She woke to the warmth of dawn seeping through her woven coverlet. She lay perfectly still and listened to her breathing, to the cardinals and bluejays at their morning bath, to the nearly inaudible hum of the solar charging station that kept her mother's voice alive and well. She opened her eyes to see the sun's first rays laying windowpane shapes along the far wall. Beneath the blanket, the familiar curves of her body told a lie that all was well.

Tansy knew better.

She kicked off the blanket. The morning air was cool enough to hush the ever-present itch for a few moments. Her skin—where it was still skin—was cool and dry. The fever was gone, and the rash had spread very little overnight.

But where there wasn't skin, where the rash had taken over, her body was a patchwork of iridescent reptilian scales layered over a human-shaped form. She bent and flexed her left arm. The scales were smooth except for a small area where the tips lifted at the outer curve of her elbow. She reached up and flicked at one with her fingernail. It was painless. She ran the fingers of her right hand up her left arm to her shoulder, where the scales ended abruptly at her collarbone. Same with the right arm, where the rash mirrored the left almost down to a scale. She sat up and looked at her thighs, which were completely covered from her groin to just below her knees, like some super fancy party chaps.

"I'm a freak," she said.

"Don't say that," said Ma.

Tansy froze. "What did you say?"

"Don't say that, my heart. You are beautiful inside and out."

Tansy reflexively grabbed the blanket and pulled it up to her chin. "Ma, how—" She cleared her throat. "How are you on? I never..." she trailed off.

"What is it?"

"I never called you," she said, staring at the charging dock.

"Oh," said the LegaC. "My apologies, Tansy. You must not have dismissed me last night."

"I did. I always do."

"Hmm. Perhaps you—"

"LegaC disconnect." She stared at the wall unit, waiting.

She always dismissed the LegaC. Always. There were a few different dismissal phrases: goodbye Ma, bye Ma, goodnight Ma, and her usual, LegaC disconnect. She definitely dismissed it last night. Right? She shook her head. She just couldn't remember.

Tansy had unloaded everything on Ma—the strangers, the lanolin, the scales, the call—mostly so Ma would tell her all would be well when the sun came up in the morning. Whatever happened afterward, including when and how Tansy had gotten into her bed, was a blur.

The white willow bark tincture was on the desk, so she must have taken it for the fever, though she couldn't recall. She stood and wrapped the blanket around herself, crossed the room, and ejected the tablet. She opened the desk drawer and set the LegaC on a stack of papers, then gently closed the drawer. She peeled the worn electrode from her temple and tossed it in the trash bin. Then she put the tincture back in the medicine cabinet and took a few deep breaths to steady herself.

The sickness and panic of the past 24 hours had subsided, and—doer that she was—she felt a sudden and overwhelming urge to do something. But first things first.

Tea.

Tea would fix everything. Or at least clear her head so she could fix things herself. Kettle on, Tansy began plucking the sanest thoughts from the jumbled-up, nonstop hum and buzz in her mind. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to work with.

Stolen novel; please report.

Her thoughts kept going back to the strangers at the market. What if they were still in town? Whatever this scale thing was, whatever awful bug she had caught, she must have caught it from them, because where else? If the strangers were still around, she might get answers. So she would drink her tea, then get dressed, then head to the co-op for trade day like nothing was amiss.

Thirty minutes later, she stood in front of the mirror appraising herself. She had chosen her favorite indigo-dyed linen skirt and a loose, blue cotton voile blouse which she tucked, untucked, then tucked again. The blouse only had 3/4 sleeves, but that was probably all she needed. Just to be safe, she slipped on a pair of gardening sleeves that covered her forearms to above her elbows. Within seconds, the friction of the constricting sleeves made the scales at her elbows itch like mad. She crossed her arms and rubbed lightly at the scales with the pads of her fingers. What she really wanted was to claw at them with her favorite garden rake, but even just lightly scratching the scales intensified the itch beyond reason.

She pulled back her chin-length hair and fastened it with Ma's favorite old tortoiseshell clip. At the door, she slipped on her worn leather sandals and took one more look around the cottage.

"Wait," she said. She crossed the kitchen to the distiller and decanted the peppermint oil into three vials, which she tucked into her skirt pocket for Carmen. In a daze, she grabbed one vial each of precious lavender and calendula oils and pocketed them, too. Back in the bedroom, she picked up the pine needle basket holding the amber jars of lanolin.

I simply wanted to tell you the lanolin will help.

Ha! Thanks, but no thanks, creepy midnight caller. She placed the basket in the Harvest Hauler and turned to the garden. In the day and a half she had been too sick to tend it, the produce had ripened to a dizzying degree. She could have filled two wagons with tomatoes alone, so she focused on those, not even bothering to separate varieties.

"Ugh," she groaned, her stomach roiling as the usually delightful garden aromas now assaulted her, amplified beyond reason. She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Why do they smell so strong today?"

She heaved the wagon behind her between the raised beds, snatching vegetables at random without stopping to weigh them. The wagon wheels pressed into the microclover bedding of the garden paths, sending scents of crushed leaves and petals hurtling into her nostrils.

In that moment, Tansy felt an overwhelming connection to the fragile entities surrounding her, their leaves unfolding, their roots reaching deep for sustenance and stability. She sensed the faint whisper of chloroplasts capturing energy from the sun. Scents of the plants’ complex chemistry filled her nostrils, while images of their intricate physiology flashed through her mind like an old silent film.

Connection with her garden was nothing new. Her earliest and fondest memories were of weeding the family garden beside Ma, kneeling to smell the fresh, damp earth that was still her favorite scent. It was the degree of connection that unnerved her. She felt like the plants were filling her, becoming her. Or, more like she was becoming one of them. Like if she reached down and touched the soil, she might suddenly grow roots and unfurl leaves.

"Get a grip, Tansy," she berated herself. She was probably just dehydrated from the fever, she thought. Still, the intention worked, and the overwhelming sensations died down enough that she could focus on the task at hand.

After the tomatoes, she picked a few dozen peppers, some squash, and a boatload of basil. It took all of twenty minutes, but by the time the wagon was full, Tansy felt like she might pass out. She grabbed a tomato, pumped some water into a jar and sat on her stoop, wiping her brow before taking a bite of warm produce.

She sat for a long while, sunning herself. The day was promising to be a scorcher. She didn't look forward to the coming discomfort, but the pervasive itch had subsided with a little rest and a bite to eat. In fact, creepy reptile scales aside, she nearly felt like her old self again.

Inside, she grabbed her sling bag from the kitchen, tucked in a water flask, and scribbled a quick chalk note on her little blackboard, which she hung face-out in the kitchen window. She grabbed a handful of protective rue, hurriedly placing the dried herb in the four corners of her home and inside the door, which she locked behind her. She stopped mid-stride, acknowledging the sudden urge to protect her home. Knowing better than to ignore her instincts, she turned back to the door and drew a protective sigil on the painted wood with her fingertip for good measure. Finally, she made a line in the dirt with her toe, whispering with intention, none shall pass.

Satisfied—though she wasn't sure why—she grabbed the handle of the Harvest Hauler and started toward town. Halfway down the overgrown driveway, she looked over her shoulder at what she had written for Jack when he stopped by to check on her. She would probably be back before he even showed up. But just in case, he wouldn't have to worry.

Trade day. All okay.