A sunbeam brushed Lark’s cheek. She stretched beneath the covers, took a deep breath, and let herself feel gratitude for the bed, the cottage, the quilt above her, and the chance to do good work today. She felt Boon stir on the pillow beside her. The kitten crawled into the crook of her neck and purred gently as he kneaded the quilt covering her shoulder. Lark leaned in and felt the warmth of his tiny side against her cheek. She ran her fingers over the edge of the quilt. The thought of her mother’s patient fingers sewing the binding on stitch by stitch made her feel both love and sorrow together in a bittersweet bouquet.

  She pulled herself up, folding Boon into the crook of her arm. The cool morning air chilled her arms as she emerged from under the quilt, reminding her that spring was still young. She deposited the tiny ball of black fur on the end of the bed as she rose, stretched, and dressed for the day.

  Lark had no other choices besides her sturdy army trousers. Months of almost constant wear had worn the stiff canvas blend to a soft, well fitting second skin. They had large pockets and kept her warm. They were not stylish, however, and upon close inspection, quite stained. Her cotton undershirt, which she had worn to bed, was threadbare and ready for the rag bin. She promised the overworked fabric another life as soon as she found a decent replacement as she tucked it into her trousers.

  Her army jacket, with her healer’s patch on the shoulder, hung on the peg where she had left it last night. As she reached for it, an overwhelming aversion came over her. It felt as if she were reaching for someone else’s coat. She didn’t want to wrap herself in her old life. She left the jacket on the peg.

  She then began a search of the room. In the chest where she had found several of her mother’s quilts, she also found a heavy coat with a fur collar that had been her father’s, a few skirts and sweaters that had been her mother’s, several pairs of shoes that were either too small or too large, a beautiful crocheted shawl that she could have spent all day running her fingers over the soft yarn, and a variety of hats for both cold and warm weather.

  Yesterday, it might have been harder to touch these items that had belonged to her parents. She recalled the feel of her face against the soft fabric of her father’s winter coat as she hugged him and the joy she felt when her mother let her wear her beautiful shawl to a town dance. Yesterday, it would have been a heavy memory and a reminder of what she had lost. But today was different. Today, they were gifts from her parents, a sign that they were here and helping her.

  She pulled out her mother’s clothes. Sarah Trudale had been proudly short, gloriously round, and beautifully vibrant. Her colorful skirts would need quite a bit of altering to fit Lark unless she increased in size, a concept that seemed very appealing. She had grown too thin lately and felt diminished. She thought of her mother’s soft curves with admiration. With that thought, she put the skirts away and chose a cream colored wool sweater. It was soft and still held a bit of the scent of her mother’s soap. She pulled it over her head and let it embrace her. It was a bit oversized but absolutely perfect.

  She then tugged on her new socks and boots, letting her toes luxuriate in the warm socks and sturdy shoes. She brushed her hair and reset her braid. Then, she set about crafting her new morning routine. She saw to herself first, visiting the privy, washing her face, gathering water, and making her bed. Then she saw to her tiny companions. She scooped up Boon from the bed and brought him outside, placing him in the short grass near the center of the yard. He yawned and stretched as only a cat can do.

  “Don’t think I’ll carry you around when you get big,” she told him, knowing she was probably lying.

  He looked at her as if he knew she wasn’t serious and yawned.

  Lark shook her head but grinned at the same time. Now, to find April, at least one of her stock needed to pull their weight. “Chick, chick!” she called pleasantly.

  After two more calls, she heard a clucking noise coming from the ruins of the old coop. The fence around it had been completely flattened, and the coop itself was splintered into a million pieces. However, after climbing over the trunk of the fallen tree and clearing some debris, Lark found April nesting happily in the one remaining nesting box, which hung crooked and covered in fallen branches. She chirped happily when Lark pulled the branches away and hopped up to reveal several eggs of various sizes.

  “What a good girl,” she praised.

  April pecked at Lark’s hand, looking for more berries.

  “Breakfast after a bit of work,” she said. “But I promise there will be breakfast every day now. We both need fattening.”

  April nodded and scooted down from her hideout to join Boon in the sunshine.

