The Promise of No Words

Chapter 9

"You're late."

Salla didn’t look up from the pestle, though I hadn't even crossed the threshold. She moved her hands slowly, as if the herbs had something to say before she crushed them. A thin thread of smoke came from her chimney, blending with the smell of lavender that had turned a little bitter.

"I didn’t think I was expected," I said.

"You weren’t. But you’re here." She paused. "Which means something’s shifted."

I walked into the building. The door made a strange noise as if it didn’t want to shut.

Her place felt warm like a closed fist—tight, tense and waiting. There was a smell of old herbs, smoke and a hint of dried blood beneath the floorboards in the air. Shelves were placed along the walls in an irregular pattern and each was bent under the weight of glass jars, some tall and some short, with their labels often curled, stained or gone.

Inside, everything was suspended in thick liquid, with roots like sleeping snakes, petals in the middle of decay and shapes that looked like preserved eyes or dried tongues. It looked as if they were listening or watching, as if the scent would bring out secrets from the jar.

The fire in the hearth was just as strong. It snapped and spat out of rhythm and the flames seemed to flare like something old and brittle was being held in its mouth. From time to time it hissed, a sound that reminded me of a bone breaking under stress. Shadows moved across the walls as if they were eager to move on.

It was quite warm.

This place was not meant for comfort.

Bunny was gone before the sun rose. He said he wanted to breathe, to have room, something that didn’t smell like smoke and predictions. I let him walk away. I couldn’t stop him no matter what.

"You want tea?" Salla was already pouring as she asked.

"No."

"Good. I wasn’t making any."

I sat. I didn’t sit down, so I rested against the counter and felt the stone beneath my coat. I was still carrying a lot of feathers in my pouch. I hadn’t even looked at them since I was in Windmere.

"I burned one of the scrolls," I said.

Salla didn’t move an eyelid. I just kept going.

"It went green. No smoke. No sound."

"Old things like to be remembered," she said. "Even in fire."

"What does it mean?"

She shrugged. "Depends who’s watching."

The quiet in the room wasn’t the kind that makes you feel trapped. It was the kind that held back, full of tension, just like the calm before a storm sweeps through the trees. The fire seemed to be holding back, making only a soft, quiet sound.

I remained in place, not wanting to move. The smell of crushed herbs filled the air, tasting bitter and strong and it seemed to wrap itself around the smoke. She didn’t look at me once after I arrived, instead working on the mortar and leaving red stains and dust on her hands.

After that, she stopped stirring the mortar.

The noise ended with a last, clear and decisive scrape.

She moved slowly, each movement exact, her body wrapped in an unclear emotion. Her eyes met mine and seemed to be checking for something I had brought that wasn’t visible. Her lips were as dry as parchment from the smoke, but her eyes were still clear. Cutting.

She could tell I was there the entire time.

She was just about to decide what to do with me.

"Come. The nightbloom will be in bloom soon. If we wait, it dies sweet and useless."

She gave me a digging blade. Wooden handle. Shape your edge like a crescent moon.

We walked quietly through the back garden, passing the herbs and dried vine trellises. The ground was cold, but the sky was a bruised purple, just before it turned completely dark. I walked with her to the marsh’s edge, where the ground became soft and made a quiet sound as I stepped.

"Don’t step in the center," she said. "The mud lies about how deep it is."

I didn’t say anything. She crouched at the same time I did. It looked as if Nightbloom had been left behind—a thin stalk, petals curled and edges glowing with blue light. I tried to grab the roots, but she held my arm.

"Not like that. Feel first."

"Feel?"

She ran her fingers along the stem, not pulling it off. Just placing her palm on it. After a short pause, she went to a different one. I dug quickly, got it out and it was clean.

"Some plants bind wrong," she said. "They look fine on the surface, but rot from the base. Can't be trusted in salves. Won't hold in tinctures."

"And you can tell just by touching it?"

"Sometimes. Sometimes the rot feels familiar."

I tried to copy her. Grasped the stem and could feel a gentle pulse, like a bird’s heart. Moved on. I found one that sounded too fast—like a lie. I walked away from it.

It took three times for me to do it before Salla nodded. "Good. You don’t question your skin. That’s rare."

"That’s not what the village thinks."

"The village pisses on anything it doesn’t understand." She got up, wiped her hands on her skirt. "They’re afraid of what you are. You should be, too."

I stared at her, feeling my throat dry up. "You know, don’t you?"

She didn’t try to hide it.

"You know about Bunny. About me."

She moved closer and crouched down so our eyes met.

"I’ve seen beasts who couldn’t lie. Seen men who thought that made them holy." She reached out to the pouch on my side, not to remove anything—just to show she recognised it. "And I’ve seen boys born without magic and walk like they carry it anyway."

I swallowed. My tongue was heavy and difficult to move. "Is it true? What was Thomir’s statement? About the boy—"

"Thomir believes in a lot of things. He also believed his wife would come back from the mountains."

"That’s not an answer."

"No," she said, standing. "It’s a warning."

We walked back without talking, but this time it felt different. I could sense her looking at me, not as if I were prey, but as if she were trying to recall a song she had almost forgotten.

She paused at the door.

"When the boy in the story came to the crossroads," she said, "he didn’t choose to shatter the land. He just refused to kneel."

The fire was nearly out, but the glowing coals were still the same green as the flame I used to burn the scroll.

She observed me looking at her. "Things are moving faster now. Magic’s starting to itch."

"And you? You’re not oath-bound, are you?"

Her smile was barely there. "No. I make a choice to bind myself when I want to. That’s enough."

I moved back into the darkness.

The wind blew around my neck. I didn’t notice Bunny. I didn’t notice his form on the roof, in the trees or along the fence. However, there was something out there.

I realised that the magic didn’t reach everyone, not just me.