Business with Walsh concluded much the same way it started: with his assistant looking down his nose at us, shielded by a door more welcoming than anyone behind it. I spent a good quarter cycle staring at that flashy, stain glass embellished lump of wood, marvelling at how it had been slammed in my face so politely and professionally.

Not long before that moment, I had been the only living druid I had ever even heard of. There, on a storefront step in the garish tangle of Lofton, I received pretty conclusive evidence that I was not only the only druid in Tythia, I was also the least popular. If I felt like an outcast before, I felt like the outcast’s leftovers after that.

“We should go,” Fealux said, a hand resting companionably on my shoulder.

I knew he meant well, but I was done with people telling me what to do for the day. I shrugged off his hand and let him know in a concise — but descriptive — manner that I’d find my own Anvil forsaken way back.

Wandering Magalat gave me zero relief. Lofton was hard to stomach at the best of times, but by that point its opulence and wastefulness made me outright sick. Clean, dyed sheets to keep the rain off your heads? Are you kidding me? People across the river eat vegetables that look like they’ve been resuscitated. Twice.

I wish I could say I only felt justifiably self-righteous, but the rich have a real knack for making a person like me feel small and insignificant. I drew eyes that oozed either disgust or pity. Their lairdships and ladyships turned up the volume on their gratingly enunciated, inane conversations to remind me of my unwelcome country lilt. I watched people accentuate their fussy, elaborate gait just to demonstrate just how wrong I was doing it — that’s right, in Lofton you can walk wrong. They did everything they could to make me feel unwelcome. Being a citizen of Lofton was being part of a club. I did not have membership, and never would.

Glade, I couldn’t even get membership to the druid’s club. I wasn’t even good at what I was born to do!

I stopped on the bridge from Lofton back to Osston, propping myself on the rail and staring into the slick of grey-purple water below. The Oud was too broad and deep to be stagnant, but much too lethargic to be crisp and inviting. If anything, it looked like a slug. A big, pulsing slug, dragging the waste and debris of an ungrateful city in the slimy membrane of its undulating flesh.

Still not as ugly as Lofton.

I bit back my frustration and forced myself to find what was really bothering me. Magalat had been good for me in that way. With so many knocks and bruises it was easy to settle into a routine of rage and self-pity. I wasn’t great at it yet, but I was getting better and better at asking myself the real questions — asking myself why I was truly upset. I just wish I’d done it before I’d been rude to Fealux. Hopefully he’d understand.

Once I’d asked the right question, the right answer was surprisingly plain to see. I was upset because I’d pinned my hopes on Walsh.

It was stupid — I knew that — but I thought I might finally understand a bit about what it was to be a druid. Maybe I could discover what I could do, what I had to watch out for. Maybe Walsh could have offered me some guidance, or just told me that everything was going to be okay. I’d put a lot of stake in this meeting, without ever meaning to.

It was ridiculous to depend so much on someone I’d never met, I realised. Even if Walsh had been genuinely nice — and to be clear, he had absolutely no right being as awful as he was — he still probably wouldn’t have been able to tackle the awesome responsibilities I had unwittingly piled upon the mythical version of him. If I was fair about it, it really wasn’t his duty to look after my emotional wellbeing. Who was I to him?

I was undeniably tender from being rebuffed, but Walsh’s brash dismissal of me paled in comparison to how much it hurt to have my family turn their backs on me. To have my father cast me out. To have Iffan leave before he could tell me that he was proud of me. Those were the people I really felt abandoned by. Those were the people I truly felt I wasn’t good enough for. Walsh was but one flea in an infestation of itching self-doubt.

Being introspective is taxing.

I decided it was time for a break. It was a decision spurred on by a city guard debating whether or not to berate me for loitering, but it was still a decision.

I needed a break not just from thinking, but from Magalat. You build up some resistance to the place when you live there for a bit, but once you’re reminded of how mucky, cramped and soupy the place is, you can’t shake that for the rest of the day.

I opted to pick some herbs to help clear my mind. I had a couple of projects I wanted to prepare for. Now that the equipment from Walsh was on the way, I could start stocking in earnest. I stopped by the shop to get my stuff.

While I grabbed my bow, bags, and clipping gear, I thought about the scores of potions I would brew up. I had a clear image of myself poised behind a complex array of glass tubes, laced with luminescent liquids; a cauldron bubbled in the corner, and smoke cascaded across my bench. If people wanted to think of me as a crazy spell weaver, then I may as well have some fun with the idea — privately, of course.

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“Gathering herbs?” Mirra asked. She was as light on her feet as any dancer, that one.

I nodded. “The stuff I need should arrive in a week or so. I figure it can’t hurt to get ahead of the game.”

“Went well with the druid then?”

“You could say that,” I evaded.

“Mm. Could say otherwise,” she said.

I gave her a look. She was smiling like she had drawn every Hammer and Anvil in a game of cards. Shrewd devil.

“Alright, fine,” I conceded. “It was awful. He was awful.”

“Mm-hm. I’ll go get Hinny. You can tell me all about it on the way.”

“Hang on; we going somewhere?” Clive clucked from a crate lined with tattered hemp sacks.

“We’re going to the forest to pick herbs and complain about Walsh.” I smiled.

“Who’s Walsh? Sounds like a swine.”

“Now you’re getting it,” I encouraged.