  Lark spent the next half an hour cleaning away some of the branches blocking the way to April’s hideout and sweeping out the leaf litter, waste, and debris from the nesting box. The tiny eggs were misshapen and covered with poop. Definitely not recent or healthy eggs. She swept them up with the rest and tossed them in the compost heap behind the barn, which had become a mountain of weeds. That was a chore for another day.

  She pulled some of the tall grass and lined the nesting box. April had been lucky to find a warm, safe spot while she fended for herself this last year. Mrs. Bly mentioned several had been left behind. Lark wondered if they had also found safe spots.

  Now, it was time for breakfast.

  The old stove was eager to come to life. Lark opened the dampers and added kindling to the firebox. Once she had the fire going, she added some of the split logs she had collected the evening before.

  While she waited for the old stove to heat up, she took stock of what was left in the kitchen. She had her grandmother’s cast iron skillets, pans, and a gorgeous Dutch oven. They were like old friends, covered in dust and patiently waiting on their iron hooks above the worktable to be useful again. Wooden spoons and tin ladles hung in their places near the stove, and an assortment of copper, tin, and earthenware baking sheets and tins slept neatly in piles on the shelves across from the stove.

  She also found a half-full salt box and a collection of empty stoneware crocks. She spotted the one her grandmother had used for butter and pulled it out, cradling it like a baby as she continued her inventory. Other useful items, like a bread trough, a rolling pin, and a butter churn, seemed to have collected the most dust.

  On the shelf next to the bakeware, she greeted her old companions. She knew her grandmother’s dishes like she knew her own handwriting. She’d spent many evenings scrubbing them clean. June had especially loved her blue and white plates and bowls, but she also had an assortment of sturdy brown earthenware bowls, pewter cups and mugs as well as wooden trenchers. Her tea cups were all different and made for an eclectic mix of ceramic, stoneware, and pewter.

  Cleaning everything would take all day, so Lark picked out a small pot, a few utensils, a bowl, and a pair of cups. She filled the giant copper basin with water she had gathered earlier and began to rinse the year of dust from them. She made a mental note to get some soap in town so she could do a proper cleaning.

  After the necessities were scrubbed of dust and the counters and tabletop wiped down, Lark set the copper kettle on the stove and a pot to boil some eggs Mrs Bly had given her last night. She then searched through the wild herb garden and selected a few sprigs of mint. She muddled the leaves in a pewter cup and poured the hot water over it to steep while she peeled the eggs and sliced them up with a little salt in her bowl. She paired the eggs with the last bit of flatbread from her travels.

  Boon pawed at her boot as she sat down at the table. She scooped him up and placed him next to her bowl. She gave him a slice of egg, and he gobbled it up eagerly. As she enjoyed her first prepared meal in her kitchen she imagined all of the things she would cook. She’d have to make some bread as soon as she could, she’d need some cream for butter, and any fresh veggies she could find as well. The fishermen would have cod for salting and an array of fresh catches. And hopefully the Blys would have poultry for sale. But she would need either money or something to barter.

  After her meal, she cleaned up the kitchen, muddled one more cup of mint tea and poured the last of the hot water from the kettle over it. She also grabbed one of the extra boiled eggs and headed out the door. She stopped at the wood pile to the left of the house and left the tea and the egg on the chopping block. From there, she headed north, with the cliff to her left easing into thick forest. The vegetable garden lay in a clearing on that side of the house, behind the greenhouses. It was a mass of weeds and wild vegetation. It had been way more than one year since that space had been tended.

  Beyond the vegetable garden, the woods closed comfortingly around her. The path was still there, although overgrown in parts. She would know the way in the dark. She touched the trunks of her old friends, the beach, the cedar, and the oak. She grinned up at the venerable maple and reveled in the smell of the forest. Bluebells had sprouted among the moss and tree trunks, and a few dogwoods had begun to bloom. The forest was ready for spring.

  Fifteen minutes of walking led her to the thickest part of the woods. The path grew narrow, and the trees crowded in. Then, without warning, they parted, revealing a clearing with a tiny stream gurgling through two giant oak trees. Her grandfather had called them the old men of the forest, the oldest trees in the wood. And surrounding the stream, among the roots of the oak trees, a blanket of delicate faded green leaves covered the ground like a blanket. But where were the flowers?

