What had started out as a ghastly day was to finally end with midnight, and the old house by the river was at last quiet. Only the gentle lapping of the River could be heard outside her window. Rhydin was wrapped in a deep sleep, waiting for the watchman to call in the new day.
She had lit the first of seven candles to record the herbs by, discarded now as she stood at the window, gazing out at the night. On the table next to the candles was the silk purse that held her mother's pearls and beside that, was the ebony box whose treasure she was only now beginning to understand. Next to that, shining nearly as bright as the moon stood a pair of silver ear bobs.
Her name was Colette O"Shey -the only child of Jeffery and Margaret O"Shey and she stood in the hothouse, adjacent to the home of her departed parents. It was just a stone's throw from the Bridge, with the river running past the windows at the back. To the front was her mother's once beautiful walled garden that leads through a wooden door out on to the bustling city street. The garden was all over grown now; it had been neglected for too long. Once it was full of flowers and herbs of all description whose perfume could make even the Rhydin river smell sweet, but now rosemary and nettles, briar roses and brambles have reclaimed it as their own.
It was this garden, the like of which no neighbors had ever seen, that first set tongues wagging. Her father had planted it for her mother, and built her a pretty stillroom that backed on to the wall of the counting house. Her mother in her quiet way knew more about herbs and their powers than anyone else, and together with her waiting woman, Kathleen Danes, she would spend hours in the stillroom, making all sorts of potions which were distilled and stored in tiny bottles. When Colette was but a wee child, she used to hide under her mother's petticoats and listen to friends and neighbors as they brought their ailments to her like posies of sorrows, to be made better by one of her remedies. Later on, when Colette was too big to hide, they came to ask her other things, for by this time her reputation as a cunning woman with magical powers had spread as thistledown does, blown on the hot winds of gossip.
Her first memories were of the garden and of her old bedchamber, whose walls her mother painted with fairy places and imaginary beasts. She wrote under each one in her fair script, and for every picture she had a story, as bright in the telling as the colors in which they were painted. When Colette was small she used to trace the letters with her finger, to feel how the spidery writing was raised above the wood paneling, and she would say the names to herself like a magic charm to keep harm at bay. All the pictures, like the garden's blooms, are gone now, washed and scrubbed away. Only the faintest trace of the gold letters remains. They still shine through, like the memories.
Stirring from ghostly memories, she shattered the comfortable silence finally to address her only living relative, "Uncle Sean, how many varieties of Nightshade do we have?" She smeared her fingers across the sweat formed upon the windowpane then crossed the room to join him beside the potting board, leaning forward to capture his eyes away from the intensity of his work.
How dark eyes could be so bright, she did not know, nor did she understand the thrill of excitement they communicated to her. The twinkle of roguish merriment lit up his whole face. It was a long face, with sharp, chiseled cheekbones and a wide, mobile mouth. His hair was a rich, dark brown with a hint of red in it, very thick and a bit too long for fashion. Sean was the sort of man that immediately put women at ease. "You are a curious child, Colette. First the Oleander and Mistletoe, now Nightshade?" He paused a moment in his work and took to studying his niece with unabashed amusement.
There was the slightest of shrugs, causally making light of the subject matter as she moved around him and continued in her lazy stroll around the hot house. "I am curious. You have accused me of it enough." Intentionally, her gaze lowered to study his hands as they gently separated the roots to be replanted. It was an utterly masculine hand, but long and slender-fingered, made for elegant, graceful gestures, yet without concealing inherent strength. Her whimsical imagination told her that this was a hand that was as at ease holding a weapon as it was being held out now toward her in a gesture of request for more information Tell me more, it beckoned. "I was thinking of experimenting with inbreeding of two species. So I should logically know about all of them, yes?"
His smile was mellow and warm, as was his voice when he answered. "Every action has a price, my little pretty. I don't expect to dance for free around this obsession of yours."
Though she was slender, she hardly thought of herself as little, for she liked to believe she was rather tall for a woman. Willowy, was the term her mother had used; countering her father's contention that Colette's stature was regal. Her Uncle called her a skinny roan colt, which she didn't mind hearing from him at all.
"I was not thinking about your price," she answered, trying to adopt his teasing tone while cursing her failure to hide her emotions. She had thought she was quite good at schooling her features to keep her thoughts to herself until this moment. Perhaps her Uncle was more discerning than most, or his charm made her guard slip. She'd have to be more careful. "So, you will tell me?" Gesturing to the variety of plants scattered in very organized chaos." Start with this one, what makes it unique?"