Clive puffed up at the compliment. “Yeah? Well alright then! Give me a sec to get ready. This is going to be fun.”

“What do you have to get ready?” I frowned.

With Hinny saddled and Mirra and Clive geared up for our mini excursion, we set off for the forest. The journey went by in a blink. I alternated between sharing my feelings of isolation and neglect with my ever-stoic and always constant friend and former nanny, and insulting Walsh with Clive. It’s hard to say which was more cathartic, but the combination was pure therapy.

By the time we hit the forest’s edge, I was in a genuinely good mood. Walsh and his bitterness were behind me. An array of ingredients and future mixes were ahead of me. Life was good.

Mirra and I worked through the afternoon. It was hot and sweaty work, but it was pleasing. The clouds must have been bickering that day; they actually turned their backs on one another to allow a bit of sunshine to peek through. With the sun on my back and the smell of earth in my nostrils, I felt grateful.

I took a moment to sit and sip some water. Clive was still throwing out cusses aimed at a man he’d only heard of that afternoon, while Mirra wandered over to Hinny with an armful of wild lipgrass — half meant for the bags, and half intended for our mute beast of burden. Meanwhile, I picked at the dirt beneath my fingernails and chuckled at how much that feeling used to bother me. Now it felt like a badge of honour, proof of commitment to my art. I was proud to wear that dirt — provided I could get it out before a night at the tavern, of course. Nobody wanted to be that girl.

Then someone tried to eat my chicken.

On any normal, overcast day, I might not have spotted the shadow. It was only with the usual blanket of clouds tugged off of Magalat that the momentary break in sunshine was as conspicuous as Hinny in a ballgown.

Something was up there.

Birds and wildlife in and around a forest aren’t exactly a rarity, but this one was wheeling. This one was stalking.

I might have pieced together the situation a little quicker had I not been forcibly and sickeningly reminded of the craw flies. An experience like that isn’t something you can ever truly repress; this was far from the first time I’d jumped at a shadow since that day. With danger circling overhead, I was right back in that dark clearing, waiting to succumb to the devil flies’ poison, and offer my blood for their supper.

The hopelessness and helplessness of being preyed upon was so real again, that I couldn’t even imagine that I might not be the target this time. I figured out what was actually going on with barely enough time to do anything about it. The predator was rocketing towards Clive by then, faster by far than any craw fly.

And so, while I meant to say, “Look out, Clive! There’s a hawk coming right for you. I think he wants to eat you. Quickly, run for cover! I’ll scare it away with my bow and arrow.” What I actually said was, “Ah!”

Then I threw a ham and cheese sandwich at it.

Actually, the sandwich came apart mid-air. So technically I threw a slice of bread at the hawk, and the rest of my generously stuffed goat-cheese and smoked ham bloomer at Clive. It’s the thought that counts.

Between Clive tumbling away and the hawk’s sheer bafflement, his first attack was a miss. Hawks are a good deal sharper than chickens, though, so while Clive was still wondering why he smelt ominously like a deli, the hawk had already: figured out I’d thrown something at it; assessed that a hunk of seeded white farmhouse was unlikely to put it mortal danger; shot me a dirty look; hooked around for another shot at Clive.

“What the sty, Mel! Did you just throw a sandwich at me?” Clive said, shortly before I threw my cloak over him — which did not improve his mood.

The cloak was only a partial success. It threw the hawk off, but not by much. Its talon caught a wing, where as it would have crushed Clive’s throat.

“Gaaah! Help me!” Clive cried. “She’s trying to kill me.”

I didn’t have long to be annoyed by that. Primarily because I slipped someways off the moral high ground when the next thing I threw at the hawk — my shoe — also hit Clive. I had to concede that it was a confusing time to be a pet chicken.

The hawk didn’t bother with any acrobatics this time. Why would it? So far I’d done nothing more than annoy it, and injure Clive. Rather than go for another swoop, it pecked at Clive with its viciously sharp beak. Had the cloak not covered him, that probably would have eviscerated the rambunctious rooster. Instead, the hawk caught mostly fabric. It was tearing through that fast, though.

I could practically smell the bird of prey’s frustration as the cool, level-headed killer was forced to unwrap its lunch. That couldn’t have been fun. It flat out reeked of frustration, though, when I kicked it in the butt.

Dumbfounded far too briefly, the hawk deduced way quicker than I’d bargained for that it would have to get rid of me before it could get at its dinner. It took to the air once more, and unceremoniously went for my face.

Any hope I’d harboured of going for my bow was obliterated. The hawk came thick and fast at me, accepting small knocks and bumps if it meant it could paint another ribbon of blood across my cheek or forehead. It was relentless. I got the sense that this animal knew humans well enough to know our strength lies in our arrows and blades. It was determined to use all the weapons at its disposal to prevent me from getting at mine.

I could see Mirra racing towards us, a knife in hand, but I knew there was little she would be able to do while the bird clung mercilessly to my face.

With a last bit of clarity, I used both hands to clutch at its wings and hurl it from me, hoping to buy myself enough time to reach for my own dagger.

No chance. It bounced back immediately, puncturing my cheek with a pop like a fork through a sausage.

I batted at it in a panic and felt its claws bite my fingers to the bone.

I was terrified, frantic, desperate.

“Just leave me alone!” I screamed, as its beak went straight for my eye.

And it did.