Page 10 of A Witch and Her Minotaur
Cairn
ONCE THE FIRE WITCH IS gone, I get back to work, ever more grateful for the quiet and the lack of her static energy. Even without speaking, I could feel her chaos, like she’s dry kindling just waiting for a spark to go up in flames.
And flames are the last thing I need around here.
Since she didn’t finish turning the compost piles, I tack that on to the end of my day, and by the time I return to my hut, the sun is already going down, sapping the warmth from the air and casting long dark shadows that reach across the academy’s grounds, reminding me that once autumn arrives, winter is never too far behind.
Part of me is ready for the cold and the snow. I’ll still have duties around here—helping keep fires lit, shoveling snow and ice from the walkways, repairing and sharpening tools for use in the spring—but many of my tasks will fall away at the same time that the last of the leaves spiralfrom the trees, and everything slows down in the wintertime, making it a time for rest and contemplation. The other part of me dreads the somber season, when the plants I love so much have either withered into husks or have gone dormant, waiting for the warm days of spring to arrive and wake them from their slumber.
Outside my hut, I scuff my hooves on the coarse doormat, then brush the excess dirt off before stepping inside. Thanks to the witch not doing her part and me having to therefore work late, I didn’t make it back in time to light the fire before the sun started to go down. Now my hut has a chill to the air, a bite of cold that sends an irritable twinge down my spine.
I’m a man of routine—there’s a structure to my days, a pattern that I’ve come to find solace in. And yet somehow, Lyra Wilder is already snatching that solace away, throwing a fireball into my perfectly laid plans.
With a grumble, I tromp into the sitting room, drop to one knee, and sweep this morning’s ashes from the hearth. Then I stack fresh logs in the belly of the fireplace, strike a match against the stone, and coax the flames to life.
And though I’m still irked by the witch and the ridiculous community service project this has become, I do wonder how much easier this would be if she were here to light the fire for me. Even after years of being around professors and students with magic running through their veins, it never ceases to impress me, to strike awe into my heart.
The logs catch, and the small ember steadily grows, already starting to put off a bit of heat.
Grunting, I push to my hooves, then stretch my arms overhead, trying to loosen up the kinks in my muscles from a full day of work. Now it’s time to make something for dinner, take a much-needed hot bath, and then have my cup of tea while reading by the fire.
I’m determined to reclaim my evening, even if I’m a bit late getting to it because of the troublesome witch.
BY THE TIME I SINK into my chair with a hot cup of green tea, the sun has already disappeared over the horizon, and my hut is cast in shadow. The fire has warmed the sitting room considerably, and I already took the time to light a few candles. Now warm firelight dances along the walls, and my frustrations with Headmistress Moonhart and Lyra Wilder have mostly drifted away—though I’m certain the hot bath I took earlier helped.
I pull my long hair up on top of my head and hastily tie it with a cord, then take a sip of my strong green tea. As I reach for my book, I accidentally brush a stack of paper to the floor. With a slight grumble, I set my teacup down and reach from my seated position to scoop the papers off the rug.
And the first one that catches my eye is from the Columbine Botanical Conservatory.
Or rather, a graduate of Coven Crest who works there now and reached out to me a few weeks back.
I hold the letter gently, careful not to crumple it or crease the edges. My brain tells me to throw the letter into the fireand let it burn, but my heart drives me to open the envelope and remove the letter tucked so neatly inside.
It opens with a whisper, and for perhaps the hundredth time, I read the words scrawled across the page.
Mr. Cairn Axton,
Hello, old friend! It’s me, Milo. You know, that obnoxious kid who used to follow you around the gardens, asking a million questions about what you were doing and why. Well, wouldn’t you know, I went on to get an internship somewhere I can be surrounded by plants all day: the Columbine Botanical Conservatory and Community Gardens (phew, that’s a mouthful... quillful?). You ever been? It’s beautiful. So many different species of plants and trees that I’d never heard of before coming here. You should really visit if you haven’t already. I think you’d love it.
But I digress. I work here now, and word coming down the grape vine says one of our horticulturists is going to be looking for an assistant for this coming summer. We’ve got all these community gardens here, where people come to learn and grow food, and you know, every time I’m out there, I think of you for some reason. You still have those gardens back behind your hut? Ah, what am I saying? Of course you do.
And that’s why I’m writing. Because I think you should apply for the job. And I’ll put a good word in for you. Then I can irritate you like I did all those years ago, eh? Don’t act like you wouldn’t enjoyit.
All right, best be getting back to work. But think about it, Cairn. Coven Crest is a great place to be, but I think there’s more for you out here, and I think you’d really love it here.
If you want to apply, just fill out the application I included and send it back to me, and I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands. Don’t wait too long though—they’ll want to fill that position soon.
Oh, and tell the moonflowers hello for me.
Signing off with dirt-stained hands,
Milo Foster
I just about have the letter memorized at this point, know exactly how each of Milo’s letters looks scratched into the parchment.
Yet I still haven’t taken any action, haven’t put even a drop of ink on the application Milo provided.
Because who would wantmeas a horticultural assistant? Apart from Coven Crest, I’ve never worked in gardens in any official capacity. And the Columbine Botanical Conservatory and Community Gardens is a well-known, reputable conservatory—of course I’ve been there. Many times. I’ve walked the gardens, sat on the stone benches beneath the trees, wondered what it would be like to take part in such an important project.