  As a child, this grove was covered in beautiful white flowers. Flowers like gardenias, but also like lilies that smelled like sweet honeysuckle and fragrant roses. She had never seen any other flower like it. The Truedales called them Silvershade Blooms, and they were never to be sold. She only ever saw her grandfather gift them, and only in exceptional circumstances. They were never to be picked lightly.

  She waded through the leaves, looking closely at the plants. She found no buds and no blooms. She had been sure that they had bloomed all year long. She’d never come here and not seen at least one bloom. She tried encouraging growth using her magic, but it only sprouted more leaves, never a flower. Perhaps her grandfather’s journals would help her. He had treasured this grove and treated it with reverence. She would do the same if she could.

  On the walk back Lark found her tea up and the egg had vanished from the chopping block. Good, he was still here then.

  An hour later, Lark found herself standing in a very different environment from the silvershade blooms glade. The Wheeler house, with its harsh lines and bright paint had no softness or wild beauty. It was solid and straight and currently very noisy.

  The large wood doors were wide open, and voices tumbled out in bits of pleasant conversation. Lark took a deep breath and climbed the stairs to the front door. The main hallway led all the way through the house, and the early afternoon light shone through the back door, creating silhouettes of the people passing through the hall.

  No one noticed as Lark entered. Two men in work clothes discussing tools walked by. Lark didn’t think she recognized them, but the light behind the figures made it hard to see their faces. She was halfway down the hall, heading towards the voices in the back of the house, when a tall willowy shape walked through the sunbeams. Her long arms held a basket of bread, and her hair was piled artfully in a large bun on her head. A lace edged apron added delicate frills to her shoulders, and her fine dress flowed over her ample belly and out behind her as she walked.

  The woman stopped, almost dropping the basket as she caught a glimpse of Lark.

  “Oh!” She exclaimed. “Oh, my Sun and Moon! Lark!”

  The basket was tossed on a side table as Jessica hurried down the hall towards her. Lark felt the sting of tears in her eyes as they met in a fierce embrace, Jessica’s pregnant belly pressed securely between them.

  “You’re home,” Jessica said. “Let me see you.” She pulled away but kept her long, slender hands clasped around Lark’s shoulders as if she might bolt away.

  Her old friend’s face was rounder now, and her bright eyes held wisdom and knowing in their depths, replacing the wistful innocence Lark had remembered. She could only imagine what her beautiful friend thought of her own ragged, pale appearance.

  “You are the most beautiful sight I have seen in a very long time,” she said as if she knew what Lark had been thinking. “since the last baby burst forth,” she grinned, making her face shine.

  “My dear friend, I am afraid I am not, but it makes me happy to hear you say it.”

  Jessica hugged her again. “You are my sister, and I shall always measure beauty with you in mind.” She slipped her arm around Lark’s shoulders and led them down the hallway. “Come, you are just in time to eat. The other farmers will be so happy to see you. And you must meet my babies.”

  They exited the hallway and walked, arm in arm, out onto the expansive back veranda where two long tables had been set up. A crowd gathered around the table as plates, dishes, and bowls of food were laid out. At the head of the table, standing behind a carved high backed chair, was Usher Wheeler. He was dressed immaculately in a cream colored morning coat and a light blue cravat. The rest of the gathering was not dressed nearly as fine. Most wore work clothes similar to what Lark was wearing. Only two other men, one young and one older, both talking with Mr Wheeler, were wearing coats and trousers instead of work pants, suspenders, and cotton work shirts.

  “Look, everyone!” Jessica’s voice cut through the conversations around them. “The Balance blessed us. Lark Truedale has come home!”

  Lark was greeted with eager handshakes and hearty smiles. Some asked about loved ones, and some commented on how June must be so pleased. No one asked about her farm, and furtive glances were tossed back to the three men at the head of the table. Lark knew most of them, at least in part. The Yern family had an orchard to the west of town, and Mr Wellbrook had a dairy where they had bought milk and cheese.

  Four children bounded in and gathered at Jessica’s skirts. They were all lovely golden copies of their mother, with pink cheeks and yellow mops of hair. They ranged in age from 8 to 2 and wore matching spotless outfits. Lark was introduced to each, and then they scampered off to the kitchen with a nanny to get fed.

  “They are treasures,” Lark said to Jessica as she ushered her to a seat near the head of the table.

  Jessica beamed. “They are my life.”

  “And another blessing on the way,” Mr Wheeler said, clasping the older gentleman sitting across from Lark on the shoulder.”

