Rowan tightened the strap of her satchel, fingers fidgeting against the leather, as if the knots she tied could summon courage. The grove waited. Not Laurel. Not Bram. Not a cheerful line of villagers armed with tea thermoses and supportive smiles. Just her.
The root raid. Her first one alone.
Laurel had packed everything: her favorite crescent trowel, a sealed sachet of cooling poultice, a charm against bramble snags—just in case—and a ribbon-bound scroll describing the rare roots' behavioral quirks. "Be patient," Laurel had written in looping ink. "Offer water before digging. They dislike surprise."
Surprise. Like Rowan felt now, hearing her boots crunch against the whispering underbrush of the outer grove. The roots she sought—glowroot and curling duskroot—only appeared once a season, shyly curling back into the soil at the slightest disruption. They were essential for the ritual Laurel was preparing, something grand that hummed with promise, like a kettle about to sing.
Rowan crouched beside a moss-hummed stone, brushing aside fallen oak leaves. Her breath fogged slightly in the morning chill, despite the summer sun filtering through green. "Alright," she murmured. "No panicking. No forgetting which root twitches and which one sings."
She pulled a waterskin from her satchel and poured a careful trickle onto the earth. The soil drank eagerly. After a moment, a pale tendril surfaced, curling upward like a question mark. Glowroot.
Rowan smiled, slow and proud. "Hello there."
She reached for her trowel, movements deliberate. One breath in. One breath out. She loosened the soil around the root, inch by inch, until the tendril popped free with a contented pulse of light. It glowed in her palm like a tiny lantern. One down.
Then came a whisper.
Not from behind her or the trees—but from the root itself. A curious, melodic hum, like a lullaby from beneath the soil. Rowan blinked. "Did you just… hum?"
The root flickered gently. Encouragingly.
A second glowroot peeked up near a stone, this one less cooperative—coiling away the moment her shadow passed over. Rowan bit her lip, then shifted her stance, letting a sunbeam fall more fully on the spot. She crouched and whispered, "Don't worry. I'm here to take you somewhere important."
It wriggled, then unfurled.
Laurel's scroll had said these roots responded better to songs. Not proper ones, but bits of melody. Rowan cleared her throat and hummed the lullaby Bram always whistled when sharpening his chisels. Oddly soothing. The root wiggled again, then nestled trustingly into her hand.
"Two," she murmured, wrapping it gently in moss and placing it in a lined box.
The next thirty minutes passed in soft rustles and half-sung tunes. Rowan moved through the grove like a quiet shadow, placing water, listening, collecting. Each root offered its own miniature personality. One buzzed with nervous energy, another refused to be touched until she set down a polished pebble as tribute.
By the time she reached the grove's southern edge, the box in her satchel pulsed with a faint rainbow glow. That meant enough.
Rowan sat on a mossy log, stretched her legs, and let herself grin. Not the loud kind of success, but the quiet, full kind that bloomed in her chest and made her feel tall, even sitting down.
Then a rustle.
Not of leaves, but breath.
A gentle, leafy exhale drifted past her ear, brushing the fine hairs on her neck. She turned slowly. A small spirit stood beneath the nearby fern—a brownie, no taller than her hand, with bark-brown skin and eyes like dew. It tilted its head.
Rowan blinked, unsure whether to bow, speak, or hold her breath.
The brownie raised a tiny twig and pointed at her satchel.
"Oh," she said. "They're for the ritual. For Willowmere."
The brownie didn't speak—spirits rarely did with words—but it stepped forward and placed a blue petal on her boot, like a seal of approval. Then it vanished in a shimmer.
By the time Rowan returned to the apothecary, the sun had begun its lazy descent behind the oak-dotted hills. Laurel was bent over a clay basin, stirring something thick and fragrant with a wooden wand. The scent of honeyed pine filled the room, undercut with a zing of lemon-thyme.
Rowan stood in the doorway, dust in her curls and mud crusted on her boots, but her smile was radiant. "I did it."
Laurel looked up, then grinned in the way that made her green-flecked eyes sparkle. "You're glowing."
"No, they are," Rowan said, tugging the satchel open. The box shimmered gently as she opened the lid. Roots coiled neatly inside, nestled in moss and lined with spirit-salved cloth.
