It had been late spring, just like now. She'd been younger then—barely sixteen—her hands clumsy, fingers stained green as she sat in the back garden of her mother's house, sorting through herbs beneath a crooked old tree. The sunlight had dappled across the stone path, the wind carried the hum of bees and her mother's humming from inside the cottage.
She'd been proud that day. Her mixtures were improving, and her tinctures no longer turned cloudy. She remembered lifting a perfect cluster of calendula petals and smiling to herself.
"You shouldn't let people see you do that," a voice had warned from behind.
She'd turned, startled. It was Lord Regan, one of her father's allies—or so she had thought at the time. His face was unreadable, eyes flicking to her stained hands and the little vials lined up beside her.
"You're too good at it," he said, tone too casual. "Men don't like women who know too much. Especially not about blood and sickness and what grows in the dark."
