Maisie McLeod's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Maisie set her leather bag on the wooden table and pulled out the three glass bottles. She held the lavender oil up to the window light. The liquid shimmered pale gold inside. Tomorrow she would begin the real work, melting wax and adding drops of these precious oils. Tonight she needed to prepare her workspace and gather her courage. She placed the bottles in a neat row beside Granny's journal. Everything was ready now. The hedge witch's blessing, the peat for steady flame, the oils from distant places. Maisie traced her finger along the journal's worn cover one more time. Soon Granny would see what she had learned. The next morning, Maisie walked beyond the village edge where the land opened wide. She needed to clear her mind before the hard work began. Purple crocuses pushed through patches of melted snow. The small flowers stood bright against the brown grass. Maisie knelt beside one and studied its color. Deep purple at the center, lighter at the tips. This was the shade Granny's journal mentioned for traditional dyeing. Natural colors made candles burn truer. She touched the soft petals and stood. The land was waking up, just like her courage. She climbed higher where old stones marked the hills. A tall tower rose from the rocky ground, its dark surface worn smooth by wind. Snow dusted the top. Maisie walked around its base and found flat stones covered in pale moss. The moss grew in delicate patterns, white threads mixing with brown. It looked like lace frozen in time. She sat on a clear patch of stone and looked out at the valley. The tower had stood here for generations, marking where sacred fires once burned for Celtic festivals. Her candles would join that old tradition. Maisie stood and brushed snow from her skirt. The walk had settled something inside her. She had studied the old ways, gathered the right supplies, and learned from other crafters. Tonight she would light her peat fire and begin. The wax would melt. The oils would blend. The wicks would hold steady. Granny's journal had brought her this far. Now her own hands would finish the work.