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“There you are,” I whispered, relieved when it let me support its weight. “Let me see what’s hurting.”

The bone was broken. I felt for the fracture gently, hating how the terrified animal trembled despite my care. I could mend this. The familiar certainty steadied me, and the lingering anger faded.

I began to sing.

The first verse came out rough. I’d spent the morning holding back everything I wanted to say. Now, my throat ached around words I’d sung since childhood. I slowed down, listening to the life beneath my hands. The hare needed my full attention. By the next verse, I could feel the splintered edges beginning to fuse.

Its flank needed more tending. The wound ran deeper than I’d originally thought, and I shifted my palm to trace the injury. Moss thickened under my knees. I welcomed the softness without looking down, guiding the healing through the torn flesh. Then something pressed against my skirt. Roots were spreading into the gaps around me, and the fig tree’s lowest branch was bending.

I lifted my head, still singing. New stems climbed the wall, bearing tightly closed buds. Ferns uncurled beside me. I could feel the current moving through the foliage, answering the same song that guided the healing in my lap.

Slowly, the boughs drew together above me. I knew that shape. I’d knelt beneath an arch like it since childhood, touching bark worn smooth by generations of hands. But these stems were tender. The leaves were still opening.

Surely I was imagining the resemblance because I wanted it so badly. I looked farther up, tracing how the branches intertwined. I almost faltered on a note, and the hare shifted against my hand. Ashamed, I returned my attention to it at once.

Sing, daughter. For yourself. For everything living and beautiful.

The call moved through the branches, deep enough that I felt it where my palm met the earth. I bowed my head and returned to the verse. There would be time to look. Whatever was growing around me, the creature in my lap still needed my attention.

The wound knit together. I followed the healing inward, feeling for any harm I might have missed. Around us, roots settled against stone, and new leaves brushed my shoulders. By the time I reached the final verse, I no longer needed to look up to know where I was kneeling.

A shrine had taken root around me. I finished the song with my throat aching and let my hands rest for a moment. I’d imagined finding a corner here for my prayers. Somewhere quiet, where I could close my eyes and remember the altar I’d left. I hadn’t dared imagine anything like this.

The hare nudged my wrist, eager to be free now that the pain was gone. I laughed unsteadily and lowered it onto the moss. After all that, it had no more need of me. I couldn’t have asked for a better sign.

“Go on, then,” I encouraged it. “Show me you’re whole again.”

It took a few cautious steps and stopped to wash its face. I watched its paws sweep over its nose, absurdly relieved by its concern for its whiskers. When it bounded beneath the ferns, it used both hind legs without hesitation. I finally allowed myself to sit back and truly take in what had grown.

Small white flowers were opening along the vine. Beneath the arch, the moss had spread far enough for someone to kneel beside me. I touched a new leaf with one bloodied finger. Yesterday, I’d stood at the window above the courtyard and cried because I wanted to go home. Today, it felt like a sanctuary.

I still missed my home. I wanted to show this shrine to the women who would understand it as I did. But the branches were here, close enough to shelter my bowed head. I lowered my hands into my lap and offered the only prayer I could manage.

“Let me tend it well. And let those who need it find their way here.”

The words settled something in me. I didn’t know the paths beyond Petrion, or how many homes still stood this close to the Blight. I would have to learn. For now, there was a healed creature safe among the ferns and a place where I could sing again tomorrow. I stayed on my knees a little longer, listening to the hare’s small movements in the leaves.

Finally, I freed a fold of my skirt from under a fern and stood. I turned toward the house. Eryx was standing there with one hand against the stone doorframe. His serpents stretched toward me, their heads swaying slightly. I hadn’t heard him arrive. How long had he been listening?

I almost told him about the hare. The words came readily, as they always did when someone approached me after a healing. I wanted to explain where I’d found it, then show him what had grown around us. For a moment, I forgot that he’d already told me how little company he wanted.

He hadn’t asked a question. I couldn’t tell what he made of the shrine. Maybe he didn’t even care. After all, he hadn’t bothered with me the night before.

An hour ago, I would have filled his silence myself, offering him another reason to speak to me. I was tired of making the effort. I gave him a curt nod, and he returned it just as sharply. I didn’t wait for more. I brushed past him, heading back into the house.

I couldn’t just stop wanting his company because he’d refused mine. But tomorrow, I would come down to sing whether he chose to listen or not.

5

The Spore

Thalia

“Easy there. There’s plenty where that came from.”

I tore off another piece of meat and placed it beside the shrine. The little fox crept out from beneath the bush, snatched it, and retreated far enough to eat.

In the few days since I’d come to Petrion, I’d begun finding comfort in the animals here. Living things didn’t change so much from place to place. A creature with a thorn in its paw still needed the thorn removed. A hungry fox still appreciated a piece of meat. None of them needed me to explain why I’d come to the shrine or what I intended to do with the rest of my life.