The rain still tapped against the roof when the dream came, not of demons or witches, but of her.
Mother stood in our old kitchen, the one with the crooked hearth and the rosemary plant that never quite thrived. She was grinding something in her mortar, the rhythmic scrape of pestle against stone as familiar as my own breath.
"You're pushing too hard," she murmured without looking up. "Crush the petals gently, or you'll bruise the essence."
I tried to answer, but the dream was already unraveling, the scent of dried lavender fading into the musty dampness of the shepherd's hut.
I sat up, my throat tight.
It had been weeks since I'd seen her. Weeks since I'd fled the Blackwater Bend, leaving no word behind. She would have searched. She would have worried.
And if Agatha had gotten to her-
The thought sent me reaching for my boots before I'd fully decided to move.
---
The rain had softened to a drizzle by the time I stepped outside. The village women were right about the roof, half of it had collapsed inward, leaving the hut looking even more pathetic in the gray morning light. I adjusted my satchel, my fingers brushing the vials inside.
I had enough yarrow left. A little feverfew. Not much else.
Not enough to barter for a horse, but enough to start walking.
Back the way I'd come.
Back toward the Blackwater.
---
The road was muddier now, the ruts filled with rainwater that splashed up to my knees with every step. I kept my hood up, not just against the damp, but against recognition. If Agatha had eyes on the roads,and she would, I couldn't afford to be seen.
A cart rattled past, the driver hunched under a sodden hat. He didn't glance my way.
Good.
I walked until my legs burned and the light began to fade. The forest here was thinner, the trees stunted from years of wind. A good place to camp—close enough to the road to hear travelers, but hidden enough to avoid them.
I was gathering kindling when the snap of a branch sent my hand to my dagger.
"You always were terrible at covering your tracks."
The voice sent a shock through me. I turned slowly.
Mother stood ten paces away, her cloak damp, her graying braid coming undone at the ends. She looked exhausted. And furious.
"How"
"Hera told me which way you went," she said flatly. "The rest was easy. You still step heavier on your left foot when you're tired."
I swallowed. "You shouldn't have come after me."
"And you shouldn't have left without me!" The words burst out of her, sharp as a slap. Then, quieter: "I thought you were dead."
The guilt hit like a fist to the chest. I opened my mouth, to apologize, to explain, but she was already striding forward, her arms wrapping around me so tightly I could feel her heartbeat through our clothes.
"Never do that again, "she muttered into my hair.
I buried my face in her shoulder, breathing in the scent of rosemary and road dust. "I won't."
She pulled back, cupping my face in her hands. "Agatha's put a price on your head. Two dozen silver for anyone who brings you back alive."
I stiffened. "And Hera?"
"Hera told me where you'd gone", Mother repeated, her eyes glinting. "Then she 'tripped' and spilled a very expensive bottle of manticore venom into Agatha's tea." A grim smile. "The old witch won't be hunting anyone for a while."
A laugh bubbled up in my chest, half-hysterical. " hera is such a badass We're really in it now, aren't we?"
Mother squeezed my hand. "We always were."
That night, curled under a shared blanket with the fire between us and the rain drumming against the trees, I finally slept without dreaming.
Mother kept watch, her fingers tangled in my hair like she used to when I was small.