The last light of the evening filled the house with a glow. It had been a busy day, and Lark was ready to wind down. The air grew chilly, so after she put away her meager groceries into the cupboard, she started a fire in the fireplace. She would let the stove rest for the evening since she had some prepared food to eat later. She closed the front windows but left the top of the Dutch door open. After a while April hopped up on the top of the door and peered in.

  “Ok, Grandfather,” Lark said aloud. “Let's take a look at your treasure.” She went into the bedroom on the right side of the house. The bare mattress made the room look sad, and she made a mental note to air out another quilt from her mother’s chest to put on top of it.

  The only other piece of furniture left in the room was a large wooden wardrobe. It was nothing fancy, her grandfather had probably made it himself in the early years of his marriage. At some point, someone, probably June, had painted acorns and squirrels across the front. The paint had faded over the years, but the design made Lark smile.

  She took a calming breath and opened the wardrobe doors. If the chest in the other room had been a gift from her parents, the wardrobe contents were a gift from her grandparents. On the very top shelf was a large gathering basket. Lark pulled it down and tucked the handle into the crook of her elbow. The motion was automatic, as if her body remembered, after so many years of carrying packs of supplies and hoisting stretchers, that she was really made for toting flowers in a big basket. The base and sides of the basket were wide, and after years of being carried by her grandmother and then her mother to and from the town the handle leaned in and the sides curved slightly to perfectly fit on a hip.

  She set the basket on the floor, and almost immediately she heard a tiny meow of excitement as a tiny black shadow bounded into the basket. Lark patted Boon’s head as he explored the container.

  On the next shelf she found a leather belt, tools, and a box of garden gloves. The belt had been her grandfahter’s. It was of sturdy leather two inches thick and on it hung several pouches, one large on the left hip for various items, two straps on the right that contained a small trowel and another a pruning knife. The tools were clean and still shiny, although the handles were well worn. She pulled the belt off the shelf and wondered if Ian could tool a few more holes in it, or if she could find her grandfather’s tools so that she could make the belt fit. But, as she held the belt out she saw that three new holes had been made to accommodate a smaller waist. Had June had this done? She would not have been surprised.

  She put the belt in the basket, and the tools clinked as she set it in. Boon hopped out and clawed his way onto the bed.

  The bottom shelf of the wardrobe held what she had come looking for. Her grandfather’s treasure was kept in a wooden box about two feet wide. It was decorated with floral carvings, leaves and trees with intertwinging branches. The box was a work of art. She pulled it out and brought it into the livingroom. She set it carefully on the table in front of the now crackling fire.

  April had snuck inside while she was in the other room and was now in a cozy chicken ball on the hearth. Her eyes were closed, and her feathers were fluffed out.

  “I suppose you can stay for now,” Lark said. “The floor will need a scrubbing tomorrow anyway. But you’ll need to go back out to James before bed.”

  Before she dove into the chest, she pulled a few red-hot embers from the fire and placed the cast iron hearth stand over it. She then placed the kettle on the stand.

  Finally, she sat down in front of the box. The metal latch flipped up easily, and the hinged lid creaked as she lifted it. Inside were a half dozen clothbound ledgers on one side, and on the other was a stack of three removable wood trays, all containing neat stacks of folded paper envelopes or muslin bags. Her grandfather’s seed collection.

  She gently pulled the trays out and flipped through the contents. The first tray was primarily vegetables. She found the usual inhabitants of her grandparents’ garden. She found peas, turnips, beets, onions, and carrots, which she could plant now. And cucumbers, tomatoes, beans, corn, and melons could go in the ground after the risk of frost was past. A trickle of excitement and anticipation filled her. She imagined her neat rows of veggies and biting into the season's first tomato. She hadn’t had a fresh tomato in years.

