I leave her there, still cackling.
Dara hasn't moved. Still cross-legged by the mortar, pestle in her hand, watching me walk back with calm patience.
"The rooster attacked someone."
"I heard. And his name is—"
"We're not discussing it." I sit down. Take the pestle back. "Alrighty, where were we?"
"Consistent pressure."
"Right. Consistent pressure." I start grinding again. My heart's still going from the sprint across the clearing and the rooster and the screaming and the—pressure. Focus on the pressure. "The paste should turn this color. See? Dark purple, almost black at the center. That's the concentration you want. If it stays light, the petals were weak or you crushed too fast."
"How do you know when it's done?"
"Smell it."
She leans in. Wrinkles her nose.
"Copper and something green?"
"Wet earth. That green smell is wet earth. When you get both together—copper and wet earth—it's ready. If you only get one, keep going."
"Let me try again."
She takes it from me. Grinds. Lighter this time—she remembered. I watch her hands and my chest goes tight. The pestle hits the stone at a different angle than mine. Slightly off-rhythm. Still works.
"Why are you teaching me this?"
My hands stop sorting.
"Because people have zero medicine if I get killed."
"That's not what I asked."
I look at her. She's stopped grinding. The mortar sits between us, half-done paste going dark at the edges.
"I asked why you. Why now? You've been here for days and you haven't shown anyone the paste. The wound treatment, yes. The tonic preparation, yes. But this—" She nods at the mortar. "This is the thing that matters."
"All of it matters."
"This matters most and you know it."
The clearing is settling into evening. Fires being lit. Voices lowering. Somewhere Keer Jr. is shrieking at his new latch. The goats have gone quiet, which means Bram got them sorted.
"Nine years," I say. "I've been making this paste for nine years. Alone. In a cottage in the woods with nobody watching and nobody learning and nobody to tell if I got the ratio wrong, which I did, twice, badly. I figured it out because I had to. Because wolves kept showing up broken and the paste was the only thing that fixed them."
Dara waits.
"If I die—" I pick up a petal. Torn. Discard. "If I die, that's it. Done. Nine years of work, gone. Every wolf who comes in poisoned after that just dies. Because I didn't teach anyone. Because I was the only one and I stayed the only one and I let that be enough."
"So you're scared."
"I'm practical."
"You're scared and being practical about it."
"Those aren't mutually exclusive."
