Ophelia stood at the edge of the junction marketplace, watching the last open tent space like it might vanish if she blinked. Every other vendor had claimed their spot weeks ago, set up their tables and signs, built their trust with the daily crowds. She needed that tent to sell her strains and offer readings to the seekers who would come. Bramble appeared from behind a row of stalls, carrying a rolled canvas under one arm. He stopped at the empty space and planted his boot on the dirt. "This one's mine to give," he said, not looking at her. "You want it, you take it. But you'll owe me." Ophelia knew what debt meant here. No money now, no fixed terms, just a promise hanging between them until Bramble decided what it was worth. She stepped forward anyway, pulling a woven rug from her pack and spreading it across the ground in front of the space. She arranged cushions on top, then strung a line of small lights between two nearby posts. The sitting area looked soft and inviting, a place where people might stay and talk. Bramble watched her work, then nodded once and walked away. The tent was hers now, and so was the weight of what she'd just agreed to. She unrolled the canvas Bramble had left and staked it into place. The tent rose in patches of purple and orange, the fabric panels mismatched but sturdy. Fairy lights already hung from the frame, left by whoever had it last. She stepped inside and ran her hand along the center pole. The space smelled like dried grass and old smoke. It would hold her plants when she moved them. It would hold her cards and her customers. But first she had to get the seven strains out of her neighbor's yard before the window closed, and she still had no cart, no money, and no one she could ask without risk. The tent gave her a place to aim for. It didn't solve the problem of how to fill it. Ophelia reached into her coat and pulled out a citrine tower on a wood base. The stone caught the afternoon light, throwing golden patterns across the tent's interior. She walked back outside and placed it on a flat stone near the cushions, angling it so people passing by would see it glow. It wasn't payment. Bramble would know that. But it was a marker, a gesture that said she understood the terms and would meet them when she could. The stone looked like it belonged there, like her tent had always meant to welcome seekers. She stood back and watched a woman slow her steps to look at the citrine, then at the tent, then at Ophelia. The marketplace had one more stall now, and Ophelia had a place to build from.

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.

By late morning, Ophelia noticed the figure. Someone stood across the way, half-hidden behind a post, eyes fixed on her tent. They shifted when she shifted. They waited when she waited. Ophelia kept her hands busy with the plants, but her shoulders tightened. Whoever it was, they wanted her gone from the tent. And they were patient enough to wait her out. Ophelia stopped pretending. She walked straight across the path toward the post. The watcher startled but didn't run. He was a thin man clutching a bright book to his chest, leaf patterns climbing its cover, the words Medical Mary Jane stamped across the front. His hands shook. "I heard you grow the real medicine," he said. "My sister is sick. I've been waiting for the crowd to leave so no one sees me ask." Ophelia looked at the book, then at his face. Not a thief. A first customer. She stepped aside and opened the tent flap. "Come in," she said. "Quietly."