Ivy Sallow knelt at his workbench outside the town wall and ground bog lily root into paste. Moss climbed the bench legs. Murky bottles caught the morning light. He had built his life around one promise: a walled garden inside Sloughwater where any poisoned soul could come and pay nothing. A black cat watched him from the stone path, yellow eyes steady. It followed him most mornings now. Ivy did not name it. He only set out scraps and kept working. He wiped his hands and lifted the sealed letter from the bench. Wax cracked but whole. His bid, his coin, his plain words. Today he would walk it through the gate himself. The parcel sat behind a low wall near the town's heart. A recessed stone basin held still water below ground level. Vines spilled down the walls. The sun reached it. The rain drained clean. No other plot inside Sloughwater could grow what he needed. He had checked them all. The alderman read the letter without sitting. He folded it, pressed the broken seal back into shape, and handed it across the desk. No price. No reason. Just the letter, returned. Ivy walked out with it still in his hand. He stopped at the basin on his way back. Water moved gently against the stone. The cat appeared on the wall above him, tail curled. Ivy looked at the sealed letter, then at the empty basin that should have been his. He would not bring coin again. He needed to know what the alderman wanted, and there was only one man who drank with him on Thursdays.