Shannon Bell master of the of the Danillia greenhouse's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Shannon Bell stood in the empty greenhouse and counted the tables again. Forty long benches waited for saplings that did not exist. She had signed the papers a week ago, promised the town she would grow the ink pines that fed Justin's magic pen, and now his ink jar sat on her worktable with a finger of pink sludge left at the bottom. Justin had ridden out at dawn to bring her the jar. He had not said much. He tipped it so she could see the level, set it down, and left. That was worse than shouting. Shannon walked the benches. Clean pots. Damp soil. No seeds. The forester's boy had told her yesterday that no ink pine grew in the near woods anymore. Loggers had taken the last stand three winters back. Whatever seed remained was scattered, and nobody had thought to save cones. She put on her coat and went to find the little writing house at the edge of the clearing. The scriptorium leaned under its pink-streaked eaves, sap crusted on the steps. Four young ink pines stood in bundled pots along the porch rail. Their pink needles hung stiff. Someone had watered them, then forgotten them. Shannon knelt by the first pot. The tree was thin but alive. She pressed her thumb against a needle and it left a pink smear on her skin. She checked each of the four. Two were rooted well. Two had gone dry at the base and would not last the month unless she moved them. She went inside. The desk held papers, a jar of dried pink ink, and a ledger. She turned pages until she found what she wanted: a planting log in a shaky hand. Forty-one seed cones harvested two summers ago. Stored in a cedar box under the floor. Shannon lifted the loose board. The box was there. She pried the lid. The cones were brown, closed, and dry. She shook one against her ear and heard the rattle of seed. She carried the box and the four saplings back through the cold to the greenhouse. She set the living trees on the center bench and split the cones over a tray. Some seeds fell out black and dead. Enough fell out pale and firm. She counted as she worked. Ninety-two good seeds. Four living saplings. It was not a grove. It was a start. Shannon filled pots and pushed seeds into the soil with her thumb. When the last pot was set, she walked to her worktable and picked up Justin's jar. She would need to tell him the truth. He had maybe two weeks of ink left, and her fastest sapling would not bleed pink for a year. She wiped her hands on her apron and went to find him.