Antheia Botanis's Arc

Chapter 1 of 15

Antheia Botanis knelt in the wet soil of her greenhouse and counted the sprouts that would die if she left tomorrow. Forty-two seedlings sat in clay pots along the trestle. Moly, asphodel, the pale narcissus from the Cocytus bank. Each one pulled from a myth she had chased across three countries. Her sunflower crown still carried a brown scar where three petals had fallen near Artemis's grove. That grove was going black. Others were following. She could not stay here watering pots while ancient trees turned to ash, but she could not leave the seedlings to wither either. Every plant in this greenhouse was one bloom closer to the garden she meant to build, the garden that would hold every myth-plant alive in one place. She stood and walked the length of the glass house. Vines climbed the iron ribs. A stone fountain ran in the center, its water tinted green from the moss she fed it. Beyond the fountain, her carved throne sat under a cluster of potted trees she had grown from cuttings taken outside Thebes. The trees needed misting twice a day. The narcissus needed shade by noon. The moly needed a hand that knew not to bruise the root. She had no such hand. She had come to Greece alone. No god had sent her. No temple had opened its door. A knock rattled the greenhouse frame. A short man in a brown hat stood at the door, wings folded flat against his back, a coiled rope on his belt. Dusty Thornwing. She had sent word to the animal fairies three days ago, asking if any of them knew a keeper. She had not expected the leader himself. "You wrote about plants," Dusty said. "I came anyway." "I need someone to tend this greenhouse for a month. Maybe two. I have to ride north." She pointed at her crown. "The groves are dying. I have to find what's killing them before the rest go black." Dusty looked at the seedlings. He looked at the fountain. He looked at the throne under the potted trees. "I keep animals alive. Not plants. I lost a fawn once because I got there late. Won't lose a sprout the same way." He unhooked the rope from his belt and set it on the trestle. "Show me what dies first without water. Show me what dies first with too much. I'll write it down. I'll stay till you're back or till you send word you're not coming." Antheia felt her crown lift a half inch on her head. She walked him down the row and named each plant and each need. She marked the narcissus with a red thread and the moly with a blue one. By dusk he could recite the schedule back to her without pause. At dawn she packed a satchel and left the greenhouse in his hands. Her crown had already begun to tug north, toward the next black grove, and now she was free to follow it.