The Widow’s home smelled like cinnamon rolls and lavender soap. After a long embrace on the steps June brought Lark inside. The home had been a grand hotel in days passed, but now the elegance had eased into coziness, and the once modern touches had made way for practical hominess. The main sitting room featured a warm fireplace, plump couches, and worn rocking chairs. A couple played a card game at a table by the widow, a woman read a book in an overstuffed armchair, a man fed bits of his breakfast to a small black bird sitting on his shoulder, and an attendant circulated the space with a pleasant smile for Lark as she was ushered to a couch near the fireplace.

  As they moved through the room four women, ranging in age from old to very very old, joined them. Some Lark recognized some she did not. They all had smiles and joyful welcomes for Lark and they all joined June and Lark around the fireplace. They looked at Lark as if she were their own, and they looked at June with happy tears. These were special women in her grandmother’s life. This was her circle.

  Time moved differently here within this coterie. It settled into a patient pace. The women arrayed around her let the quiet moments pass without the need to fill them. June squeezed her hand. Lark let the feeling of being wanted slowly seep into her skin. She took a breath, and when she had filled her soul with enough of whatever magic these women gave her, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the heaviest object she had been tasked with carrying home. It was the size and shape of a large coin with a red and gold ribbon attached to it. Her father’s medal.

  “It’s beautiful,” one woman said, touching June’s shoulder.

  “A fine tribute,” said another, and the circle of women leaned in, bolstering the aura of support and acceptance.

  Lark folded it into her grandmother’s hand. “It’s the Belrae High Medal of Sacrifice,” she said. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t bring him home.” Hot tears filled her eyes. She had saved many men during the war, but not the one she had gone to find.

  The women around them moved slowly and with purpose. They circled around June and Lark and wrapped their arms around them. June pulled Lark in close. “You brought the best of him home,” she said. “You brought yourself home.”

  Lark let herself be enveloped by the circle. The warmth of their bodies, the soft touch of their arms, and even the smell of soap and mint eased the pain of the hole in her heart.

  “They put up a monument,” she said. “In the spot where he held the line so the others could escape. One soldier I spoke to said he had never seen a wall of mage fire burn so long and so bright.”

  The circle gave Lark a comforting squeeze.

  “I remember when he was a boy and would go door to door and charge a penny to start your stove in the morning,” one woman said.

  “I had to keep a bucket of water in each room,” June said with a smile.

  “He loved fall best,” the oldest woman added. “I always saved my leaf piles for him to burn.”

  “And who can forget the time he gave Usher Wheeler a hot foot during one of his speeches.”

  “That wasn’t him,” Lark said with a giggle. “It was Garrison.”

  The group shook with a shared laugh. “Then it was Elliot’s influence,” June said.

  “Oh, he was very proud,” Lark added.

  The hug eased open as they continued telling stories. Martha, who had been Lark’s school teacher, disappeared and reappeared with tea, and Helena, who had laughed with June in her kitchen on rainy mornings when Lark was little, produced cinnamon cookies on a chipped china plate.

  The ladies filled Lark in on the changes in town. The old resort was crumbling, the library needed a caretaker, the Wheeler family purchased the old shipyard, and the new healer was skilled but not like old Mr August. Several others had returned from the war, but many had not. The orchards didn’t produce as much as they had before. The farmers were battling a blight, and, most disturbing to the group, there weren’t as many babies as there should be. They all agreed that the returning soldiers would likely fix that problem, but Lark saw her grandmother’s brow furrow. She disagreed but drank her tea instead of commenting.

  Slowly, the ladies each excused themselves, taking away the tea service and the now empty china plate. “You seem happy here,” Lark said.

  June smiled. “I am. I was never a farm wife. I was a farmer’s wife. After he was gone, the spark of that place wasn’t there for me anymore. They have running water here, you know.”

  “And your hip? How is it since the fall?”

  “It’s fine. Cassandra helped to heal it for a hefty price. She’s the new town healer the mayor brought in.”

  “If it bothers you, you promise to let me look at it?” Lark said.

