Page 68 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Seren studied the northern edge of the map while the pieces shifted without settling. Elira knew the roots, understood the dreams, and spoke of the singing as though she had heard it long before arriving in Briar Hollow. She hid weapons beneath her sleeves, lied with elegance, and offered tenderness only when she believed no one important was watching. The contradictions should have made Seren distrust her more. Instead, they made her want to understand. That was the more dangerous impulse.

Elowen gathered the loose herbs into a small bundle. “She helped him, General.”

“I know.” Seren’s jaw tightened.

Elowen tied the stems with a length of thread, allowing the silence to do the work of an accusation. "Do you?"

Seren looked again at the map, though her thoughts had already left it behind. “Helping someone does not mean she is telling the truth.”

“No,” Elowen said. “But lying does not mean every kindness is false.”

Seren had no answer ready for that. She disliked Elowen slightly for noticing. “She was outside when Wren sleepwalked.”

“She may have saved her.”

“I know that, too.”

Elowen softened by a fraction. “Then what is the question?”

Seren was quiet for a moment. The answer should have been simple.

Who is Elira Thorn?

What does she know?

Why do the roots react to her?

Instead, Seren’s gaze moved toward the covered well, then toward the northern road beyond the window, where every account, every dream, every sleepwalking child seemed to point.

“The question,” Seren said at last, “is whether she is part of the danger, or the only person here who understands it.”

Seren was quiet. The answer should have been simple. What does Elira know? Who is she? Why does she recognize symbols from ruins buried under centuries of history? Why do children say roots speak differently around her? Why does she look at old magic with grief rather than surprise?

“Whether she found Wren by chance?"

Elowen did not answer immediately. The fire cracked in the hearth. Outside, a child laughed once and was quickly hushed.

Finally, Elowen said, “I don’t think much happens by chance in this village anymore.”

Later that afternoon, Seren found Wren perched atop the low stone wall near the village square, wrapped in a shawl so large that only her muddy boots and the upper half of her face remained visible. She appeared to be conducting a grave negotiation with a crow that stood several feet away, its black feathers ruffled against the cold and its head tilted with the unmistakable impatience of a creature regretting every decision that had led it there.

Wren whispered something. The crow answered with a single harsh caw. Neither party appeared satisfied. Seren paused beside the wall, grateful for a problem that did not immediately involve ancient magic, sleepwalking children, or pale roots reaching toward grieving men. “Making progress?”

Wren looked up, and the crow seized the opportunity to abandon negotiations entirely, launching itself toward the chapel roof with several offended beats of its wings.

“Not really,” Wren said, watching it go. “He doesn’t know anything.”

“That must be disappointing.”

“It is. Birds gossip constantly, but they don’t organize their thoughts.”

Seren glanced toward the crow, which had already begun shouting at the chimney. “A common problem.”

Wren patted the stone beside her. Seren considered declining. The village hall waited behind her with a table buried beneath maps and witness accounts, the scouts were preparing to follow the northern tracks, and Roran was undoubtedly searching for another opportunity to express concern through aggressive silence. More importantly, the child beside her had become one of Briar Hollow’s most valuable and unsettling witnesses, which made casual conversation with her feel suspiciously like work disguised as rest.

Seren sat anyway.

The shawl had pooled between them, smelling faintly of rosemary and woodsmoke. Wren resumed swinging her legs, kicking the wall lightly with each pass. “You look tired,” she said.