Celeste Winters's Arc

Chapter 3 of 3

The stranger was gone, but her warning stayed. Celeste had one handful of petals left. She needed moonblooms of her own, and she had no idea where they grew. She lit the last fire and baked while she still could. The smell drew customers, but each loaf she sold brought the empty copper pot closer. By noon the flames shrank. She stood in her garden and stared at the last rose on the bush. She had no plan and almost no time. A butterfly landed on the final bloom. Its wings glowed in soft purple and gold, far larger than any she had seen. It did not flit away. It opened and closed its wings, slow, as if waiting. Celeste held still. The butterfly lifted off, flew a short way down the path, then circled back. It did this twice. It wanted her to follow. Celeste grabbed a basket and went. The butterfly led her off the path into the trees. It flew low enough that she could keep pace. Branches scratched her arms. Twice she lost sight of the glow and nearly turned back. Each time the wings flashed again between the leaves. She trusted them because she had nothing else. The butterfly stopped at a hollow ringed by old stones. Celeste pushed through the brush and froze. Flowers grew there in a thick patch, their petals glowing soft like light under water. Moonblooms. Dozens of them, more than the stranger's whole box. They grew wild and free, owned by no one. Celeste knelt and touched a petal. Warmth spread into her fingers, the same warmth she had felt from the stranger's flowers. These were real. They were hers to pick. She filled her basket, careful to leave the roots so more would grow. The butterfly rested on her shoulder while she worked, then flew to the stones and waited. She hurried back along her own trail. The fire in the oven had died to a few orange coals. Celeste fed one moonbloom into the ash. The flame caught at once and burned steady, bright and even, far longer than any rose petal had. She watched it and let out a shaking breath. One flower, a full season. She had found her own fuel, and she had kept her cottage. Then a thought cooled her. The stranger had traveled far to sell these. Now Celeste knew a wild patch grew close to her home. The stranger would not leave a free supply alone. Celeste looked at the basket of glowing flowers on her counter. The butterfly had led her to them. But something else might find the hollow too.