The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(44)

And after she harvested, she had to either find the courage to bring the crop down to the root cellar or figure out somewhere else to safely store it.

Blue’s hands trembled as she reached for the doorknob, Pepperell anxiously winding about her feet, his eye on Dinah as she carefully climbed their old porch steps.

Blue couldn’t go down into the root cellar. It was impossible.

Her stomach clenched, and her breath came in quick, hard gasps at the thought.

She couldn’t be surrounded by those walls, standing on the floor where she’d kneeled in the middle of the spilled wintermint watching Mama die.

Pepperell meowed as Blue crossed the threshold, and she bit her lip as she scooped him into her arms. There was nowhere else to properly store her harvest. Not if she wanted the items to last while they dried. She was going to have to go down that ladder or give up harvesting from her garden.

Her heart beat too loud, and her breath came too fast as she made her decision. She’d find as much comfort as she could in the garden, and then she’d force herself to face the root cellar. Before her panic could blaze out of control, she whirled and nearly ran straight into Dinah, who was already closing the front door behind her.

“Where do you think you’re going?” the woman demanded.

Blue snatched up the gathering basket that rested on the bench beside the coatrack. “I have some harvesting to do in the garden before sunset. If you want me to prepare dinner, I’ll do it when I get back in.”

“There’s nothing to prepare. Seventh bell will ring soon. If you aren’t inside for dinner, you don’t eat.” Dinah swept past her, and Blue hurried out of the house.

The door shut firmly behind her. Blue stumbled down the steps, raced along the little path that wound its way around the house and into the garden, and then simply sank to her knees in the dirt beside a clump of dancing ferns.

Pepperell climbed out of her arms and sniffed the ferns, his back twitching.

She smoothed his fur, and then rocked forward over her knees. For long moments, she remained still and silent, feeling the soft brush of the ferns against her skin. Smelling the richness of the dirt, the pungent green scent of the plants around her, and the sea salt that drifted in with the breeze.

Panic skittered through her.

“It’s just a root cellar.” She tried the words on for size, but they refused to fit. It wasn’t just a root cellar. It was the dark, yawning chasm of her nightmares. It was wintermint and broken ladders and Mama dying.

And she was going to have to climb down into it because there was no one else to do it for her now.

Grief closed her throat, and she drew an unsteady breath.

Her home now felt like an unwelcoming stranger to her. She hadn’t seen Grand-mère in almost a week. Papa was gone. Dinah watched Blue’s every word, every movement, both at the shop and at home, and none of it made sense.

None of it.

Dinah should have been too busy running her businesses, managing her quarter, and chasing the betrothal to be bothered with spending her days at the alchemy shop. She should have been unwilling to move herself and her daughters into the little farmhouse when they had a beautiful mansion of their own. And if she was so close to Mama, surely Papa would have mentioned her.

Leaning forward, Blue pressed her bare hands into the dirt at the base of the fern clumps, wiggling her fingers until they disappeared beneath the loamy soil. She closed her eyes and let the magic in her blood settle into her fingertips. Let the grief and confusion settle too.

The soil became alive beneath her skin. Roots, seeds, fruits, herbs—every living thing in a wide circle around Blue strained toward her. She could feel tendrils of dancing fern root curling toward her hands. Sensed the buzz of walla berries ready to harvest from the bush to her left. The hum of wintermint and sage tucked beneath the hanging vines of the garden’s rynoir tree, its frothy pink blossoms brushing the ground as it swayed in the sea breeze.

Blue pressed her hands deeper in the ground, willing herself to be calm. Be steady.

All she had to do was go into the root cellar and store a few things.

Her throat closed on a bubble of fear, and she swallowed hard. Drew in a shaky breath. Thought of the ways Papa had used to calm Blue when her nightmares hit.

Hands in the soil, grounding herself to the plants.

Slow, deep breaths, paying attention to the rise and fall of her chest instead of the frantic beat of her heart.

Mama’s lullaby, sung soft and gentle, connecting Blue to the best memories she had of her mother. Memories of warmth and safety. Blue’s clearest memory of Mama was of walking the garden path with her, listening to Mama sing the lullaby she’d written for her daughter.

Blue drew in another slow breath, kept her hands deep in the soil, and began to softly sing.

Hush now, baby, don’t you cry.

Your little tears I’ll always dry.

A branch of myrrh and bolla root

To strengthen you in all you do

With silver and gold, and a strand of rose

And plenty of magic to keep them close.

Tears stung Blue’s eyes as the memory of Papa sitting by her bedside singing to her overlapped her memories of Mama in the garden. She let the tears fall, let the grief in her chest unfurl as she sang the second half.

Hush now, baby, I’m right here

To chase away your every fear

With a drop of mint and a sprig of yew