The sun was late to rise. A hazy fog blanketed the hills and the chapel's old bell didn't ring that morning—only the clinking of tin as Esme gathered the emptied herb bowls from the shelf.
"Take this into town," the priestess said, her back to her. "There's a man who'll trade powdered yarrow for it. He'll be waiting by the stone cross."
Esme blinked. "Alone?"
The priestess turned then. Her eyes, like old ash, lingered on her with unreadable silence. "Do you need your hand held for that too?"
Esme said nothing. She only took the bundle, tightened the shawl over her shoulders, and stepped into the morning damp.
She hadn't expected town to be so quiet. Her boots sloshed in wet earth, and somewhere in the distant woods a crow made an unholy sound. She followed the trail just as the priestess had taught her—eyes forward, spine straight, hands close to the bundle.
But the stone cross was empty.
A shiver walked her spine. She looked around.