Laurel's breath caught. "Perfect. Even a curlroot with the violet streak."
Rowan beamed. "He was shy. Needed a song."
They spent the next hour preparing the ritual mixture. Laurel ground dried lavender and elderbark while Rowan crushed the roots with a smooth granite pestle. They heated the mixture in a copper pot, stirring with spoons that stirred back, and whispered incantations between sips of rosehip tea.
The ritual was scheduled for twilight.
As they reached the grove, villagers had already begun to gather. Bram leaned against a log, arms folded, while Seraphina floated ribbon-illusion lanterns into place. Even Pippin, curled on a woven cushion, wore a single ceremonial feather behind one ear.
Laurel stepped into the circle, Rowan at her side. The carved runes on the old stones shimmered with attention.
She raised the bowl. "Tonight, we honor root and rain, earth and offering."
Rowan placed a root bundle at each cardinal point—north for grounding, east for memory, south for warmth, west for change.
The grove hushed. A breeze stirred. The potion in Laurel's bowl quivered, then released a faint chime, as if a bell had been struck in another world.
The roots pulsed once. Then again.
And from the soil beneath, new shoots emerged—glowroot, duskroot, and something stranger: pale tendrils tipped with soft gold.
Not planted. Grown.
The grove responded.
A murmur rippled through the villagers. Bram blinked and scratched his beard. "Well, I'll be charmed."
Seraphina's lanterns responded by dimming, casting a gentle twilight over the grove that felt more like a shared breath than shadow. Laurel stepped back, letting the new shoots sway in their cradle of moss and rune-lit soil.
Beside her, Rowan's fingers curled tightly around her satchel strap again—but this time, the gesture rooted her. Grounded.
"You did it," Laurel whispered. "They answered."
Rowan shook her head, a little laugh escaping. "They listened."
And the grove had indeed listened. Not just to Laurel's practiced rituals or the familiar cadence of village spells—but to Rowan's humming, her careful offerings, her respect for their rhythm. The roots had responded not to power, but patience.
As the final glow dimmed, Laurel sprinkled crushed lavender into the air. It shimmered briefly before dissolving into the night.
A hush fell.
Then—unexpectedly—a spirit stepped forward.
Not a brownie this time, but something older. A tall, bark-skinned figure with a crown of twisting vine. It emerged from one of the ancient oaks, moving like memory.
Rowan's mouth parted in a silent question.
The spirit knelt. From its gnarled palm, it extended a single, luminous seed.
Laurel bowed. "A blessing?"
The spirit inclined its head.
Rowan stepped forward, hands shaking slightly, and accepted the seed. It glowed warm in her fingers, like a small sun. "What do I…?"
Laurel touched her shoulder. "You'll know when."
The spirit faded into the bark, like mist returning to fog.
Pippin, who had been unusually quiet, yawned and flicked his tail. "Well. That's one way to make a root delivery."
Laughter broke the silence. Even Bram chuckled.
Rowan tucked the seed into a moss-lined pocket of her satchel. The weight was featherlight, but she felt it settle inside her like a promise.
As the villagers drifted back toward Willowmere, lanterns bobbing in gentle patterns, Laurel stayed behind a moment, gazing at the fresh sprouts. Her hand brushed one golden tendril.
It leaned toward her like a cat to sun.
She smiled.
Back at the apothecary, twilight folding fully into night, Rowan laid the glowing seed on the wide windowsill above the tea drawers. Moonlight pooled across the polished wood, catching its soft golden shimmer.
Laurel watched her apprentice from the hearth, where a kettle now purred softly atop a rune-warmed stone. "Do you want to label it?"
Rowan considered, then shook her head. "Not yet."
She sat beside the window, curling her knees beneath her. "It doesn't feel finished. More like… the first page."
Laurel passed her a mug of lemon balm tea. "The best roots do tend to spread before you know what's growing."
They sat in companionable silence, the soft clink of mugs the only sound.
Eventually, Rowan murmured, "I was terrified this morning. My hands shook so hard, I dropped the satchel."
"You picked it up again," Laurel said, sipping. "That's the part that matters."
