"Eliot." Oswald's voice rasped like dry leaves as he leaned on his cane. "Don't tell me you've finally fallen ill?"
"I'm not sick yet," Eliot said, nudging Celia forward. "But I brought someone who might actually be useful to you." Oswald's milky eye narrowed at Celia. She met his gaze without flinching, though her fingers twisted in her sleeves.
"Hmph. Skinny thing." He jabbed his cane toward the door. "Well. Come prove you're not another waste of my air."
The hut smelled like a forest floor after rain - damp earth, bitter greens, and something faintly metallic. Jars of murky liquids lined crooked shelves, their labels peeling. Celia's breath hitched when she saw the herb bundles hanging from the rafters.
"Eliot..." she whispered, clutching his arm. "That's Pasqueflower. And Purple Betony! I've only ever found scraps of it before..."
"Less gawking, more working," Oswald snapped. He swept a hand over the cluttered table. "What's this?" Celia's fingers hovered over a dried leaf. "Feverfew. But... it's been stored wrong. The oil's gone rancid."
Oswald grunted. "And this?"
"Bog-myrtle. You'd use it for lung rot, but never with black honey - it causes seizures." Her voice grew stronger as she moved through the plants. "This isn't Aconite - also known as Wolf's bane, it's Bluebell Gentian. And this preparation should use twice the water."
The old healer watched her for a long moment. Finally, he nodded toward the back room. "You'll sleep there. Don't touch the black jars. Don't feed my raven, the name is Brooks. And if you poison me, make it quick."
When he left, Celia slowly turned to Eliot. Her face glowed, not just with joy, but with nervous energy. "I..." She bit her lip. "I kept thinking... how... how we could still see each other. If I stayed here..." She faltered, her gaze darting away. Then exhaled and said quietly but firmly: "I could teach you. Herbalism. You're clever, you'd learn fast. Then... we could work together. See each other. Almost every day." Her cheeks flared crimson, and she immediately looked down.
Eliot opened his mouth, then froze. His expression turned solemn.
"I... don't know if it's possible. Mother, Father... they need me in the fields. Someone has to work. But if... if I could earn enough here..."
He met her eyes.
"Maybe they'd agree. Maybe we could... find help. Hire someone. It depends how things go."
Celia nodded, trying to hide how her hands trembled.
"Just an idea," she mumbled. "First thought. Don't laugh..."
"I'm not laughing." His voice was soft as worn linen. "It's... the best idea I've heard in days."
And a silence settled between them. Somewhere outside, a raven cawed.
As they stepped out of the healer's hut, the air felt crisp and new. The late sun painted the trees in russet light, stretching their shadows long across the path home. Celia walked slightly ahead, then suddenly turned:
"Eli..." She tested the name like a whispered secret.
Eliot blinked. "What?"
A small smile tugged at her lips as she shrugged: "Just... I want to call you that. May I?"
He hesitated half a heartbeat before nodding. "Sure... Eli it is."
Celia exhaled as if freed from some invisible weight. "There's an old meadow nearby. I spotted it when we came. It'll be full of wild herbs by now. Will you...come with me? We'll gather more together. And I'll show you how to tell elecampane root from poison burdock."
"Planning to make an herbalist of me?" He chuckled. She flushed but held her ground.
Her gaze flickered away momentarily. "It's useful knowledge. And... I think you'd enjoy it."
Eliot studied her, the blush, the hesitant hope, all of it unbearably genuine.
"Lead on, little healer," he said, hoisting the basket.