Charlie Morrison's Arc

Chapter 5 of 14

Morning came quiet. The wolf lay by the door. Charlie sat at the table with the journal open, tracing her grandmother's small handwriting with one finger. She had read past midnight and started again at dawn. The next moon was four days out. She had no gift. The court expected one. The journal said so on the third page, in a line Charlie had missed before. Arrive at the table with empty hands and you leave the table for good. She had crossed the barrier, offered water, been named for consideration. All of it undone by a missing basket at the door. She turned another page. Her grandmother had written a note in the margin, ink faded to brown. Trust with the fae comes from sharing a part of yourself. Not a bought thing. A made thing. Charlie read it twice. She thought of the court cottage she had stood inside a week ago — walls woven of living blossoms, roof soft with petals. They built with what grew around them. They would know a store-bought ribbon on sight. She closed the journal. The rainbow butterflies on the cover caught the light. "I need to go out," she said. The wolf lifted its head. It stood when she stood. She went into the woods with the wolf at her hip. She picked what she passed. White yarrow near the creek. Blue chicory by the stumps. Long grass she could split for weaving. She stripped a young willow of three green whips and coiled them under her arm. The wolf watched the trees while she worked. Nothing came near them. On the path back she stopped. The blueberry bush was still there, taller now, heavy with fruit. She had eaten from it at eight years old with purple hands. She set her flowers down and picked until her pockets sagged. At the cabin she cleared the table. The wolf lay across the doorway. She bent the willow into a round frame and tied it with grass. She wove the yarrow and chicory through the ribs, tucking stems, doubling the weak spots. Her fingers learned the pattern by the third pass. The basket took shape under her hands, small, uneven, alive. She lined it with broad leaves and filled it with the blueberries. The berries darkened the green. She set the basket beside the journal. Her hands were stained blue and green. Her back ached. The gift was ready. Then she saw it. A single blueberry on the floor by the porch door — crushed flat. She had not dropped one. The wolf was watching the door, ears forward, still as stone. Something had come to the porch while she wove, and stood close enough to leave a print, and gone again without a sound. Four days until the moon. Her gift was made. Now she had to keep it.