Ophelia Shellwise's Arc

Chapter 2 of 3

Ophelia woke before dawn to a voice calling through her door. The neighbor's son, breathless and formal, delivering the message like he'd practiced it. The plants would be moved today, with or without her. His mother had made arrangements. Someone was coming with a cart at noon. Ophelia grabbed the patchwork bag from beside her bed and slung it across her chest. She'd stitched it herself last winter, every bright square a different color, the green leaf on the front announcing exactly what she carried. Inside was a handful of Switchgrass buds, wrapped in cloth, kept close for mornings like this when she needed to think clearly. She walked to the neighbor's house and knocked until the woman opened the door. "I'm taking them now," Ophelia said. "Not at noon. Now." The neighbor stepped back, face tight. "I already told Gordon to bring his cart. He's expecting payment." Ophelia pulled two citrine pieces from her bag and placed them in the woman's hand. "For your trouble. But the plants leave with me." The neighbor looked at the stones, then at Ophelia's face, and something shifted. She nodded once and stepped aside. Gordon arrived an hour later with a wooden cart, a small greenhouse frame already built onto the bed. He didn't ask questions, just helped her load all seven strains into the pots fitted inside. The plants stood upright under the glass panels, protected from wind and prying eyes. Ophelia walked beside the cart as Gordon pushed it through the quiet streets toward the junction. By mid-morning, the seven strains were standing in her tent, roots settled, leaves catching the early light. She paid Gordon with the last citrine tower she'd been saving and watched him leave. The tent finally held what it was meant to hold. She still owed Bramble his debt, still had no customers, but her plants were hers again and no one could move them without her say. Ophelia stood in the fenced corner behind her tent where she'd arranged the plants in two rows. Each strain looked different under the morning sun — some tall and narrow, others bushy and low. She touched the Switchgrass leaves and felt the familiar calm settle through her chest. The neighbor had tried to force her hand, but Ophelia had moved first and kept control. Her foundation was set now. The tent had its medicine, and she could finally start offering what people came looking for.