  Under the first tray were her grandfather’s jewels, both common and rare varieties of flowers and herbs. She found the perennials grouped together. If she was lucky some of these, like lavender, mint, sage, and rosemary were still thriving in the wild herb garden. She would plant new annuals like basil and dill as soon as possible. She adored herbs and their usefulness, but nothing brought joy like growing flowers and watching them bloom. Common blooms like marigolds, hollyhocks, and columbines came in many varieties and colors, but she was eager to see how she did with roses, peonies, and poppies. The bulbs for her grandfather’s tulips, daffodils, and asters would be in the root cellar. She was reminded that she still had much to explore and evaluate on the farm.

  She put the trays gently back in the box and took out the stack of ledgers. Then she replaced the box in its wardrobe. Boon tottered along at her heels as she pulled out the oil lamp and wiped the dust from its bowl. It still had a bit of oil in it, and after a few failed attempts, Lark finally lit the wick. The lamp sent dancing shadows across the room, playing with the flickering light from the fireplace. She put the lamp on the table so she’d have enough light to read by, then she headed into the kitchen and sliced some bread and spread a little butter across it. She peeled the last boiled egg from this morning and cut it in half. Then she unwrapped some of the salted fish she purchased and arranged the food on one of her grandmother’s lovely blue and white plates. She added a bit of tea to a cup and got out another smaller plate to which she added some fish and part of the egg.

  She and Boon enjoyed their dinner by the fire as she browsed through her grandfather’s journals. This would be quite a task. Her grandfather was a prolific journaler and record keeper. He wrote in a precise, small hand, and had records of decades of harvests, varieties, experiments, and notes.

  When she started to doze off amid lists of supplies and techniques, she closed the book and put away the dishes. By the time she finished cleaning up, the fire had died down. She scooped up April, who was still dozing. And brought her to the door. Outside, standing and staring up at her, was James. She scooted the sleepy chicken out the door, and James began herding her to the coop. They bounced up to a branch near the nesting box, which was protected by a wall of other branches and leaves, and cozied up next to each other for the night.

  Lark closed the door, added another quilt to the top of her bed to stay warm, and fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  The next morning, the sun was determined to charge into spring. It was warm and bright outside. The dogwood trees on the edge of the woods were sporting cheerful blooms, and the forsythia was vibrant yellow. The day was full of potential.

  Lark started with an egg fried in a little butter in the smallest cast iron skillet, along with some toasted bread. Some bacon would have been wonderful. Hopefully, she’d have funds for that soon.

  After breakfast, she put on her grandfather’s belt, picked out a pair of gloves, grabbed the gathering basket, and headed out to work. She decided she needed to take stock of the barn first.

  One of the double doors was off its hinge, and would need help moving back into place. June had said a storm a couple of years past had blown it off. It sat propped up in place with grass growing all around. Lark pulled the other side open with a squeak of metal and a creak of wood. The barn had always been neat and tidy in her childhood, but now it was definitely not. Vines grew along the backside, and debris was piled up everywhere. There were two stalls in the back of the barn. Her grandfather’s horse had lived there, along with several goats that came and went with June’s patience. The hayloft over the stalls was empty, and the workbench on the structure's other side was covered in dust and dirt. A rat scurried past, and a bird flew out the open window as she kicked at a pile of old lumber. Boon was not ready to be a proper barn cat. The pests were twice his size.

  Although the barn's state was sad, it was still in good repair, and a good selection of tools looked to also be in good shape, although they needed cleaning and sharpening. She opened the functioning door as wide as she could and grabbed the broom. She spent an hour sweeping the main floor of the barn and clearing the space around the worktable and the tool rack.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  After that warm up, it was time to examine the greenhouses. Greenhouses were a rarity, and her grandfather had built three. They sat parallel to each other with a yardor two between them. They all had brick bases with wood frames supporting glass panes. The greenhouse nearest the cottage was in the best shape and only had a few broken panes. Lark pulled away the weeds blocking the door and pulled it open. It had warped slightly, and she had to give it a strong tug. As she stepped inside the smell of earth and decaying vegetation greeted her. Two long tables ran the length of the greenhouse. In her childhood it was filled with rows of seedlings and tiny blooms packed in cloth or paper pots. She started from the back of the structure and swept up the dead leaves, pot remnants, glass shards, and dirt. Mice had moved into the greenhouse, and they scurried frantically as she disrupted their home.

