Sage
The herbary sat where the meadow gave way to the hardwoods, as though it had wandered there once and decided to stay. Tall grasses bowed around its stone foundation, and beyond them the trees rose thick and patient—ancient things that whispered of knowledge gathered long before anyone thought to write it down.
The afternoon light spilled freely here, unhindered by roofs or crowds, catching on glass and leaf and drifting dust. It was the kind of light that encouraged forgetting.
I crushed the leaves between my fingers, breathing in their sharp, green bitterness, already thinking three steps ahead. The bells rang faintly in the distance—measured, ceremonial—but I ignored them.
“Hello, pretty baby.”
I looked up then, a grin tugging at my mouth before I could stop it. The raven watched me from his beam, dark eyes bright, feathers sleek and unmoved by the breeze.
“Interested in what I’m working on today?” I asked, chuckling softly at the idea.
He blinked once, slow and deliberate, his head tilting just enough to suggest indulgence rather than agreement. I giggled under my breath and took that as permission.
“Good. Here. Look at this.”
I lifted the bowl toward him, careful not to spill, and launched into my explanation—why the leaves needed bruising before steeping, why the resin had to be added last, why this mixture required patience rather than force. Some concoctions demanded precision. Others asked to be persuaded.
The raven listened in silence, as he always did. There was something in his stillness that felt knowing, as though he had witnessed this ritual many times before and remained quietly unconcerned by its outcome.
Beyond the meadow, the village stirred. Footsteps passed along the distant road. Voices gathered. The bells rang again, closer this time, insistent but polite—calling, not chasing.
“Just one more adjustment,” I murmured, more to myself than to him. “Then I’ll go.”
The raven tilted his head again, a look that suggested familiarity with this pattern rather than disbelief.
I smiled, already aware of how easily time slipped away from me when my hands were busy.
Somewhere beyond the trees, the mating ceremony was beginning—one my family could not afford to miss, and one I had no intention of disrupting.
For once, I was going to be on time. Just one more tweak, then I would go change. After all, how long could it possibly take to put on a dress and tame my hair?
