Rowan Switched's Arc

Chapter 17 of 25

Rowan woke at dawn with the clay cup wrapped in cloth beside the bed. The paste inside had firmed at the edges overnight. They tipped the cup and watched a slow crack open across the surface. Luna had said drink half now, the rest before you sing. The rest was one night away. The animal graveyard sat past the birch stand and down a long slope. If the paste dried, cracked, or spilled on the walk, the three notes would break in Rowan's throat and the deed would void under the dark moon. Rowan tried to think of a jar with a tight lid. Every jar in the cottage had held salt or ash or root. The ghost in the rocking chair by the hearth watched Rowan turn out the shelves. Her jaw hung open in the shape of an answer she could no longer give. Rowan had traded her final words to Thorn. The old woman rocked once and pointed a bone finger at the door. Rowan went out with the cup pressed against their chest. The birch stand shook in a wind that smelled of rain. Rowan cut left through a small meadow of grass and scattered flowers, thinking to shortcut down to the walled graveyard. Halfway across, a red-haired woman sat on a stone with a stringed instrument across her knees. She was not Luna. She wore boots laced to the thigh and a strap of buckles. "You are carrying broth in a cracked cup," the troubadour said. She did not look up. "It will be paste soup by moonrise." Rowan opened their mouth and remembered the rule. Shut. The woman nodded. "Good. Don't spend the voice on me." She reached into her coat and drew out a small stoppered flask of dark glass. "Trade. Your cup for my flask. The glass holds wet. The stopper holds air. I want the empty cup back after. I collect used vessels." Rowan turned the flask in their hand. It was heavy for its size. Rowan scraped the paste from the cup with a twig and worked it through the flask's narrow neck. The paste went in slow. Rowan sealed the stopper and pressed it hard. The troubadour watched, then tapped the flask twice with a fingernail. "Sound test. Dead inside. Good seal." She took the empty cup and set it beside her on the stone. Rowan bowed their head once. The woman lifted two fingers. "Melody sent me. She said a small voice needed a small bottle. Consider it her forgetting fee, paid forward." She struck one chord on the instrument and the sound rolled downhill without her. Rowan walked on with the flask against their ribs. At the wall of the animal graveyard they crouched and shook it. No slosh. No rattle. The paste was sealed. One night left. Three notes waiting. The carry was solved.