Praise the Anvil for pedantically organised people. I used to think I could count myself in their number — I mean, I have a drawer just for socks, which I thought meant I was ready for anything — but going through Iffan’s library, I wondered how I even managed to tie my own shoelaces.

It’s not an exaggeration to call Iffan’s collection a library, either. He might not have had the shelf space for it, but there were enough books around the three-storey shop to make Carrie’s jaw drop. It’d looked like chaos at first, with every cupboard I opened containing yet another batch of books, but I soon realised that Iffan categorised his books meticulously. They were wherever they were, because that’s where he needed them. I found account details and supplier information in the office, wood-working pamphlets in Mirra’s room, itineraries in each nursery, and tomes on alchemy in the lab.

In many cases the books were well hidden. There were false backs to cabinets, or a hidden shelf underneath a work bench. Iffan either thought his works incriminating, or in need of protection. You had to actively be looking to find them. It’s hard to say whether or not Iffan had been overcautious; whoever had ransacked the place, they were not big readers. In rare cases I found books trampled, or with pages torn out, but mostly they were unscathed. I reckon the superstitious vandals didn’t dare touch anything made by a druid’s hand.

Well, that’s just fine. One person’s taboo, is another person’s ta-boon!

Come on, Mel. You’re better than that.

I transferred the books to my room. I didn’t have any desk space, so they lived in small towers, dotted about the floor. It was becoming tricky to move around, and even harder to keep the categories separate.

Mostly the books were in Iffan’s own hand. Some were scrapbooks, with loose sheaves of paper tied together at one corner or bound with twine. Others were leather-bound notebooks, that Iffan had reverently filled in handwriting even tinier than normal; no doubt these were expensive. In fewer numbers, but not exactly short supply, were manuals and encyclopaedias penned by other druids. So much for there not being any druids in Tythia, there must be a whole network of them. By the looks of things, they were prolific.

A thin manual in limp parchment caught my eye. It was older than the rest, ridiculously well-thumbed, and almost limp with use. The colours on the cover had faded, but I could just make out the title: A Concise Guide to Herbology.

This was probably one of the first books Iffan bought. It was easy to imagine him — brimming with enthusiasm, as he always was — scouring the pages of this little guide, soaking in every detail. This might have been what inspired him to buy this place. Maybe the dream of a little urban-garden shop was born in these lines.

I placed the book reverently back on the pile. Despite how it ended, I hoped Iffan felt he’d lived to see his dream come true.

Right, it was time to see just how realistic my little plan was.

I spent turn after turn reading, rummaging and searching. Iffan had a system in place, but I only cracked it after the my eyes had watered and my back had long since started to complain. Once I had it down, things moved relatively quickly.

Relatively.

The trouble was, no one book had all of the answers I needed. From the description of luxenbraid I went to an ingredients list for hair tonic. The ingredients list was mostly mundane — salt, sugar, water, etc. — but also listed carbleweed and ink berries. This meant another flick through the botany manuals — where I gleefully confirmed these were also locally available — before a trip to the brewing manuals to see what apparatus I would need to make the tonic, and how long the whole thing took. When you don’t know what you’re looking for and how to find it, this is a lengthy process.

Still, before evening fell, I had a good idea of what needed to be done. I jotted the details down on my own little notepad, which I like to think would have made Iffan smile — actually, I’d scrawled a few details down on the back of last year’s financial records; hopefully his soul wasn’t squirming too much.

“That’s a mighty smile you’ve got plastered on that there face,” Alicia said, when I came down to dinner.

“Oh, just making strides, fixing problems, becoming an entrepreneur. You know how it is,” I said. What can I say, I was feeling good about myself.

“Just that, then? And here I was cynically thinking that you were dodging housework,” she jibed.

“Hey, I’m just trying to put food on the table.” I frowned at the counter we were propped against. “And buy a table.”

“Is that why poor Mirra has been having to clean for two?”

“S’not so bad,” Mirra said, as she ladled stew — thankfully not cabbage, this time — into earthenware bowls I had picked up yesterday.

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“I’m not trying to duck work, I promise. There’s just so much to do! It doesn’t matter how clean this place is if we can’t afford to put food on the counter.”

Alicia placed a hand over mine. “Just teasing, Mel. We know you’re working hard. You’ve done a fabulous job already.” She tapped her bowl. “It’s nice not having to share a ladle!”

“Well, if you think the cabbage thing was impressive, watch this space. I’ve got plans for this place. Big plans.” Anvil, I felt motivated.

“Good to hear. You just make sure you keep a low profile, now. We don’t need any unwanted attention around here.” Alicia said between mouthfuls of steaming potato and juicy, cubes of lamb.

Unbidden, I was reminded of some of my less pleasant interactions the previous day. “Why do people hate druids so much?”

“S’cos the drought,” Mirra said.