  The man nodded pleasantly. He was well past fifty, with more grey hair throughout his head and beard than not. His belly strained his vest buttons, and his hands, which fingered his pocket watch, were soft and uncalloused.

  “Lark, darling,” Jessica said, “This is Harold Triburg, my doting husband.”

  “A pleasure,” Harold said with a nod to Lark. His voice was low and soothing but toneless.

  “I am sorry to have missed your wedding,” Lark said.

  “Nonsense,” boomed Wheeler, “You were out fighting the good fight. Belrae owes you.” He brought the conversation to a close by clapping his hands and announcing it was time to eat. He sat down at the head of the table, and then everyone sat in response.

  Bowls of glorious smelling food were passed around. A beef stew with a thick sauce and cornbread muffins with a hint of sweetness. She had not had beef in over a year. Lark purposely slowed her bites even though she wanted to gobble as much up as possible. She looked longingly at the pile of muffins and thought about how many she could put in her deep pockets. April would undoubtedly love to share one with her.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “So, Miss Truedale,” Mr Wheeler said between bites of stew. “You can see that we have a merry group. Our cooperative is thriving. We are feeding the whole of the river valley with corn, potatoes, and wheat, among other things, and we have much more coming as we develop more of our lands.”

  “So you work together to farm each property?” Lark asked.

  “Yes, and the cooperative pays the taxes, so no one has to leave their homes. The war was hard on our farm families, and we rose to meet the challenges together.”

  “That sounds wonderful,” Lark said. “Mr Yern, I look forward to tasting your apples again. I have not had their like in the last ten years. The Army’s idea of fresh fruit is not up to Yern orchard’s standards.”

  “Oh, yes,” Mr Yern said tentatively. “We have a few trees we can harvest.”

  “We will bring your trees back to production soon, no doubt.” Mr Wheeler said. “The cooperative has had to focus on staples and reliable income crops, but as we grow, we can do much much more.”

  “Oh,” Lark said. She had a knot forming in her stomach, which wasn’t from the giant bowl of stew.

  The conversation grew lighter after that. The farmers talked of the weather and the deliciousness of the stew. Jessica told enchanting stories about her children. Finally, Mr Wheeler stood and thanked everyone. To Lark, he said, “Come and chat with me, Miss Truedale.”

  Lark said farewell to the guests as they headed, not out the front door, but out the back to the barn and fields. She hugged Jessica tight, promising to see her Saturday morning.

  “Don’t let Daddy talk too much business,” she said. “You are still settling in.”

  Mr Wheeler’s expression didn’t change, but he did not comment.

  Lark followed him back into the house and into the front room. It was lined with dark wood, had a thick green carpet, and smelled like tobacco. Laid out on a large desk was a detailed map. Mr Wheeler motioned for her to take a look. It was a map of Mystic Landing and the surrounding countryside. Several properties were highlighted in red, including a large swath almost reaching the Truedale Farm.

  “Your property has grown in the last few years,” Lark said. “Did Mr Broadbent sell you his farm to the north?”

  “He did, lovely man. He retired when his sons left for the war. Moved to Harrington to live with his sister. It’s great land, perfect for corn and wheat.”

  Lark nodded.

  “June had told me that Truedale Farm is in your hands now,” he continued. “I hope you have seen that Eliot’s old flowers and precious herbs are not what Belrae needs now. If you are to be a success, and we want you to be a success, you need to produce what the country needs and is paying well for.”

  “I think we always need flowers,” she said.

  “We need money in the bank more,” he said. “Especially when taxes are due. The lumber alone on your property would make you a wealthy woman, but you need our help to harvest it.”

  “Lumber?” she said.

  Mr Wheeler narrowed his eyes at her. “Do you know the expanse of your grandfather’s land?” He placed a finger on the map over the woods she had walked through this morning and made a broad circle from the main road, up over the rocky cliff behind the cottage and around the forest to the Glen River beyond. “You own this whole forest and will owe taxes on it.”

  “Perhaps it’s the other way around,” she said. “Perhaps the forest owns me, and I am charged with its protection.”

  Mr Wheeler’s face scrunched up into something ugly. “Well, unless the forest pays its taxes, it will be owned by someone else. The shipyard needs lumber.”

