Margot Butterwell's Arc

Chapter 5 of 6

Margot knelt over the child's grave with her fingers on the moss. Elara wanted it pulled soon. But she did not know how to cut it without tearing the stone or the soil beneath. One wrong pull could ruin the whole patch. She had learned that lesson with the wild herbs. She would not learn it twice on a child's grave. A figure stood at the edge of the little graves. A small black cat in a hooded coat, a crescent charm at its throat. Its yellow eyes fixed on Margot's hands. "That grave isn't yours to dig," the cat said. Margot pulled her hand back. "I don't want to dig it. I need the moss. A woman named Elara sent me. She'll trade me the herb maps for it." "I keep the ground here. I'm Iris." She walked closer, boots quiet on the wet grass. "People come to take. They break what they touch." Derek stepped between the little stones, ears low. "She's not like that," he said. "She fixes things. Her food does." Iris looked at Margot for a long moment. "Show me your hands." Margot held them out. Flour still lived in the creases. Iris studied them, then knelt beside the moss. "Shadowmoss holds to soil, not stone," Iris said. "Pull it and you rip the child's earth open." She touched a green edge. "You cut it. Flat blade, close to the root. Leave a finger's width behind. It grows back. The grave stays whole." "You'd show me that," Margot said. "After what I came to do." "The moss chokes the flowers here. Thinning it helps the grave." Iris's voice dropped, plain and final. "But only a little. You take what you need and no more." Margot had no flat blade. Derek dug in the van and came back with a scraper from the dashboard, thin metal, edge worn smooth. Margot slid it under the moss the way Iris showed her. She worked slow. She kept a finger's width along the stone. The moss lifted in a soft dark sheet and left the soil unbroken. She set it in a cloth. The little lanterns burned steady around them. Near the child's headstone sat small offerings, candles and wrapped bundles left by careful hands. Margot had not disturbed one. "It's done," she said. "The grave's whole." Iris pressed the cut edge flat with two fingers. "It'll heal by spring." She stood. "You did it right. Not many do." Margot wrapped the moss and held it to her chest. She had what Elara wanted. She had not harmed the child's rest. The deal would hold. The herb maps would be hers. But Iris was watching the graves behind her, where the cat plots lay. "You cook for the grieving," she said. It was not a question. "My buried cats are climbing out of the ground. One at a time. I could use someone who knows the dead."