Fennel Thistledown's Arc

Chapter 3 of 21

The next morning both girls stood in Fennel's garden, waiting. Fennel looked from one to the other and felt her heart sink. Lily already knew the fever herbs. The traveling girl still fumbled with a knife. If Fennel taught them apart, she would repeat every lesson twice and wear her knees to dust. She needed one lesson that could feed both minds at once. Fennel pulled a soft tuft from her apron pocket. Pink leaves spilled over her fingers, fresh and delicate. "Tell me what this is," she said, and held it out. The traveling girl stared. "Parsley?" "Close. But the pink kind does something the green kind can't." Fennel watched Lily's mouth open, ready to answer. She raised a hand. "Wait. Don't tell her. Show her." Lily stopped. She looked at Fennel, then at the younger girl. "You want me to teach her?" "You waited years for someone to teach you," Fennel said. "Now you know how it feels to be turned away. So don't turn her away." Lily knelt beside the traveling girl. She took the pink parsley and crushed one leaf between two fingers. "Smell it. Now watch how the stem bends." Her flat voice softened as she worked. The younger girl leaned in, asking questions, and Lily answered every one. Fennel lowered herself onto a stone and rested her knees. For the first time in days, she was not the one talking. A slow shape crossed the garden path. Fennel's tortoise, wide as a wheelbarrow, plodded toward the herb beds. Its shell caught the light in worn ridges. The beast never hurried. It grazed the low weeds and kept the garden clear, and it carried a basket strapped to its back when Fennel walked to the wild stands. Today it settled between the two girls like a warm stone. Both hands reached to steady their work against its shell. From the cottage doorway, the guardian cat watched. Its green scales shimmered, its blue eyes fixed on the strangers in the garden. Lily glanced up and grinned. "He doesn't trust her yet," she said, nodding at the younger girl. "Give him a week." By noon the traveling girl could name the pink parsley and cut its stem clean. Lily had taught her without knowing she was teaching. Fennel watched them and understood what she had made. She would not repeat every lesson. The sharper student would carry the slower one, and both would climb faster for it. Fennel pushed herself up, hands on her knees, and smiled. The strain had halved itself. But as she looked at Lily, quick and proud, a new worry settled in. A student who teaches soon believes she has learned enough. Lily already thought she knew the fever herbs better than the town healer. If Fennel leaned on that pride too hard, the girl might decide she no longer needed a teacher at all.