Lilia
“Please grow,” I whispered to the plants behind our cottage. I hummed to them to bring some cheer into my dying garden, sensing it was useless.
Plants needed water, sunlight, and nutrients—nutrients our depleted soil no longer provided. I curled my fingers into the ashy dirt that should be rich and dark. The sage I’d planted three weeks ago had given up its fight to survive in this harsh setting, and its brown leaves curled and drooped.
I sat back on my heels as I assessed the rest of my garden and moaned. The thyme had turned woody. The chamomile refused to bloom. Even the hardy rosemary looked gray and defeated. And the vegetables? They’d been the first to fall. I’d collected them in a compost pile to speed up the decomposition process so they could one day enrich the soil.
My grand-mère would have gasped in dread to see the state of what was once her beloved garden. She’d taught me everything I knew about plants and their magic—the green witch’s art, she’d called it, passed down through the women in our family. But then again, she hadn’t had to live under Queen Mireille’s reign, clawing to survive.
A cough rattled from inside the cottage, racking his small, frail body.
I closed my eyes, counted to three, then stood and wiped the soil from my hands. They were stained green and brown from hours tending the garden, one that had suffered as we did.
I took a deep breath to ground myself before I went inside. Inside the cottage, I found my mom sitting beside my younger brother’s bed. Henri’s eyes were closed as he recovered from the cough. Mom appeared just as exhausted, drawn from the worry of watching a loved one struggle to breathe. She hardly slept anymore, attuned to any signs that he might need her.
She glanced up and caught my eye, locking with my gaze just long enough to communicate her concern. Turning back to Henri, she touched his forehead before standing and gesturing for me to exit his room with her.
Once she closed the door, I whispered, “Does he still have a fever?”
She nodded with a grim expression as she headed over to sit in a worn chair. “It’s even worse.” She rubbed her forehead. “He asked for your father again.”
My ribs tightened. My dad had been dead for three years. The fever had lured him so deep into delirium that there was no return.
And for Henri’s fever to spike…
No, he was only nine years old. Far too young to be stolen from us. Hadn’t we lost enough?
“What can we do?” I asked, my voice catching as I walked over and sat across from her. “I’ve checked the books again for how to treat them. But we don’t have the right plants.”
She exhaled, her shoulders slumping. “And we won’t find them here in the village either.”
No, we wouldn’t. Maren’s shelves were empty. Bess had nothing to help. And our gardens…depleted.
We’d lived this way for over three years now, since the queen had tightened her grip on our region like squeezing her long, sharp finger around a throat. Costs rose despite her promises to ease our suffering. Our taxes rose as she took an increasing cut of any value. She was a monster who had lied and lied and grown too powerful. The land suffered. We all suffered.
Except for her and the sycophants in her inner circle. No, they grew richer with each decadent breath, toasting each other in their lavish ballrooms.
At our expense.
The land would recover eventually, given time and rest.
But Henri didn’t have time.
“There’s a village,” Mom said slowly. “Beyond the forest. Past the queen’s reach. There’s a legendary healer there, named Elisabeth. She’ll have what we need to help Henri. I’m sure of it.” She nodded once as if to solidify her resolve.
My mouth fell open. “That would take days.”
“Not if we cut straight through the forest.”
“Mom, no,” I protested, while my heart thumped faster. “The stories about what’s in there. The stone-watchers… The beast—”
“I know what they say about the forest,” she cut me off, her voice steady. “Stories. That’s all it must be.” Her voice lowered. “I also know what happens if we do nothing.”
I glanced back at Henri’s door, my heart swelling. He was twelve years younger than me and looked up to me, believing I could fix anything. He’d brought me wounded birds and rabbits and asked me to make them better.
I’d do anything to make him better.
“I’ll go,” I said. “I’ll ask her to come here.”
“No.” She stood and headed to the stand where we hung our traveling cloaks. “It’s too long to go there and back. And it’s highly unlikely she’ll make the trip. No one wants to come here.”
