Now, every time someone messed with her, she no longer cared. Ivy went up to the roof. The plants enveloped her in their green silence. Pushing away harmful thoughts, Ivvy felt her mother comforting her. She learned to distinguish their voices: the ivy was protective, the basil cheerful, the rosemary melancholic.
And although she knew in her mind that perhaps it wasn't her mother, her heart preferred to believe the opposite.
In that small garden, Ivvy was finally learning what happiness was.
Free from being the bastard. Free from the plowing imposed by the baron.
Here, among leaves and roots, she was loved.
And that, for now, was enough.
**
The next morning, Ivvy woke up to the soft pecking of birds at her window. The sun rose beautifully over the high windows of the girls' bedrooms. Most of the students were still sleeping or preparing for their first elementary alchemy class, but Ivvy was already walking with her soft, deliberate steps, her gaze forward, steadier than ever.
