Genevieve Thorn's Arc

Chapter 2 of 4

By dusk, Mabel was sleeping easy. Genevieve stepped out and crossed the path to the small ivy-covered cabin the village kept for healers. Haroel waited by the door, ears swiveling. "Smells like old smoke," he said. "And mice." Genevieve pushed the door open. "We can fix the first. The mice can stay outside." She set her bag on the table and looked around. The mossy floor was cool. A window faced a strip of open grass where Haroel could move without anyone watching. That mattered. She had not asked for the cabin. The grandson had offered it without ceremony, as if it were already hers. Outside, she dragged a weathered table into the yard and laid out her mortar, her bottles, her bundles of dried root. A workspace in the open air, where Haroel could stand near her while she worked. He lowered his head to crop the grass at the edge of the stones. "Good ground," he said. "Soft. Room to turn." Genevieve reached into her bag and pulled out a small carved wooden token, worn smooth at the edges. She had carried it since she was a child. She hung it on a peg by the door. It was a small thing. But she did not hang it in places she was only passing through. "We're staying a while," she told him. Haroel chewed, considered, and did not lift his head. "Then I'll learn the ground," he said. The sun dropped behind the trees. For the first night in a long time, Genevieve did not plan a leaving.