“Mom—”
“I’ll take him in the cart and we’ll leave at dawn.” She pulled out the smaller cloak, the one we’d made for Henri last winter. “Besides, the cool air might help break the fever. We’d reach the healer in hours instead of days, and she can treat him immediately.”
With her determined tone, I knew there was no talking her out of it. “Fine, I’ll come with you.”
“No,” she said with a resolute shake of the head. “Stay here and take care of the house.”
“But—”
“I won’t risk both of my children by going through the forest.”
“So you know it’s a risk,” I began.
She fixed her eyes dead on me. “I don’t have another choice. If I don’t take him…” Her voice trailed off as she gazed toward the window.
“But…” I began to argue, but the tightness of her jaw snapped my mouth shut. It was clear she’d made her decision. No doubt she’d weighed all risks, all options, and was doing what she thought was best for us.
I couldn’t add more grief to her already heavy shoulders. “Okay, I’ll pack supplies.” One thing I could do to help them on their journey was to ensure they had everything they’d need, but I had to consider not adding too much weight that would slow them down.
The sooner they went and did this, the sooner they’d return.
My sleep was stuttered that night. Dreams of winged beasts, glowing eyes, haunting statues… The dark legends of the shadows in La Forêt de Veillepierre.
Before the sun rose the next morning, I peeked into Henri’s room. He was still, too still. He lay with his small face turned toward the wall. His cheek was pale, and dark circles marred the soft area beneath his eyes. His short, dark hair was damp at the temples. One hand had escaped the blanket and lay open on the pillow beside his face, the fingers slightly curled. He looked younger in sleep, and too thin.
As I walked over to check on him, he took a ragged breath.
I exhaled, placing my hand on my heart as I sagged against the wall. Mom was right. He needed help, and we wouldn’t find it here in our village.
Last night, I’d packed the cart with basic supplies. This morning, I added the last of the food and water. They’d need it for their journey more than I would. I’d find something to eat.
Mom wrapped Henri in the cloak, his small body frighteningly light in her arms. He mumbled something I couldn’t make out, one hand clutching at her sleeve.
“We’ll be back before dark.” Mom paused on the threshold, sunlight catching the silver threading through her dark hair—more silver than I remembered, though I’d been watching it come in for years. She was a few inches shorter than me, but her straight posture made her seem taller. The lines around her mouth and eyes had deepened this past year, and her cheeks had lost their fullness. I’d inherited my dark hair and hazel eyes from her, but where my face tended to show my emotions, she’d mastered the quiet way to hide her worries.
Henri coughed. I kissed his forehead and then touched my lips. His skin was too hot, like touching the sun. Sharp memories of my father’s illness returned. Would this be the last time I saw my brother? I wet a cloth and placed it on his forehead to help cool his temperature.
Once they were settled for the journey, I hugged Mom and said, “Be careful.”
“We’ll be fine,” she assured me with a forced smile.
The sun had barely begun to rise over the dying fields, painting them in amber and rust, as my mom and Henri headed west.
Once their figures grew so small that I could no longer see them, I stepped back inside. I pulled out my favorite book on plant healing and read again about remedies, longing for herbs that might as well be on another planet.
They’ll be back before dark, I assured myself.
They weren’t.
When evening came and still there was no sign of them, I lit the hearth and sat before it, counting my breaths.
Once. Twice. Three times.
My mother was smart and cautious. She wouldn’t stay past dark unless something had gone wrong.
The forest lay to the west.
I couldn’t see it from the village, not directly, but I felt it—a presence at the edge of my thoughts. La Forêt de Veillepierre. The forest of stone-watchers.
The stories returned to me in pieces. A castle swallowed by roots and time. Men turned to stone. A beast that flew only at night.
La Forêt de Veillepierre. Where Mom had gone with Henri that morning—and hadn’t returned.
I pressed my palm against the doorframe. Maybe they’d decided to stay the night. Maybe the healer had insisted on keeping Henri for observation.
A thousand more maybes danced in my mind.
But maybes weren’t answers.
If they didn’t return by morning, there was only one thing to do.
Go find them.