  “Of course, but don’t offer your healing services outright. Supposedly, Cassandra has an agreement with the town, and she’s a stickler for such things..”

  “I don’t plan on it,” Lark said. “I want to leave that behind.”

  June smiled at her. “You were always like your grandfather. You were more interested in dirt and roots.”

  Lark smiled back. “And roses and herbs,” she added.

  June’s face grew serious for a moment, and she leaned forward. Lark saw her brow furrow as it had before. “There is something important on the farm,” she said. “It’s the reason I could never sell it to Wheeler. Do you remember the little pool in the forest clearing past the vegetable field?”

  Lark nodded. She had been there with her grandfather many times.

  “The white flowers that grew there. I have had dreams about them. I feel it in my bones that they are connected to this place, to its magic and prosperity.”

  Lark had never heard her grandmother speak this way. She had always been pragmatic, dismissing any talk of enchantment or lore as the nonsense of academic mages.

  “I’ll go there tomorrow morning,” Lark promised.

  “Also, find your grandfather’s journals. I put them away because the bookworms were having at our shelves. They are with his treasure chest.” she grinned. “Do you remember where he kept it?”

  “Oh, I do,” Lark said. Her grandfather’s greatest treasure was his seed collection.

  “It’s yours now,” June said. “It’s all yours now.”

  Lark sat with her grandmother until early afternoon. They talked about the farm and about money. June had enough to live on at the home, but not enough to keep paying the growing taxes on the farm. They would need to raise the money by the wintertime. June had some ideas, and Lark was eager to get her hands in the dirt and her seeds in the greenhouses. They had time. They just needed to use it wisely.

  She found April sitting on the front porch. She had discovered a flower pot, destroyed the flower, and nestled into the leafy remains for a nap. Lark scooped the chicken up, lifting her from underneath and tucking her under one arm. The flower had been a begonia before April had pecked and scratched it up. Lark re-buried what remained of the roots and removed the damaged leaves. Then, she placed her hand firmly against the dirt at the base of the flower. She took a breath and filled her lungs with the smell of dirt and fresh air. She urged the roots to grow and the stem to strengthen. A tingle filled the air as the plant lifted itself up and spread its leaves, and a new bud appeared, bright red and eager to bloom.

  April chirped and cocked her head from side to side as if perplexed to see her handiwork ruined but eager to wreck the poor plant again.

  “You’ll have to learn to leave the flowers alone,” Lark warned as she made her way down the stairs. The stones were hard on her shoeless foot, and the thought of new boots added eagerness to her steps as she headed south to the docks.

  One block south of the main town square she passed the library. Two notices were posted on the door. One read, closed until further notice, and the other read Help wanted. She peered into the windows at the rows of sleeping books. Dust had started to form on the shelves and tables. Truedale Farm wasn’t the only thing in Mystic Landing that needed care.

  As she turned to go she had to stop short causing April’s head to bob dramatically backwards and her socked foot to slide awkwardly on the cobblestones. A round, rosy cheeked woman with an enormous head of bright red curls stood directly in her path. She was shorter than Lark, but still managed to look down her nose as she looked her up and down, eyeing the chicken under her arm and the tattered bits of boot clinging to her ankle.

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  “You are June Truedale’s granddaughter,” she stated. “Home from the army.” The woman’s abrupt appearance and her statement’s lack of interrogative inflection made Lark pause awkwardly, not sure if an answer was required or expected.

  “Has it addled you, then?” the woman added.

  “Yes– I mean no, it hasn’t. And, yes, I’m Lark Trudale. Home now. I served in the healer’s corps, I wasn’t in combat.” she managed, wondering if the woman would believe her about being addled or not.

  April grew agitated in the wake of the woman’s negative gaze, and Lark gently set her down.

  “The town doesn’t need a new healer,” the woman said. “I have a non competitive agreement.”

  “You must be Cassandra,” Lark guessed.

  “Healer Brownstone, please,” she said.

  “I do not intend to set up business as a healer. I was a grow mage before the war and I intend to return to my gardens, not the sickroom.”