  “Back to forests and meadows, my friends, before my cat begins to grow,” she said as she swept. After a few passes, it was still not near what it had been, but it was a step forward, and she had space.

  It was just before noon when she emerged from the greenhouse. The sun was warm, but the breeze was still crisp. She drew a bucket of water up from the well and rinsed her face and hands when she heard James sound a screeching alarm. The bird flew past behind her, where he had been pecking around by the front of the cottage. In a flourish of feathers and warning crows, he bolted towards the path to the road and straight towards a very suprised Ian Jacobson.

  “James!” she called, bringing a touch of taming magic to the surface. It came easy now that she had touched his rooster brain once before. A bird was one of the easiest animals to calm. He stopped a few feet from Ian, who, to his credit, had not given ground to the charging bird. James tottered a bit, recovering from his abrupt stop, and looked up at Ian with curiosity, who had his good arm up and ready to defend himself.

  Lark brushed her filthy work pants off and pulled a handfull of chickenfeed out of one of the leather pouches on her belt. She had been working to get James to trust her without needing magic. She headed for Ian and James, who were now both participating in an intense stare off.

  When she reached them, she took Ian’s hand and placed the corn in it. Then she knelt down and pulled Ian down with her. Ian offered the corn to James, who blinked once and began to eat greedily.

  “Well, that was not what I expected,” Ian said.

  “Don’t all girls have personal attack roosters these days?” Lark said with a grin.

  “I admit,” Ian said as he brushed the remnants of corn from his hand and stood. “I was concerned slightly about your safety out here, but I was clearly mistaken.”

  “He is still quite wild,” she said. “A bit of taming magic does come in handy in the forest. I can teach you some if you like. It is an easy skill to start with.”

  “No thanks,” Ian said. “I had to learn a bit of wind magic from the old sailors aboard ship. I had enough trouble flexing those mental muscles.”

  “Sun magic is different in many ways,” Lark said. “I never could get the knack of wind, movement or breakdown magic, but I can make a very puny spark, much to my father’s delight.” The memory of her father’s beaming grin, when she showed him she could light a candle, was a warm hug of a memory.

  “Speaking of sparks,” he said. “Is your stove in working order?” He reached around and pulled two fish from a hook on his pack. “I brought lunch.”

  Half an hour later, with the fish sizzling in a pan with a bit of butter and some dill and parsley from the herb garden and parsnips boiling, Lark laughed as Ian finished a story about a pig running amok on the deck of a ship. He was a natural storyteller, and the discourse was effortless. They laughed and conversed as if they were old friends. The conversation stayed light, hinting at events in the war but skirting anything heavy.

  Lark noticed how adept he had become at using just one hand. He had filleted and cooked the fish with no assistance from her. As he moved, she noticed that his fingers would extend backward with certain movements, but they could not contract. She suspected that the ligaments, tendons, and muscles of his wrist and forearm had been badly mangled and likely healed but not repaired.

  “Grab the blue dishes on the shelf behind you,” Lark said as she drained the parsnips and added a bit of salt, butter, and herbs. They dished up their plates and sat at the table across from each other.

  “The fish is amazing,” Lark said. “Where did you catch them.”

  “Don’t tell Wheeler, but I have a nice spot on a little stream just off the main river, but it’s squarely on his land. He’s run me off a couple of times.”

  Lark shook her head. “He’s not good for Mystic Landing, and it breaks my heart. His daughter was my best friend while I was growing up.

  “He says he’s keeping people from having to leave their land,” he said.