  “And you own the shipyard now.”

  Mr Wheeler did not respond.

  “Thank you for lunch. It was lovely,” she said.

  “Think about it, Miss Truedale. You will get to stay in your home. You will have income and security.”

  “But not a forest,” she said, turning to go.

  Lark’s footsteps grew faster and louder as she left the Wheeler mansion and marched down the steps and through the gate. Anger added force to her stride, and frustration balled her hands into fists at her sides. How dare he.

  She stopped abruptly at the crest of the bridge and braced her hands on the rail. Her lungs heaved as adrenaline pumped through her. Why was she letting Mr Wheeler and his cooperative get to her like this? Why was her body responding like she was back on the front lines?

  Because he threatened you, a voice inside her said, a voice that sounded like her mother. He threatened not only her but every being in the forest. He threatened to take flowers and trees away from her community.

  She took a few deep breaths and stood there, looking out over the river and the ocean beyond, until her body stopped reacting to the threat. Her heart slowed, and her muscles relaxed. She would not lose the farm or the forest. And she would prove Wheeler wrong.

  She found June on the front porch of the widow’s home, surrounded by her friends. She told them all about her first nights at the farm, about April and Boon, and about Ian and her new boots. Then, when a natural lull filled the porch, June said, without a change in tone or inflection, “Ok, dear, now tell us why you are so angry this morning.”

  June sighed and leaned back in her chair. “How could you tell?”

  “Your posture,” Helena said.

  “Your footsteps were heavy as boulders coming up the steps,” Martha added, “You did that in school as well.”

  The other two ladies, Viola and Merrigold, nodded in agreement.

  “I can hear it in your voice,” June said.

  Lark could see that hiding anything from these ladies would be impossible. “Usher Wheeler wants me to join the cooperative.”

  All five women nodded, giving each other knowing looks.

  “His use of the word cooperative is misleading,” Martha said, in a voice that brought Lark back to the days when she was her teacher. “You will co-own nothing. I understand that you will simply become a tenant and an employee.”

  “This is true,” June added.

  “So the Yerns and Mr Wellbrook no longer own their farms?”

  June shook her head sadly. “But, they didn’t get kicked out of their homes, and they have full bellies. Neither had much of a choice. It was hard for them when all the young people left, and the seasonal workers dried up. You can’t bring in an apple harvest with two old people and a dog.”

  Lark took a long breath in, and the women gave her the time to let it out slowly before she said, “He wants to cut down the forest.”

  “That’s what he did with the Broadbent farm,” June said sadly. “When Daniel and Christofer left, their father couldn’t keep up. The town gave him several years to catch up on taxes, but all grace periods vanished when Wheeler became mayor. He purchased the land and evicted poor Robert. He cleared the entire property.”

  “That’s not exactly the story he told me this afternoon,” Lark said.

  “I don’t expect so,” June said.

  “Don’t worry,” Viola said, her ancient, age marked hand patting Lark's arm gently. “The great balance will be, you will see.”

  “I hope it weighs out on my side,” Lark said.

  “The forest always wins in the balance,” The oldest of the group continued. “But it takes its time.”

  Lark said her goodbyes, hugging each woman and promising to return soon. She purposefully lightened her steps as she walked down the stairs and into the square. Cassandra Brownstone walked across her path and gave a cold nod. Lark waved. She hated the feeling that she’d made more new enemies since she’d been home than new friends.

  She walked across the square. The grass was as green as she had ever seen it and well mowed. She noted the little signs along the street that said, "Keep off the grass," and she wondered if there was an event coming up.

  The general store faced the green and hadn’t changed in ten years. She walked up the steps to the wide covered porch and admired the items on display in front of the welcoming, open doors. Her mother had brought fresh cut flowers from the farm to Mr Quade almost daily. He had a beautiful display rack for them. Lark wondered if he still had it.

  The store smelled like feed, soap, and tallow. Large barrels of grains stood in the middle, and all along the walls were shelves of tools, foodstuffs, kitchenware, cloth, and so much more.

  Lark was the only one in the shop this afternoon, and called out a little, “hello, Mr Quade?”

  A few moments later a large man in a long apron appeared from the back room. Mr Quade was tall and broad shouldered with a thick dark mustache. His mustache had more gray than she remembered, but his bright eyes were just as friendly.