She had lit the first of seven candles to record the herbs by, discarded now as she stood at the window, gazing out at the night. On the table next to the candles was the silk purse that held her mother's pearls and beside that, was the ebony box whose treasure she was only now beginning to understand. Next to that, shining nearly as bright as the moon stood a pair of silver ear bobs.
Her name was Colette O"Shey -the only child of Jeffery and Margaret O"Shey and she stood in the hothouse, adjacent to the home of her departed parents. It was just a stone's throw from the Bridge, with the river running past the windows at the back. To the front was her mother's once beautiful walled garden that leads through a wooden door out on to the bustling city street. The garden was all over grown now; it had been neglected for too long. Once it was full of flowers and herbs of all description whose perfume could make even the Rhydin river smell sweet, but now rosemary and nettles, briar roses and brambles have reclaimed it as their own.
It was this garden, the like of which no neighbors had ever seen, that first set tongues wagging. Her father had planted it for her mother, and built her a pretty stillroom that backed on to the wall of the counting house. Her mother in her quiet way knew more about herbs and their powers than anyone else, and together with her waiting woman, Kathleen Danes, she would spend hours in the stillroom, making all sorts of potions which were distilled and stored in tiny bottles. When Colette was but a wee child, she used to hide under her mother's petticoats and listen to friends and neighbors as they brought their ailments to her like posies of sorrows, to be made better by one of her remedies. Later on, when Colette was too big to hide, they came to ask her other things, for by this time her reputation as a cunning woman with magical powers had spread as thistledown does, blown on the hot winds of gossip.
Her first memories were of the garden and of her old bedchamber, whose walls her mother painted with fairy places and imaginary beasts. She wrote under each one in her fair script, and for every picture she had a story, as bright in the telling as the colors in which they were painted. When Colette was small she used to trace the letters with her finger, to feel how the spidery writing was raised above the wood paneling, and she would say the names to herself like a magic charm to keep harm at bay. All the pictures, like the garden's blooms, are gone now, washed and scrubbed away. Only the faintest trace of the gold letters remains. They still shine through, like the memories.
Stirring from ghostly memories, she shattered the comfortable silence finally to address her only living relative, "Uncle Sean, how many varieties of Nightshade do we have?" She smeared her fingers across the sweat formed upon the windowpane then crossed the room to join him beside the potting board, leaning forward to capture his eyes away from the intensity of his work.
How dark eyes could be so bright, she did not know, nor did she understand the thrill of excitement they communicated to her. The twinkle of roguish merriment lit up his whole face. It was a long face, with sharp, chiseled cheekbones and a wide, mobile mouth. His hair was a rich, dark brown with a hint of red in it, very thick and a bit too long for fashion. Sean was the sort of man that immediately put women at ease. "You are a curious child, Colette. First the Oleander and Mistletoe, now Nightshade?" He paused a moment in his work and took to studying his niece with unabashed amusement.
There was the slightest of shrugs, causally making light of the subject matter as she moved around him and continued in her lazy stroll around the hot house. "I am curious. You have accused me of it enough." Intentionally, her gaze lowered to study his hands as they gently separated the roots to be replanted. It was an utterly masculine hand, but long and slender-fingered, made for elegant, graceful gestures, yet without concealing inherent strength. Her whimsical imagination told her that this was a hand that was as at ease holding a weapon as it was being held out now toward her in a gesture of request for more information Tell me more, it beckoned. "I was thinking of experimenting with inbreeding of two species. So I should logically know about all of them, yes?"
His smile was mellow and warm, as was his voice when he answered. "Every action has a price, my little pretty. I don't expect to dance for free around this obsession of yours."
Though she was slender, she hardly thought of herself as little, for she liked to believe she was rather tall for a woman. Willowy, was the term her mother had used; countering her father's contention that Colette's stature was regal. Her Uncle called her a skinny roan colt, which she didn't mind hearing from him at all.
"I was not thinking about your price," she answered, trying to adopt his teasing tone while cursing her failure to hide her emotions. She had thought she was quite good at schooling her features to keep her thoughts to herself until this moment. Perhaps her Uncle was more discerning than most, or his charm made her guard slip. She'd have to be more careful. "So, you will tell me?" Gesturing to the variety of plants scattered in very organized chaos." Start with this one, what makes it unique?"