Outside, the first fireflies blinked into view, drifting lazily among the hanging planters. Somewhere in the distance, Bram's forge pinged once—its final cooling echo of the day. The apothecary creaked in its old bones, like a house sighing contentedly.
Rowan turned to look at the seed again. "Do you think it'll grow?"
Laurel leaned her head back against the stone wall. "I think it already has."
They stayed that way until the kettle's second purr faded, and the golden seed began to hum—a quiet, rhythmic sound, not unlike the heartbeat of the grove.
The next morning arrived with a gentle drizzle—the kind that wrapped the village in mist and made the cobblestones gleam like slate. Laurel stepped outside with a shawl around her shoulders, steam curling from her teacup. On the apothecary windowsill, the seed now cradled a slender sprout no taller than a thumb, tipped in soft gold.
She smiled and sipped, letting the warmth fill her chest.
Down the lane, Rowan was already up, pacing slowly by the herb beds with her journal. She paused, knelt beside a stubborn chive patch, and muttered something to it that made her laugh at herself. Laurel watched her for a moment—shoulders a little squarer, steps a little steadier.
Inside, the apothecary felt different. Not rearranged, but attuned.
The root bundles collected yesterday now hung from a beam, drying quietly in the rhythm of the room. Laurel traced a finger along their twine. Each was labeled with Rowan's careful script—some more calligraphy than others, but each name spelled with certainty.
She turned to the Eldergrove Grimoire and opened to a fresh page.
"Chapter Fifty-Two: Rootbound Rituals," she wrote.
She recorded the date, the weather, the ingredients Rowan had chosen, the song she'd hummed to the duskroot, and the spirit who'd gifted the seed. Then she paused, pen hovering.
In the margin, she added:First solo ritual—Rowan Greenbough.Roots accepted her touch before the grove accepted her name. That must mean something.
She closed the book.
Outside, the chive patch finally sprouted a new shoot. Rowan let out a tiny cheer.
And inside, the golden sprout on the sill unfurled its first leaf.
Later that week, a letter arrived addressed to Rowan—not unusual, except that it had been left not at the apothecary's doorstep, but nestled between the pages of her open grimoire.
The handwriting was a familiar looping script, but not Laurel's. It shimmered slightly, as if written with dew.
Rowan Greenbough,The roots you gathered have awakened more than soil. You are invited to return at midsummer moonrise. Alone.— W.G.
She blinked. "W.G.?"
Laurel peered over her shoulder. "Whisperwood Grove, perhaps?"
Rowan looked out the window. The golden sprout had grown three inches overnight.
Later, when the apothecary quieted and Pippin dozed beneath a shelf of sleep-powders, Rowan returned to the grove. The path welcomed her with glowing mushrooms lighting her steps, and the trees hummed—a melody half-remembered from the ritual night.
At the circle's center, a patch of ground now bore a tiny plaque of stone. Her name was etched into it, simple and clear. Beside it, a new sprout—identical to the one on the sill—had emerged.
The grove had given her a place.
She sat on the mossy log where she'd rested a week ago and placed her palm to the earth.
"I'm still learning," she said. "But I'm here."
The ground pulsed once, gently.
And somewhere deep beneath her fingertips, the roots listened again.
The following morning, Rowan found herself opening the apothecary early, long before Laurel stirred. She swept the floors, rearranged the mint jars (alphabetically this time), and brewed a small batch of calmroot tea—just enough for two mugs and a moment of silence.
On the workbench, the golden sprout now bore its first branching leaf. It leaned toward the window, catching the shy sunlight that spilled through the ivy-curtained glass.
She didn't speak to it. Not yet. But she did offer it a thimble of dewwater, as Laurel had taught her. Gently, carefully.
Midmorning brought Seraphina in, trailing ribbon illusions and a mild panic about ceremonial bunting. Rowan listened patiently, nodded at the correct moments, and even suggested a way to enchant the threads with wind-singing runes. The mayor blinked, then smiled. "Laurel's teaching suits you."
By noon, Bram dropped off a bundle of thorn-rooted tools for salve testing. He didn't say much, just grunted and handed her a small jar of blackberry preserves.
Rowan blinked. "Is this… for me?"