  “Miss Lark!” he exclaimed. “Welcome home. I had heard you were back.”

  “I am sorry to hear about Timmothy,” Lark said. Tim had been her friend in school, and he had not come home from the war.

  Mr Quade nodded, “It was a dark time for all of us. His mother is gone now, too,” he said. “Matilda passed a couple of years ago. It’s just me and Raymond now.”

  A large yellow dog bounded out from behind the counter at the sound of his name. This made Mr Quade smile.

  Lark rubbed his big head and was rewarded with several wet, sloppy kisses. “He looks like the best of company,” she said.

  “Oh he is,” the shopkeeper said. “So, what do you need? What can I get you? I can open a new account for you while you look around.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I was curious if you could use a few bundles of herbs, nothing special, some rosemary or mint perhaps. And maybe a few fresh cut tulips? I don’t have much now, but it could be a start. I would brighten up your porch.”

  Mr Quade hesitated but nodded. “We can certainly try, Miss Lark. Although, I usually only sell essentials these days. Luxuries like flowers might not sell like they used to.”

  “I appreciate anything you can get for them. I know you’ll do what you can.”

  “I certainly will, I promise,” he said.

  Lark left with a bar of soap, a small bag of feed for April, a bit of butter, some salted fish, and two large parsnips. She noted that the store had very few vegetables even though it was early spring. They should at least be stocking some greens, garlic, and overwintered root vegetables. There was plenty of grain, though, so that was good.

  “Oh, and we still have market day on Saturday,” Mr Quade called. “It’s a little subdued now since the town stopped sponsoring it. But folks still sell items around the square.”

  “Thank you,” Lark called.

  She walked along the porch to the next shop. The smell of freshly baked bread greeted her at the door. The Landing Bakery needed a fresh coat of paint, but that didn’t diminish the joy Lark felt at seeing the shelves of fresh loaves inside. Fresh bread had been a luxury in the corps.

  “Oh my sun, it’s Lark Truedale!” a voice cried, and a short woman with a face full of freckles and an apron full of flour burst from behind the counter.

  “Penny!” Lark said with equal enthusiasm. Penny had been several years younger than Lark in school, but they had known each other well. Penny had been a wild spirit. Lark recalled that she had been more interested in making mud pies and fairy houses than anything Miss Martha offered in the classroom.

  “You’re a baker now,” Lark said. “I feel like that fits you well. How is your family?”

  “Ah,” she said with a grin and an eye roll. “My parents are well. They moved to Harrington when the Inn closed, and they ran a nice little bed and breakfast. I went with them at first, but I was about to tear down the walls in town. So when Tish, you remember Letitia Stanson from school? She said she had a room to let and something to keep my hands busy with. I didn’t even ask her what it was!” The young woman laughed warmly and patted her apron, making flour fly into the air.

  “That’s wonderful, Penny. Does Mr Owens still own the place?”

  “Oh no, he passed on a few years ago. Tish and I bought the place from his widow. She’s over at the widows’ home now. We live upstairs. It’s hard work, but I’m not trapped in the city, and we have a little boat we take out on Sundays. I’m so glad you’re back in town. It’s good to see a familiar face come home, and we could sure use another customer.”

  Lark smiled at Penny. She hadn’t changed much from the wild, pink faced child that ran free in the woods around the resort where her parents worked. The Worthy family wasn’t the only ones who must have had to leave after the Mystic Resort closed down.

  “What can a couple of pennies buy?” Lark asked. “I’m down to my last few coins.”

  “Not a problem,” Penny said. “We specialize in day old bread, still just as good, only slightly chewy.” She pulled two small loaves from the back wall and wrapped them up for Lark.

  Lark left town in a completely different state of mind than when she arrived. The anger and frustration caused by Mr Wheeler was replaced by the love and support from June and the ladies, Mr Quade's encouragement, and Penny's joy. She held on to those things tightly as she walked over the bridge and past the Wheeler house.

  Just out of sight of the giant square building she came to the Bly house. A few hens wandered around the house, and the front porch rocker where Mrs Bly had been sitting yesterday was empty. At the base of the stone wall, leaning against the rocks, was a tall, lanky figure cloaked in an imposing black coat. He sat on the ground just to the left of the gate, his head and shoulders bent down so he couldn’t be seen from the house. His blond hair was long and matted, and his boots were almost as tattered as hers had been. He had a practically spent cigar butt between his fingers. The light had gone out from the end, but Garrison Bly would have no trouble lighting it again. She remembered when her father had taught Garrison how to light a cigar at their kitchen table.