  “Excellent, then I have your word that you will not use healing magic.”

  Lark took a half step back, giving herself a little more space. “I don’t think any person with a healing capacity of any kind should make such a promise. If someone is in need I will help them. I can only promise what I said before.”

  Cassandra’s rosy cheeks flushed with a little more color. “You would steal my business then?”

  “That’s not what I said,” Lark replied. “But, you have my word. I won’t take money for healing services.”

  Cassandra’s eyes narrowed. “That will do for now. But we may need to speak to the Mayor about this.”

  “It was very nice to meet you, Healer Brownstone,” Lark said, hoping some honey would help diffuse things. “I’m glad the town has a capable healer.”

  “Of course,” Cassandra said, then added. “You as well,” before she did an about face and headed to the newly painted house across the street. Before the war a seamstress had lived in that house. It had been painted bright purple and was covered in ivy and climbing roses. Today, it was painted a crisp white with gray shutters. All traces of the ivy and roses were gone, replaced with a front garden bed filled with white gravel and several odd stone sculptures.

  Lark reminded herself that she was glad the town had a healer. Some townsfolk in smaller villages had to travel long distances these days. She continued on her way to the docks with a chic chic over her shoulder. April came waddling behind.

  The Mystic Landing docks still smelled the same as they had, but they lacked the bustling energy Lark remembered. Rows of colorful fishing boats used to line the piers and well dressed visitors stepped off ferries onto waiting carriages to be whisked to the resort or to seaside estates. Personal boats and cargo ships came and went, and newly built vessels from the shipyard across the mouth of the river gleamed with virgin hulls and local pride. Today, it seemed sleepy. The fishing boats remained, but the paint was fading. No ferries were docked, and no carriages came and went. And the shipyard hadn’t produced a vessel in twelve years. Lark acknowledged the passing heartache that always came with mention of the shipyard attack. She nodded to it like an old friend and let it pass by, like a ship sailing down the channel.

  She stepped lightly down the boardwalk that skirted the docks to prevent a splinter on her unprotected left foot. To her left, the boats rocked against the piers, and a few fishermen called out to her to come see their catch of the day. To her right, a row of buildings lined up in an orderly fashion. Shops, a tavern, a boarding house, and at the end of the row a cobbler’s.

  The Jacobsons, according to the ladies of the widows’ home, were a good family. In the two years that Robert and Dana had been there, they had been good neighbors, joined in many of the town events, and appeared in church most Sundays. They also made excellent shoes. They didn’t know much about Ian other than he was a veteran sailor who returned injured. June had not mentioned how he knew her, and Lark had not pressed.

  The cobbler’s shop was one of the only buildings in Mystic Landing that looked better than it had when she had left. It had been a map maker’s shop years ago but had been closed since Lark was a girl. A new sign, a wood carving of a boot, swung on a hinge over the boardwalk, and a fresh coat of green paint adorned the siding. The door was open, and the smell of leather greeted her as she entered.

  The interior was cramped, and floor-to-ceiling shelves of shoes watched her eagerly as she peered around them. Sturdy workboots and warm winter boots made up most of the crowded shelves, but a few ladies' slippers and dapper oxfords made an appearance.

  She made her way through the walls of shoes to find the counter. Ian stood with his back to her, a piece of leather clamped to a work table and an awl in his good hand.

  “You have more shoes in here than feet in Mystic Landing,” she said.

  Ian turned from his work with a grin on his face. “Miss Trudale, you made it.” He put down his tool and faced her, placing his good hand on the counter between them. “My dad believes that when trade picks up, there will be people of all sorts coming and going from these docks.”

  “And everyone needs a good pair of shoes,” Lark said.

  “Especially you,” Ian replied as he rounded the counter. “Let’s see what we’ve got.” He frowned as he looked down at her feet. Then, he surveyed the shelves around him. He nodded and reached for a pair on the shelf behind him.

  “Nothing fancy,” Lark said. “I don’t have anything to pay you with right now.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Ian said. “All returning veterans get a free pair of boots.”