  “True, but it’s not their land anymore, and I have a feeling he’s the reason they might have to leave in the first place.”

  “And who wears a white suit before the spring solstice anyway,” he said with a smile.

  Lark grinned. “A travesty, for sure.”

  They finished their lunch, and then Lark made some tea. She sat the teacups down on the table and felt the silence grow a little thicker than it had been. It was time to talk about what he’d come here to talk about. Lark gave him some time to work up to it.

  “I’m grateful,” he began. “I really am, to the healer on the ship, and again in the hospital tents. They say I lost so much blood I should have died. They saved me. But… sometimes I think it wasn’t worth it.”

  “Because you didn’t come home whole,” Lark said.

  “I can’t sail,” he said. “Not even the fishermen will take a one-armed man. I can’t hoist line or climb rigging. I’m not sure I could even man the helm with any strength.”

  “You were pretty good at selling me free boots,” she offered.

  “Oh, I can tool a pretty design, and I can probably adapt the cobblers bench even more, but the truth is, the thought of standing all day at a bench in a shop sounds like torture.”

  “I understand that,” she said, “The years in the camps and in the make shift hospitals made me realize that I need the forest and the flowers. I don’t just enjoy them, they are sustenance.”

  “It is the opposite for me. Aboard ship I was free. The wind and the power of the sea was invigorating. Even here, the rocky shores, rivers, and streams keep me sane. I dred the shop and its walls.”

  “Will you let me look at your arm?” she asked.

  He nodded and began pulling it out of the sling. “I guess I’m not completely out of hope after all.”

  “Tell me more about the accident and what happened after.”

  As he spoke, she helped him roll up his sleeve and lay his arm on the table. His bicep was small, especially compared to his strong side, but the tricep, on the other side of his upper arm, was still healthy and stable. His elbow joint was in good order, that had either been healed properly or not damaged. His forearm was another story. The bloodvessels were healthy and the nerves were working as they should, but the muscles and tendons that controlled finger flexion were disconnected, bisected or out of place.

  “Have you had Cassandra Brownstone look at it.”

  “No,” he said. “We couldn’t afford her rate for non-emergent or life threatening care.”

  “Hmm,” was all she said.

  She ran her hands along his upper arm. “Your muscle here has been damaged, and the piece of tissue that connects it to the point near your elbow is too thin to function propperly. Can I go further and examine it deeper? This will not hurt, just tingle.”

  “Ok,” he said.

  She took a breath and found her focus. Skin, tissue, muscle, bone, she wove her awareness into his arm, finding what was not in order. Moon magic craved order, it wanted to set things as they were made. “I will attempt to repair the shredded tendon that has kept you from moving your elbow. This part will hurt. Are you ready?”

  “Pain and I are old friends,” he said.

  Lark poured her healing magic into Ian. Knowing that he was her only charge and that other’s lives didn’t depend on her retaining her mental strength, she did not hold back. Ian grimaced as his muscles stretched. Lark bent his elbow upward to accommodate as she elongated the tendons and knit them together tenuously. She folded his arm up tightly when she had done all she could.

  “Keep your elbow joint closed, like this, for two days. Then, I want you to begin stretching the newly healed muscle. It will be weak and tight, but if you go slowly and I help you, I think we can see progress.”

  “And my hand?” he said.

  “Your forearm is in much worse shape, but I think we can make progress there too. It may never be like it was,” she said, looking him in the eye.

  “I could kiss you,” he said, “but I feel like one shouldn’t kiss one’s healer after they’ve delivered such a high dose of pain.”

  “Perhaps later, when pain isn’t involved,” Lark said.

  The mood lightened once more, and Lark helped Ian wrap his arm tight back in the sling. She sat down heavily at the table. She had spent more energy than she knew.

  “I’m sorry, Ian, I think I–” The room tunneled away, and she saw Ian lunge to catch her as she slipped out of the chair and into unconsciousness.”