Page 39 of The Last Rose of Ashwood

Elowen gave another reluctant laugh, then glanced toward the roots as rain tapped softly against her hood. “If you’re interested in strange roots, you might as well come with me. People have been bringing me every odd thing they find, as if I can cure dirt.”

“I would not presume to interfere with your dirt practice.”

“That means yes?”

“It means I am curious.”

“Dangerous habit.”

Aelira rose. “Frequently.”

By afternoon, they were sharing tea in Elowen’s home.

Not because Aelira intended to become involved. That would have been foolish. Attachment often arrived disguised as usefulness, and Aelira had survived ten years by distrusting any path that led too quickly from observation to responsibility. Unfortunately, Elowen asked questions worth answering.

Practical questions, of course.

When did the roots first appear? Which houses? Which children dreamed first? Did the animals react before or after the sleep disturbances? Did anyone hear sounds beneath the floors? Were there wells nearby? Old shrines? Buried stones? Foundations older than the current village?

The healer’s home smelled of herbs, woodsmoke, dried lavender, and worry. Shelves crowded the walls, lined with jars, remedies, notebooks, old ledgers, and bundles of plants hanging upside down from ceiling beams. A kettle steamed over the hearth. Rain whispered against the windows. It was a lived-in house, cluttered not from neglect but from use.

Aelira found herself unexpectedly comfortable there. That should have warned her. The first interruption came before the tea cooled.

A mother arrived carrying a boy who looked as though sleep had been taken from him one night at a time until only the shell remained. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His small body sagged against his mother’s shoulder, but every few seconds he jerked awake with a breath caught halfway between panic and sobbing.

Fear lingered in every line of him. Not ordinary fear. Aelira’s attention sharpened.

She had seen that expression before. Years ago, in villages built too near weakened Earthspeaker sites, places where old magic seeped upward through dreams. Children felt such things first. Animals second. Adults last, because adults possessed a profound talent for explaining away danger until it stood directly in front of them holding a knife.

Elowen took the boy from his mother with practiced gentleness. “Jacob again?”

The mother nodded, lips pressed tight. “He says the trees were calling. He won’t sleep. He won’t eat unless I stand beside him. I thought yesterday was better, but then last night he tried to walk out the back door.”

Aelira sat very still.

“North?” she asked before she could stop herself.

Both women looked at her.

The mother’s eyes filled with exhausted tears. “Yes.”

Of course it was.

It was always north.

Elowen’s gaze moved briefly to Aelira, then back to the child. “What did he say he heard?”

Jacob stirred at the question. His eyes opened and landed directly at Aelira. Not at her face. At the ring hidden under her glove.

No. Impossible. Then he whispered, “Roots don’t sing like people.”

His mother made a small, distressed sound.

Aelira leaned forward slightly. “How do they sing?”

Jacob’s brow furrowed, frustration moving through his exhaustion. He seemed to search for language and find it wanting. Aelira knew that frustration too well. Some things did not fit inside words cleanly.

“Slow,” he said at last. “Like when trees grow, but louder.”