"Don't waste it on toast. That's for nervous roots. Helps 'em settle."
She beamed. "Thank you."
Bram scratched his beard and muttered something about pesky sentimental mushrooms before vanishing.
Even Pippin, curled atop the apothecary ledger like a feline paperweight, blinked slowly at her and muttered, "You're less likely to accidentally burn things now. It's unsettling."
Rowan laughed. "I'll try to fix that."
The day passed in small, fragrant tasks: refilling the rosemary sachets, organizing the dried moss drawer, sketching root shapes in her notebook. Every time she passed the window, the golden sprout seemed a little taller.
At sunset, Laurel joined her at the counter with two mugs of rosehip ginger tea. "You know," she said, watching the steam curl, "I've seen a lot of roots take hold in this village. But not many have grown so quickly."
Rowan nudged her gently. "Maybe it just needed good soil."
The week after the ritual, the grove began sending signs.
It started with tiny rootlets curling out from the base of the apothecary walls—not destructive or invasive, but exploratory, like tendrils reaching for a story. Laurel touched one as it brushed the stonework. "The grove is listening," she murmured.
Rowan spent her evenings tracing them with charcoal sketches, mapping their growth like veins of a living map. Each morning they shifted slightly, some wrapping gently around planters or curling toward the sprout on the sill.
On the seventh night, Rowan dreamed of the grove.
Not as it was—but brighter, deeper. Runes floated like motes of pollen. A spirit with vine-braided hair offered her a wooden bowl filled with light. She woke with a start and immediately wrote it down.
Laurel glanced at the notes. "Dream-given ritual? Could be significant."
"I think it's an invitation," Rowan said.
So they returned once more, just the two of them. At the heart of the grove, the stones were warmer now, etched with fresh markings no one had carved. Laurel placed a new bowl—Rowan's own creation, carved from driftwood and sealed with beeswax—into the center.
The golden sprout, carefully uprooted for just this moment, was planted in the grove's core. As it touched the earth, a ring of runes pulsed outward like ripples in water. A hush settled—deeper than silence, almost reverent.
From the shadows, more spirits emerged. Familiar faces now—moss brownies, lantern sprites, the tall bark-skinned guardian. They bowed.
Not to Laurel.
To Rowan.
She knelt, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or simply breathe.
The golden sprout pulsed once. Then twice. Then slowly unfurled a bud, soft as velvet and shining with the hue of first light.
They left the grove in near silence, walking side by side down the winding path, lanterns swinging gently from their satchels. The village lights glittered ahead like a bowl of stars poured onto the earth.
Halfway back, Rowan stopped. "Laurel?"
"Hm?"
"Why me?"
Laurel turned. The path was still. The air held the scent of damp earth and elderflowers. "Because you listened when no one asked you to. You offered before being asked. That's what the roots wanted. Not power. Presence."
Rowan exhaled. Her breath steamed in the cooling night. "Do you think… I could lead a ritual someday?"
"I think you already have."
They reached the apothecary to find a tiny envelope pinned to the doorframe with a sprig of rosemary.
Inside, a note written in fine ink: The Grove accepts your seed. It awaits your next bloom.Signed only with a glyph—half leaf, half rune.
Rowan tucked it into her grimoire.
Laurel poured two final mugs of tea for the evening. They sipped by the hearth as the golden sprout on the sill shivered once and opened its second leaf, revealing a spiral of tiny etched veins that resembled writing.
Rowan leaned closer, frowning. "It looks like a word."
Laurel squinted. "Patience."
Pippin, from the shadows, stretched and muttered, "How terribly appropriate."
The apothecary chuckled with quiet magic, and outside, the roots beneath the village continued to hum.
A few days later, the first root bloom opened in full.
Not large. Not flashy. Just a soft burst of pale gold, petal-thin and trembling like a promise whispered at dawn. It opened at the exact moment Rowan placed her latest blend—ginger-thistle with a hint of starroot—on the windowsill beside it.
She stared for a long time, then smiled and whispered, "Thank you."
The blossom pulsed gently.
And in the warm quiet of the shop, framed by drying herbs and soft light, Willowmere's newest ritualist returned to her notes.