The roots fascinated her. Not because of their appearance. Because of their behavior.

She brushed mud from one with the edge of a gloved finger and studied the exposed surface. Smooth. Too smooth. No fibrous ridges. No rough bark. A faint translucence beneath the outer layer, as if moonlight had been trapped inside living tissue. It pulsed once when she leaned closer.

She did not touch it again.

“Most people stare at paintings.” The voice startled her less than it should have.

The woman standing nearby possessed the unmistakable posture of someone accustomed to solving other people’s problems while pretending not to resent them for creating more. Practical clothing. Sharp eyes. Sleeves rolled despite the cold. A satchel at one hip filled with what smelled faintly of dried herbs, bitter salves, and old linen.

A healer. The conclusion arrived immediately.

The woman crossed her arms. “You’ve been staring at those roots for nearly ten minutes.”

“Seven,” Aelira said. The healer blinked, unamused. Aelira looked back at the roots. “Nearly eight, if one counts the interruption.”

The woman laughed once, short, and surprised. “You’re not from around here.”

“I have been told.”

“I’m Elowen.”

“I’m Elira.” The lie settled comfortably between them.

Elowen extended a hand. Aelira accepted it. The healer’s palm was warm, calloused, and faintly stained with something green near the thumb. Not decorative green. Medicinal. She smelled of lavender, ironwort, and sleepless concern.

Elowen looked from Aelira to the roots. “You know something about them?”

Aelira smiled faintly. “I know they are roots.”

“Deeply helpful.”

“I try not to overwhelm people with brilliance too quickly.”

Elowen’s mouth twitched despite herself. Then her expression sobered. “They started appearing three weeks ago. Small at first. Near the northern field. Then the well. Now half the village has them in cellars, barns, foundations, gardens.”

“Have they harmed anyone?”

“No.” Elowen hesitated. “Not directly.”

Aelira heard the shape of the unsaid thing.

“Not directly is a physician’s phrase when the body has become too complicated for comfort.”

The healer studied her a little more closely. “Are all scholars this cheerful?”

“Only the honest ones.”

“That must be popular at parties.”

“I am rarely invited twice.”