Raspberry knelt in the wet grass and sketched a curling vine into her tome. She had promised herself one thing: every plant in the Meadow Next Door would live inside these pages. No fairy had finished the work before her. She would. But the next plant stopped her cold. A squat stone mushroom sat among the clover, its cap glittering like cut glass. She circled it twice. She poked it. She had no name for it, and a wrong guess would ruin the tome. She pulled a bundle of red cloth strips from her satchel and tied it to a twig beside the mushroom. The bright marker would hold her place. Two other markers already fluttered across the field. Three mysteries. Three blank pages. A small thrush landed nearby, its feather tips dark as fresh ink. It tilted its head at her tome, then flew off toward a thin trail of chimney smoke past the meadow's edge. Raspberry had heard whispers of a cottage there, herbs drying under its beams, jars of named and labeled things lining every shelf. She closed her tome and stood. If she could not name these plants alone, she would find someone who could. Raspberry started walking toward the smoke.