"What about the flowers in the basket?"
I glance at the floor. "Dead. I sorted them but I never started processing. I was—" I stop. "They're dead. Plus, they aren’t medicinal. They’re just pretty."
"Are all of them dead?"
I lean over and pick up the basket. Crumble a petal between my fingers. Brown dust. Nothing. But underneath—I push past the top layer, the wilted mess, and—
"The purple ones." I'm already pulling them out, hands working faster than my brain. "Some of them. The ones at the bottom of the pile, they were compressed, less air exposure. These might—" The petal between my fingers. Pale purple edging dark. My breath catches. "These are moonbright. I wasgrabbing everything purple in that field and I picked actual moonbright without—Kestria, hand me that cloth."
She passes it over. I spread the surviving petals out—seven, maybe eight intact moonbright petals. A handful of blue fragments that aren't, but the purple ones are.
"Is that enough?"
"For a full jar? No. Not even close." I arrange them carefully, already calculating drying times and ratios. "Maybe a quarter jar." I sit back. "Better than nothing. Barely."
"But better."
I'm already planning the processing. Need the mortar. Need to check the wax seals. Need drying time, so tomorrow at the earliest, and even then—"This buys me one treatment. One. And the next attack could be tomorrow."
"Then we find the rest tomorrow."
"If Keer hears anything."
She reaches over and takes my hand. Squeezes. Her grip is warm and steady. "Fenna's alive, Mel. You did that on a third of a jar."
"With zero margin."
"Still breathing, though. Fenna. Because of you. So stop acting like you failed when you're literally covered in the stuff that saved her."
I look at the petals spread across the cloth. Purple and blue against gray fabric.
"I need to process these." I pull my hand free. Hands need to be moving. "Before they dry out any further. And I need to check on Fenna. And yell at Bren about his dressing. And—"
"And you need to eat."
"I ate."
"When?"
"There was bread."
"When, Mel?"
"This morning. Before dawn. I think."
"Ugh, Mel!" She stands, pulling a face when her side protests. "I'll bring you food. You process the petals."
"You don't have to—"
"I'm bringing you food. You're going to eat it. This is not a negotiation." She points at the petals. "Save those. I'll be back."
She's gone, and I'm alone with a handful of purple petals and an empty shelf and Nugget waddling through the door in her lopsided sweater, trailing dirt from the garden plot.
"Nice of you to show up," I tell her.
She ignores me. Waddles two steps. Heaves up the rock she ate this morning and keeps walking.
I stare at the rock.
