Page 4 of The Warlord's Wildflower
I just know I don’t like yelling. I don’t like pressure. And I really don’t like being reminded that, even here, my body might still be seen as something to bargain with.
Beatrice doesn’t respond. She just turns away, arms still locked tightly over her chest like armor.
I lower my eyes, wishing I could disappear into the earth. I want to say something, to fix things between my friends. But all I can do is fidget with my skirts, my voice locked somewhere behind my ribs.
“Maybe I’ll go see Elda,” I mumble softly, more to myself than anyone else. “She was going to show me how to bind a fever with willow bark today…”
Maeve nods gently, as if she understands exactly what I’m doing, slipping away before the storm starts again.
I don’t look back as I walk away.
The path to Elda’s cottage winds through the garden and along the edge of a stream, just past some sun-dappled trees. The stones are warm beneath my feet. I wiggle my toes a little as I walk, enjoying the heat, even though I know I probably should’ve worn shoes. Tomorrow, I’ll wear the sandals Maeve gave me.
I like being barefoot. It makes me feel… connected, I guess, like I belong in the garden, just another gentle thing growing under the sun.
The cottage is nestled beneath a crooked tree, its branches heavy with white blossoms. There are bundles of drying herbs hanging from the porch beams.
I knock softly on the wooden door, then poke my head in. “Miss Elda?”
“Annie, child,” comes the warm reply, voice cracked with age and kindness. “Come in, come in. I was just thinking of you.”
I step inside and shut the door gently behind me. The cottage smells fragrant with something simmering, maybe elderflower.
Elda is sitting at her work table, sorting petals into a little clay bowl. She’s wrapped in a shawl, her gray hair hanging in a long braid down her back, her horns poking through the fringe.
“You’re not wearing shoes again,” she tuts affectionately, peering down at my feet.
I flush a little. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry, my dear. Just don’t burn your toes off. The stones can be cruel.” She pats the stool beside her. “Sit. Let’s do something useful with those clever hands.”
I perch on the stool, folding my hands in my lap. “What are we making today?”
“Cold medicine,” she says, handing me a handful of crumbled leaves. “For fever and aching bones. You’ll need to know this come winter when all these brawny Bulls start sneezing like new Calves.”
I giggle softly, then press my lips shut. I always worry that my laughter sounds silly. But Elda smiles like it pleases her.
She shows me how to crush the leaves properly, how to add them to honey, and boil it down just so. We mash roots with a stone pestle and line little cloth sachets with chamomileand eucalyptus. She teaches me to cut ginger thin as ribbon, to recognize the signs of a brewing fever, and to cool a cloth with willowbark-soaked water.
“Now, this here,” she taps a yellow flower. “This one’s called elecampane. It opens up the lungs. Clears the airways like a breeze through a closed window. If someone’s wheezing or can’t breathe, this’ll help them.”
I nod solemnly. “Elecampane,” I whisper, committing it to memory.
She watches me for a long moment, then pats my hand. “You’ve got soft hands, Annie. But, they’re strong, too. The best healers are like that.”
My chest warms at the praise. I’m not sure what to say, so I just look down at the tiny glass jar in my palm filled with the pale syrup we made together. I feel…calm here. Useful. Like I’m slowly becoming someone who might matter.
After we tidy up, Elda disappears into a cupboard and returns with a tiny woven basket lined with cloth. She fills it with the herbs we used today, some already bundled, some loose, and tucks a sprig of fresh mint on top.
“For you,” she says, placing it in my arms. “So you can practice. And maybe steep some tea if the nerves get to you tomorrow.”
My throat tightens a little, but I manage a small, grateful smile. “Thank you, Miss Elda.”
“Shoo,” she smiles, walking me to the door. “Go, before your feet get cold. And keep your wits about you tomorrow, tournaments tend to stir up more than just dust.”
I step out into the late afternoon light, the breeze tugging at my skirt. The little basket feels light in my arms, but it’s filled with so much more than leaves.
The air is cooler now, and the crickets are starting their songs. I walk back to my little room, the basket of herbs clutched in my hands. A small comfort, especially since everything is still so new.
