Amanita Sporewell's Arc

Chapter 2 of 14

The sprite let Amanita pass. It took most of the morning of soft words and a promise to leave more than she took, but by the time the sun climbed over the willow, she had a small sack of glowing loam tied at her belt. Myrtle had given her the rest of the list too: leaf rot from the north gully, bone meal from the old owl roost, and spring water from the little pool behind the hollow stones. Three of four. Amanita walked to the spring with her clay jug swinging, already picturing her patch turned black and rich. The spring was gone. Where water should have bubbled up between the stones there was only a wet smear and a ring of cracked mud. Amanita knelt and pressed her palm to it. Dry. She scraped at the bottom with a stick. Dry. The dry spell had drunk it down to nothing. Without fresh spring water, Myrtle's recipe would not work. The loam at her belt would sit useless. Her seeds would stay in the pouch until they went to dust. She sat back and tried to think. Myrtle had mentioned a shop at the far side of the hollow that sold garden things. Amanita had never gone alone, but she had two copper bits in her pocket and no better plan. She followed the path until she saw it: a small building crusted in vines and painted blooms, mushrooms clustered along the sill, a pink door standing open. A wooden sign above named it a flower shop. She slipped inside. Shelves ran to the ceiling, packed with jars and seed papers and cut stems. On the counter, alone on a square of velvet, stood a tall glass bottle with gold bracing around its neck. Inside, water glowed faint green around a tiny sprout and a curl of root. A card beside it read: endless water, feeds any soil. Amanita's breath caught. She stepped closer. A hand shot out from behind a barrel and grabbed the bottle first. The goblin was shorter than her. Green skin, torn vest, ears like leaves. He tucked the bottle under his arm and bared small teeth. "Mine," he said. "Saw it first." "You did not," Amanita said. "I was reaching." "Reaching is not holding." Griznak Bitterfinger backed toward the door. His eyes were yellow and tired. One hand shook where it pressed the glass to his ribs. "I need it. You do not know what I need it for." "I need it too," Amanita said. "My garden will die." He was already running. The pink door banged. Amanita bolted after him, but he cut between two stalls and vanished into the ferns. Her copper bits were still in her pocket. The velvet square on the counter was empty. She stood in the doorway with dry hands and a dry jug, and understood she would have to chase him.