Page 12 of Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore
Her first sale.
Violet was a florist. She was really creating her own life, andonherterms, not Guy’s. She fetched the bouquet from inside, smiling at the flowers as she relinquished them to a real customer from her new home. This felt different. This felt good. Dragon’s Rest would be a place to start over, to build something of her own, away from the taint of her past.
“It’s early for flowers,” said Quinn, her nose buried in the blooms, “and I just know my bees are going to love having you around. They usually have to fly all the way to Shadowfade Castle for nectar this early in the season. The Thornwitch was a lot of things, but she kept flowers growing year-round, she did.”
“What?” Violet nearly jumped out of her skin at the mention of her past life. She felt like she’d just finished one of Guy’s training “games,” which generally involved running for her life after he set something unpleasant and deadly loose in her bedroom after she fell asleep.
Best to be prepared for anything, petal, he’d always said.
Violet did not feel prepared for this.
“The Thornwitch,” Quinn continued, peering at her. “Oh, but don’t tell me you’ve never heard of her. One of the Dark Lord’s most trusted servants. Devastated crops, trapped entire armies in fields of poisonous thorns. Once used her vines to pull a man’s entire estate into the sea because he owed Shadowfade money.”
That last one was a lie, Violet was tempted to tell her. An earthquake had taken down the entire cliffside before she’d even arrived; she just hadn’t denied the rumors.We are thieves, petal, Guy had told her.And if our reputations are in part stolen, well, they still line our pockets.
Quinn was still talking. “No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since he was defeated. Most likely she’s gone just like the rest of them. But I’ve heard her gardens were beautiful.”
Violet looked at the crates of honey on Quinn’s cart, and another wash of homesickness overtook even the shame of hearingQuinn recount her past deeds, real and exaggerated. A little piece of her gardens, here in a jar. All she had left of it.
Build a new one, she repeated to herself.Build a better one.
“I’d love to talk about installing a hive once I’ve got everything set up,” Violet said with a smile. “And I’d love your thoughts on what I can do to plant flowers the bees will love best.”
“Anything’s better than nothing at all,” said Quinn cheerfully. “But we’ll talk. I’ll find you!” She managed to make it sound vaguely ominous.But in a good way?Violet thought. She got the sense that Quinn was a walking, talking information machine. Violet would be more concerned if she wasn’t already being careful of her words aroundeveryoneshe met.
Quinn continued. “I should get going. I need to claim my spot by the trees before Fallon and their ceramic bowls take it again. Corrin—that’s the glazier, you’ll love her—says they bet her three stelle they could usurp my place! But here.” Quinn shoved a jar of honey into her hands. “As a thank-you.”
“Oh, I—” Violet held the jar awkwardly. No one had given her a gift in years; even Guy’s “presents” were thinly veiled rewards and bribes to keep her in line.
“Come visit my stall once I’m set up,” said Quinn, oblivious to the tangled weeds of Violet’s thoughts. “I’ll introduce you to some of the others.”
Violet dragged a shaky smile to her lips. “That would be lovely.”
“We watch out for our own here.”
She tried not to hear the words as a threat.
Lies
Market Day meant more foot traffic, and Nathaniel wasn’t about to turn it down. He was contentedly explaining to one of his customers the differences between ginger and peppermint to ease nausea when the bell above the door tinkled again.
“Be with you in one moment,” Nathaniel said to the newcomer, and finished measuring herbal tea, tossing in a sample-sized packet of candied ginger for free after his customer paid. As she left the shop, he turned to the new arrival and the display of skin creams he’d been examining.
“Did you change the scent on these?” the man demanded. “The old one was better.”
Nathaniel suppressed the urge to admit that the pearlflower petals he’d used for the scent had grown too expensive, so he’d substituted the ingredient in his grandmother’s recipe for another, cheaper fragrance.
“We’re trying a seasonal change,” he finally said, forcing a stiff smile to his lips.
“Seems like lots of changes being made around here.” Thecustomer looked pointedly at the wall that separated them from the workroom turned rental.
“We don’t need all the space,” said Nathaniel as casually as he could. The unfinished follow-up to his sentence—we don’t do enough business to merit it—hung in the air like an apple on a branch that both refused to pluck.
It was no secret in Dragon’s Rest that Marsh Apothecary was struggling, and Nathaniel knew what he looked like to the people who had shopped here for decades. He’d been gone too long. He was too different now. He didn’t belong here in this town the way he once had.
When Nathaniel Marsh was nine years old, he’d decided he didn’t want to be an apothecary. He was on a trip with his mother to select new stock for the shop directly from the merchant ships that docked in Lokoa. The great port city had enthralled Nathaniel as much as it had scared him with its staggering sheer cliffs and floating docks that rose and fell hundreds of feet with the dramatic tides of the three moons. Dragon’s Rest seemed outdated and tiny by comparison.
He’d stuck close to his mother’s side as she bartered for rare herbs and ingredients that he’d never heard of and watched in awe as a gray-haired woman in dark robes swept past him to a stall that sold stranger items—faceted crystals, feathers that shone gold, and delicate leaves that looked made of glass.