  Lark didn’t say anything as she approached. Garrison didn’t even look up at her. She put her bag down and eased herself onto the ground beside him. They sat there for several long moments. Lark took out a loaf of bread and pulled off a crusty hunk. She tore it in half and handed half to Garrison. He took it and after a while he began to eat. They ate in silence for a while as the afternoon sun dipped lower.

  “I’m glad you made it,” he said, finally.

  “You too,” she said.

  “Have you seen them yet?” she asked.

  “Nope,” he said. “Maybe I’ll just stay out here tonight.”

  “It will be warmer inside. I slept in a bed last night, and it was so good.”

  “Not sure I deserve a bed.”

  They finished the bread and let the silence lengthen.

  “She deserves to have you back,” Lark said eventually. “You can always leave tomorrow.”

  Garrison looked at her for the first time. His face was gaunt, and his prominent nose seemed to take up all of his face, like a raven’s beak. “You look awful,” he said. “No one has probably told you that.”

  “No,” she said. “But I’m a peaceful Moon mage, so everyone loves me. I’m sure they will delight in telling you evil Sun mages how haggard you look after ten years of war. It will likely bring them joy to do so. You could go into town tomorrow and spread so much joy.”

  Garrison coughed, and it turned into a harsh chuckle. “Ah, humor,” he said. “I had almost forgotten what it sounded like.”

  “Do you want me to go in with you?”

  Garrison took a breath and tossed his cigar into the road. “No, one last battlefield to cross.” He hoisted himself up and looked over the stone wall at the house he had grown up in.

  Lark stood and said, “Good luck. You know where I am if you need to be somewhere else for a while.”

  He nodded, and, keeping his eyes on the house, he left the road and sauntered, in a rolling gait towards home.

  Lark watched as Mrs Bly burst from the door when he was a few yards from the porch. He caught her in his arms as she wailed tears of relief. A few moments later, Mr Bly came limping out. He dropped his cane as he wrapped his long arms around them both.

  Lark had to wipe the tears off her cheeks as she continued to the farm.

  The sun was not quite ready to set and sent long sunbeams across the yard as she approached the bend in the path. A dot of yellow stood right in the middle of the grass. April looked off into the distance for a while, trying to remember what she was in the field for. After a bit, she seemed to give up and began pecking the ground again.

  Lark saw the hawk’s shadow before she saw the bird itself. The predator was in a complete dive, and talons outstretched and in a direct course to April. Adrenaline shot through Lark, and she pulled in a breath to scream and bolted forward in a run. But before her voice could leave her throat, a shape launched from the shadows of the barn. It collided with the hawk mid-air in a burst of feathers and talons. A screeching cry and a garbled, ear-splitting crow filled the air as the ball of chaos landed several feet from April. After a few tumbles, the hawk managed to disengage and escape back into the air. The shape in the grass gave a great shake, and a tall, scraggly rooster strolled into the center of the yard as if it were his kingdom.

  Relief washed over Lark. But when she neared the yard, the rooster’s gaze caught her, and he charged. Lark was still full of unspent adrenaline, and the taming magic came quickly, just as it had on sweeps of the battlefield, her only weapon against angry, desperate, and pain ridden soldiers who couldn’t tell help from hurt.

  The scraggly bird stopped short five feet from her. His eyes were wide at first and his wings outstretched, but soon he relaxed his posture, and his eyes grew soft. April bounded up to Lark and pecked at her boots. Lark knelt and opened the small sack of feed. She gathered some in her hand and offered it to April. The rooster took a few steps cautiously, and Lark let a strong wave of calm and trust wash over him. She held out her hand to him. “Chick chick,” she said. And he trotted forward, fear gone. He ate greedily from her hand, pecking much harder than April, but he allowed her to stroke his neck with her free hand. He was a red rooster, or he had been. He had lost much of his feathers, although a few lovely green tail feathers remained.

  “You are a brave boy,” she told him. “You need a regal name. How about James?”

  James didn't disagree so she spread out some feed for her new flock. Two chickens, it was a start.