was quieter than he'd been since his arrival, but not sad-pensive. Elara's arrival had stirred up things in him he'd thought long dead. Or perhaps it

he bookshelf in the living room. The pages were half-filled with recipes in a code he couldn't understand, dried flowers, and random lines o

ere was

p. And stran

u the g

n tu

ught the sun like gold threads. Her eyes were a bright blue, the same shade as the sky after a spring storm, and h

tartled into a smile

d of open curiosity children always

said proudly. "

ed. "Ela

er-of-fact. "She

thoughts spinning. "She

orgets things sometimes. Like when to stop

ughter with her smile. Her piercing eyes. The same way of tilting her head when sh

ve nearby?

ds. Mama says it used to be the schoolteacher's hous

, his interest pique

. Mama reads to me every night. Sometimes poetry. Sometimes fairytales. But she doe

e knot in his thro

him, eyes squinti

oftly. "I su

im on the step. "'That's what Mama said when she saw the lave

a small cloth, which she handed to him. A sachet

said. "You look like yo

grateful nod. "You're a

ith the bees. I don't like the bees much, but

ing through his chest. "Do

n I like

fied-direct, undaunted, and overflowing with a v

cing up again. "It's behind the cottage. Mama says it's where t

, then nodde

y behind a tall rosemary bush and a tilting birdbath. It was warm within and fragrant wi

lara's looping handwriting. Lavender, chamomile, thyme, lemon verbe

to him. "Mama says these are for protec

ight be right

cent rushing into his lungs like an old song. Clara began

"Mama still walks the fields at sunse

, heart racing. "Wh

omething. Or someone. She never said. But she always co

tting the completeness of wh

ou think... would it be all rig

. The kind of look children

. She says your name lik

, sunlight chasing her feet.

rket with her tomorr

laughter and lavender and something

sachet still held in his hand, the scent o

tside whisper