Evening folded itself gently over Willowmere, slipping beneath doorways and brushing chimney smoke with lavender hues. Laurel stood at the edge of Whisperwood Grove, lantern in hand, the faint chime of dried thyme sprigs clinking against the glass.
Beside her, Rowan bounced on her toes, red curls half-tamed by a ribbon and a face brimming with too many questions. "Are we really allowed in the grove at night?"
Laurel handed her a smaller lantern, this one enchanted to glow only within the herb ring's boundaries. "Only during harvest rituals. And only with permission."
She stepped forward, placing a sprig of rosemary and a river-smoothed stone on the mossy threshold. The air shifted—just slightly—as if the forest had taken a breath and decided they were acceptable.
"Stay close," Laurel said, pushing past a curtain of willow fronds.
Whisperwood was different at night. The trees whispered not with wind but with intention. Runes in the bark blinked like drowsy eyes. The moss hummed faintly underfoot.
Rowan tried to hum along.
"Don't mimic the grove," Laurel warned. "It doesn't like being echoed."
"Oh," Rowan whispered, and clasped her hands behind her back.
They reached the circle of moonbloom—pale blossoms that opened only under starlight—and Laurel knelt, brushing her fingers gently over the soil.
"Three to five sprigs," she murmured. "No more. No less."
Rowan mirrored her movements, lips pressed tight in concentration. Her fingers hovered over a particularly fat cluster of mintshade, hesitated, then plucked one with reverence.
The mintshade sighed.
Not metaphorically. The leaf actually exhaled, a soft, silvery sound like wind through a flute.
Rowan froze.
"Good," Laurel whispered. "Means it was ready."
They moved from patch to patch, the basket on Laurel's hip slowly filling with starlit herbs—sleepsage, whisper-thyme, moonfern. Each plant offered itself with a faint sound, not quite words, more like suggestions of language.
As they neared the northern edge of the grove, Rowan tilted her head.
"Did that oak just say something?"
Laurel paused, listening.
A rustle, yes—but layered. The leaves of the tallest oak stirred not in the breeze, but in rhythm. A repeated pattern, too structured for chance.
"Not say," Laurel corrected softly. "Chant."
Rowan squinted at the trunk. "What's it saying?"
Laurel didn't answer right away. She stepped closer. The bark shimmered faintly, runes emerging like ink from parchment.
Welcome tenders. Leave with care.
She turned to Rowan. "They're giving us a warning. Take only what heals. Disturb nothing that dreams."
They moved more slowly after that. Laurel adjusted the angle of her basket, ensuring not a single sprig crushed another. Rowan's footsteps grew quieter, more respectful, her eyes wide with wonder instead of mere curiosity.
At the grove's heart, near the stone ring older than any Willowmere map, a single bloom glowed blue-white. It pulsed softly, like a heartbeat. Laurel approached, breath held.
"Is that… moonlace?" Rowan asked, awed.
Laurel nodded. "It only blooms during the first full moon after Midsummer. Rare, and never twice in the same place."
She knelt and made an offering first: a polished shell and a drop of honey. Only then did she lift the bloom, root and all, placing it in its own pouch lined with soft moss.
A breeze stirred.
The trees rustled not in alarm, but in parting.
Their path home shimmered subtly with dew-lit leaves, as if the forest itself guided them out.
Once at the grove's edge, Laurel turned. "Thank you," she whispered.
Rowan, still clutching her own modest bundle, blinked up at her. "Did they hear you?"
"They always do."
Back at the apothecary, as Laurel hung the mintshade to dry, Rowan lingered by the door.
"That was the quietest I've ever been," she said, in a tone that suggested both pride and disbelief.
"You listened," Laurel said. "That's what matters."
Rowan's smile stretched like dawn light through windowpanes. "Can we go again next full moon?"
Laurel tucked the moonlace pouch into her cabinet. "Only if the leaves agree."
Pippin, from his perch by the hearth, yawned. "Let's hope they don't ask for singing next time."
Laurel chuckled. "No promises."
Night had fully settled over Willowmere by the time Laurel returned to her worktable. The lanterns hummed low, casting golden puddles across the wooden counter. The herb bundles from the grove hung carefully on labeled strings above the hearth, each sprig humming faintly, content.
Rowan had long since gone to bed, curled up in the spare nook above the greenhouse with a cup of sleepytime tea. Pippin occupied her pillow, of course.
Laurel sat with her grimoire open, quill in hand. She logged the night's ritual with slow precision: date, weather (cool, still), herbs harvested (moonlace, mintshade, whisper-thyme), and the runic message witnessed beneath the chanting oak. She hesitated before adding: Tone of the grove: watchful, not unfriendly. Spirits aware of Rowan. May be testing her presence.
A tap on the window broke her concentration. She looked up.
A lantern sprite hovered just beyond the pane. Not the usual flickering sort, but one Laurel recognized—a streak of deep amber light with a slightly lopsided wing. It bobbed once, then zipped upward, vanishing into the dark.
Laurel smiled, warm with something deeper than satisfaction.
She closed the book, tied it with its twine, and rose to place a drop of lavender oil on each drying sprig. The scent curled into the air, soothing and strong.
The apothecary sighed around her, wood creaking with night's breath. Shelves whispered secrets in rustles of parchment. Even the copper cauldron seemed to glow with contentment.
Outside, the grove rustled once—an echo of thanks, or simply the night settling back into place.
Laurel whispered toward the window, "Sleep well."
And in return, a single leaf detached from the ivy above her lintel, drifted down, and landed in her palm.
It was mintshade, still humming.