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A week later, there are two new sprouts in our garden.
Wrenley’s beans.
And my carrots.
That evening, I sit in the soil. Not working. Just feeling the dying rays of sun on my shoulders, smelling the heady scent of wet earth and hard work.
I guess I can still grow things.
And as long as things grow, there is hope.
4
Caspian
The sun casts an orange band of light over the tops of the trees. In the dying light, Rosalina’s curls reveal the slightest hint of red, having lightened from her many days in the sun the last few months. Her hand is a reassuring warmth against mine as we walk side by side through the woods.
We don’t speak. The call of the birds and the gentle rustle of the wind through the trees are the only words we need. There’s a lightness to her step, a long-missed friend I’m so grateful to be visiting again. But I never doubted it. She always finds her way back to the sun.
Since returning to Orca Cove, this is Rosalina’s first foray out of the cottage. I’d asked her casually while pouring tea. A simple, unbothered, “How about a walk after dinner?”
Rosalina jokes with me that convincing Wrenley to do anything requires more strategy than a battle. I didn’t tell her it’s an O’Connell thing.
But I am very good at being patient. They're not the only ones who can sow seeds.
Rosalina had accepted the walk. I am unsurprised to see how well she suits the forests of her first home, how the dappled light through the firs seeks her skin, how wherever she steps, even the branches seem to crack in melody. Rosalina makes a home wherever she goes. She suits the towering mountains of Spring, the ivory beaches of Summer, the rich fields of Autumn, and the sparkling ice plains of Winter. Even the shadows that play in the gemlight Below flocked to her.
When she catches me staring at her, she offers a smile. I am powerless but to smile back.
We clear the line of trees, revealing a large lake. Shimmering reflections of trees decorate the surface, the wind creating soft ripples.
Rosalina leads the way, her steps confident, as if she’s trod this way a thousand times before. The beach is mostly pebbles, but we walk a ways around until there’s a soft patch of grass, marred only by a fallen log.
Rosalina plops down, leaning back against the log and staring out at the lake. She holds out her hand, twisting it as if winding an invisible thread around and around her wrist.
“The winds are changing. Autumn’s right around the corner,” she murmurs.
I take a deep breath, trying to feel what she does. “It always feels like good luck when the seasons turn. A fresh start.”
“It’s the best part about Castletree. Only place in the Enchanted Vale where it changes season,” Rosalina says softly.
Her face has fallen, and she tucks her legs up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
“It hurts you to remember. To speak of it,” I say.
“Sometimes I feel like it would have been easier if I’d never found Papa. If he’d disappeared through the rosebush. I could have lived my life, thinking he was off on his adventures. I would never have gone to the Vale. Never have fallen in love with all the things I’d only lose.”
“I understand.” I wrap an arm around her. “How do you walk the paths of an old life when you’ve seen the vast horizon beyond?”
“I wish I didn’t have to remember.”
“The remembering is the pain. And the pain is the healing.”
She settles against me. It’s not just Rosalina who feels this way. The first few months in Orca Cove, certain words seemed to carry a curse around them. The Enchanted Vale. Castletree. Marigold. Astrid. The Briar.
George.
If we dared speak these words, it was as if we’d invited some terrible monster into the cottage with us, one that sucked up any semblance of peace.