“Obviously the drought,” I regretted that it sounded so petulant. “What I mean is, loads of people around here liked Iffan. His shop sat here for years, and people were happy to buy from him. Sure they didn’t know know he was a druid, but” —I waved my arms at Mopla— “Glade, someone must have suspected. You guys didn’t exactly keep a low profile.”

I was several spoonfuls of piping hot stew deep when I realised I couldn’t hear anyone else eating.

Alicia had both palms on the counter. She was staring me down. “Are you suggesting it’s our fault Iffan was murdered?”

Mirra’s own spoon was hovering in front of her mouth. If I could see her eyes, I’m sure they would have been flitting back and forth between us.

“No, Anvil, no,” I said quickly. “Sorry, I just meant… Geez, I’m sorry.”

Alicia exhaled, but she didn’t soften. “Iffan held this dream for years. We travelled around Tythia for a good long while before we settled here. Everywhere we went I’d beg him to lay low, beg him not to draw attention to himself. It never happened that way.

“Someone would get sick. A crop would have the blight. An animal would have a hard labour. Always there was something that would happen. Something that he knew he had the skills to make right. I wanted nothing more than to keep him safe. He wanted nothing more than to do the same for others.

“When it was finally time to settle down, we argued bitterly. I wanted us to keep to ourselves; to keep a farm out in the country, and live a quiet, happy life. He wanted this.” She looked around the sagging timbers of the tired old shop. “Somewhere where he could brew his medicines, mix his remedies, and be on standby should anyone ever need him.

“I did everything in my power to keep my husband alive. But if I’d have denied him this, then he’d have been lost long before he died.”

I couldn’t imagine wanting something so badly that I would risk my life for it. It was especially hard imagining my purpose being to help those who hated me. It made me feel small, and selfish.

“He really was something,” I said.

“He was. There’ll never be another like him.”

Ouch, Alicia, that stung.

“How long was it before they came for him?”

“For this? They never did,” Alicia said.

“Okay, now I’m confused.”

“Growing vegetables and mixing potions isn’t a crime, Mel. Not even in Magalat. Falsely accusing someone of being a druid is, mind. Iffan was bold, but he wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have set up here if it was certain death. Just like you in Braxus, it tends to be an open secret who’s a druid in these parts.”

That was useful information. “What changed? What actually happened that night?”

“It stopped being a secret.” Alicia sighed. She moved her stew away, barely touched. “We’d been here four years, and had made a decent life for ourselves. We had friends, we had customers a plenty, and we had a home. Sure, there were people who gave us a wide berth, but we were allowed to carry on about our business just so long as Iffan never did anything that proved he was a druid.”

“I’m guessing he did.” I felt annoyed at him. He had such a good thing.

“He did. In true Iffan style, he did. We had a summer of heavy rains. When I say heavy, I mean torrential downpours, every single day. You could barely walk the streets without being swept off your feet. It was bad, Mel. It was really bad.

“It hit tipping point when the banks of the Oud burst. They flooded the whole eastern bank. It was an absolute disaster. There are areas on the riverside that still haven’t rebuilt, but it was the loss of life that was truly devastating.

“Iffan made the choice to sacrifice himself then. He and three others from his community went down to the river, and they used every trick, every bit of magic, everything they had to try and beat back the flooding. They bought the soldiers enough time to sandbag up the streets and evacuate thousands. It’s impossible to say how much of a difference they made, but I’ll wager hundreds of lives were saved that day, at least. But, had it been even one, Iffan still would have done it.

“We thought we’d got away with it for a while. The baron let them do their work, and the soldiers even assisted. We thought maybe everything was going to be okay. But, three nights later — after the rain had stopped — a warrant was put out for his arrest. The locals took matters into their own hands, and pulled him from his bed. They snatched him away as we slept next to each other.

“I screamed and cursed at them, called them every name under the sun, but nothing in the Glade would have stopped them. Iffan, sweet man that he was, went calmly and quietly. He told me he loved me, and then let them haul him away. He didn’t fight back even when they beat him. I think, to be honest, he was already at peace.

“He and the other three were hanged the following morning. I left town the very next day.”

I had no idea what to say, so I said the only thing that felt right, “I’m so sorry.”

“So am I.” Alicia looked incredibly pale. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m going to get an early night. Not quite feeling myself yet, and all that. If you ladies would excuse me. And you,” —she thrust a finger at me— “you be careful.”

Alicia thanked Mirra for the meal, apologised for not eating much, and disappeared upstairs. Her step was uneven.

I felt terrible for putting Alicia through that again, but I’m glad I finally knew the story. I’d always thought of Iffan as kind, but more than a little foolish. Now, I could finally allow myself to think of him as a hero. Iffan had shared my affliction — one he knew would spell an end for him — and yet he saw it as an opportunity to do some good. Rather than think of himself, he made medicines, healed animals, and even sacrificed himself to save lives.

I’m not half the person Iffan is. You won’t catch me fighting back floodwaters, no matter what. What I could do, though, was make some hair tonic.