  Lark looked suspiciously at the beautiful pair of boots he held out. The sole was thick and sturdy, with ample room in the toe. The laces were secured with eyelets and then with hooks near the collar, and across the shaft, above the ankle, a beautiful rose design had been tooled in the leather.

  “Did you just make that up, about the free boots?” she asked.

  “I did, but it seems like a good idea.”

  Lark paused. Her grandfather had taught her to be independent. It was one thing to accept help, but another to rely on handouts.

  “Don’t worry, I promise to honor the deal with all veterans, not just the pretty ones.” He grinned.

  Lark shook her head. “Your time in the Navy must have lowered your estimation of female beauty.”

  He chuckled and started to unlace the books. “Honed, is a better word. Now sit.”

  Lark reluctantly sat down on the little chair behind her and easily kicked off her remaining left boot. The right one slipped off almost before she loosened the laces as if it too was ready to give up the fight. As she sat up a pair of socks dropped into her lap. When she looked at him with a disapproving glare, he shrugged.

  “June said you grow flowers. I’ll trade you a bouquet of tulips for my mother’s birthday next week for the socks. It’s a fair trade”

  Lark thought about it. “Tulips for her birthday, and fresh flowers in a planter for the shop front each month for a year.”

  “Six months.”

  “You promise to water them?.”

  “You have my word.”

  “Deal.”

  Lark kicked off her sodden, hole ridden socks eagerly and pulled on the new ones. She was glad she bargained for the extra flowers. These were good socks. Hand knit by someone who cared about important things like good socks.

  Ian handed her the first boot, unlaced and ready. Her foot slid into the shoe as if they had been custom made for her. She swore she heard her foot sigh with pleasure as she laced it up. It had been so long that her feet had forgotten what it meant to be warm, dry, and supported. She kept her head down briefly after lacing the second one up to wait for her eyes to dry just a bit.

  “Thank you,” she said when she looked up, but the catch in her throat betrayed her.

  Ian nodded. “When I first got here someone gave me an old fishing pole that belonged to her late husband. It meant the world to me to be back on the water with a purpose. A sailor needs the water. A gardener needs boots..”

  Lark smiled. “Grandmother. She and her gang are an intuitive bunch.”

  “That they are.”

  Lark walked around the shop's limited space and then did a couple of hops. “They are a perfect fit.” She paused for a moment. She wanted to suggest something, something that pressed on her heart. But it wasn’t the kind of life she wanted. But she already knew she would do it. She had told Cassandra as much just a half hour before. No one who can heal should ever stand by when they can help.

  “I want to look at your arm,” she said abruptly.

  Ian’s face darkened, and she added quickly, “Not right now, and not if you don’t want me to, but I’ve seen a lot of…” She paused, and it was her expression that turned dark. “Trauma,” she managed.

  His eyes were narrowed, and his voice had lost the lightheartedness of before. “I’ve seen a lot of healers. They all broke my heart, crushed my hopes.”

  She looked up at him, looked him in the eye. What she had to say was important. “I might too,” she said. “And what needs to be done will hurt, it will take time, and I can’t promise it will work. Sometimes, healing can only go so far, especially on the battlefield when so many need your attention. There’s only so much we could do.” Her voice skipped from her throat, hot with memory. “I’d like to try to atone for some of the men I had to leave, healed but not whole.” She let the last words roll out raw and naked. Ian had no choice but to let people see his scars. So she let him see hers.

  He was silent for a long while. He rubbed his upper arm and repositioned it in the sling. “I’ll have to think about it,” he said finally. Then, the lightness returned to his voice. “Unless, you know, it’s part of a deal. Free excruciating, possibly fruitless healing sessions for all returning veterans.”

  Lark smiled, “No, this deal is just for handsome one armed sailors.”

  “Well, aren’t I lucky,” he said.

  That night, tucked in her bed beneath clean sheets and kept warm by a quilt with love imbued in every stitch Lark dreamed of a cool, dark clearing in the woods and a circle of white flowers. The flowers whispered promises and then disappeared into the earth.