Margot Butterwell's Arc

Chapter 4 of 6

Elara named the graveyard before she left. It sat far past the field, a full day's walk down a broken road. Margot had no cart, no horse, no way to cover that ground. Elara had made the terms plain. Pull the Shadowmoss soon, or the sickness took her valley and the herb maps died with it. Margot stood in her diner at dawn, apron still on, and knew she could not walk fast enough to keep the deal. Derek pushed through the door without knocking. The dog boy's ears drooped from a late night. Dylan followed, flat-eyed, saying nothing. They had cheered her on since the grieving man ate his sandwich. Now they smelled toast and wanted breakfast. "You look bad," Derek said. "Worse than us." Margot told them everything. The old woman. The graveyard. The road she could not travel. "She needs the moss cut soon. I can't get there in time on foot." Derek and Dylan traded a look. Derek scratched behind one ear. "We've got a van," he said. "Runs. Mostly." Dylan spoke once. "Barely." They led her out back. The van sat rusted and dented, dragons painted down both sides in green and red. One dragon's tail had peeled to bare metal. Margot did not care how it looked. It had wheels. "We were saving gas," Derek said. "For a show." He looked at the van, then at her. "Where's this grave?" Margot repeated the name Elara gave. Derek nodded slow. Dylan climbed into the driver's seat and turned the key. The engine coughed, caught, and held. The road was worse than the van. They jolted over ruts for hours. Margot gripped the dash and watched the field shrink behind them. By afternoon the ground turned soft and gray. Headstones rose from the grass, small ones, weathered and low. Stone paws and dog shapes marked each marker. An animal graveyard. Past it lay a smaller plot ringed with lanterns and tiny crosses. Child-sized graves, tended with fresh flowers. Derek went quiet. He stepped out and stood among the little stones. "This is the one," he said. His voice had lost its ease. Margot walked the rows until she found it. Dark moss crept across one small grave, damp and cold under her hand. Shadowmoss. She had reached the place. The deal held. But her chest tightened as she knelt. This was a child's resting place, and Elara wanted her to strip it bare. Dylan leaned against the van, arms crossed. "Now what," he said. Margot pressed her palm to the cold moss and did not pull. Nearby, purple blossoms glowed faint in a wild patch of catnip, the first glowing herb she had found on her own. She had made it here. But standing over a child's grave, she understood the price of Elara's map was not the walk. It was this.