Thristle drifted slowly into consciousness, aware of something warm and unexpectedly heavy pressing on her. Sleep-fogged mind conjured images of blankets and pillows, but this was too substantial, too... alive. Whatever it was, it shifted slightly, settling more firmly in place when she tried to move.

„Mmph," she mumbled, still half-dreaming. The weight felt oddly comforting, like a particularly heavy quilt. But quilts didn't usually radiate heat quite like this, and they certainly didn't...adjust themselves.

She tried to push it off, still not opening her eyes. The weight responded with an indignant sound that cut through her drowsiness like a knife.

"HONK!?"

Thristle's eyes snapped open. There, sprawled across her legs with all the entitled confidence of royalty, was Fluffy. "Get off, you overstuffed pillow!" The goose settled more firmly in place and met her startled gaze with what could only be described as smug satisfaction.

"Rose!?" Thristle called out, but the house remained silent. Of course – Rose would be out collecting herbs. Which meant she was alone with her feathered menace.

"Right," she muttered, attempting to extract herself from beneath the goose slowly. "We can be civilized—"

She ducked as the goose's beak nearly caught the tip of her ear. Fluffy sprang up with surprising agility for his size, and suddenly their relative positions shifted from 'goose as a blanket' to 'goose as a pursuer.' Thristle barely made it three steps away before having to dodge a determined nip at her ankles.

"I thought we had an understanding!" she yelped, dancing away from another attack. "What happened to our bread-based peace treaty?"

The goose's eyes gleamed with unholy delight as he launched his assault on her ankles, neck extended like a striking snake. Thristle barely managed to leap aside, nearly tripping over a chair in the process.

She scrambled around the kitchen table while Fluffy waddled after her with surprising speed. "What is wrong with you!?"

"Honk!" came the reply.

"Look who's finally decided to join the land of the living," Rose's amused voice cut through the chaos. She stood in the doorway, herb basket propped against her hip, watching Thristle hop around on one foot while Fluffy made another pass at her ankles. "Did my white knight wake you up with a kiss?"

"Kiss?" Thristle sputtered, using a chair as a barrier between herself and the goose. "More like attempted murder! Your 'white knight' has been holding me hostage, and now is trying to maim me!"

Fluffy immediately abandoned his attack, waddling over to Rose with his neck held high, the picture of innocence. He settled beside her with a quiet, dignified honk that somehow managed to suggest that any accusations of misconduct were clearly exaggerated.

"Let's finally have some breakfast," Rose said, setting her basket down and trying not to laugh at Thristle's disheveled state. "Though I see Fluffy's already worked up your appetite.”

The morning sunlight slanted through Rose's kitchen window, warming the fresh bread she'd just placed on the table. Golden honey dripped slowly from the dipper into a clay bowl, catching the light like amber jewels. The rich scent of both filled the small room, making Thristle's stomach rumble.

"I still can't believe you make bread every morning," Thristle said, tearing off a crusty piece and slathering it with honey. "In the city, I had to stand in long lines in the morning, or be lucky if the baker's older leftovers were still soft enough to chew."

Rose smiled, settling into her chair. "It's not so hard once you get used to its rhythm. The kneading helps me think, actually.

"Honk!" Fluffy interjected from his corner, eyeing their breakfast with unabashed interest.

"No," Rose said firmly. "You've already had your breakfast, you greedy thing. Bread isn't good for geese anyway."

They were finishing up, Thristle using the last bit of bread to mop up the remaining honey, when urgent knocking rattled the door. A breathless boy stood there, cheeks flushed from running.

"Rose!" he gasped. "It's old Beasley's cow – the one about to calve. Something's wrong, they say it's bad."

"I could give you a hand" – Thristle offered.

Rose shook her head as she gathered her supplies. "Better not. Birthing can be tricky enough without trying to guide someone new through it. Ms Beasley always helps me anyway. Besides she still plans to have her revenge."

"Go then," Thristle said, understanding. "I'm not staying here alone with your feathered tyrant anyway. I'll grab my things and start looking for whatever Mother left behind. It’s making me too anxious to wait."

"But—" Rose hesitated in the doorway.

"We'll meet later," Thristle assured her, already gathering her meager belongings – just a small pack that had seen better days, and a worn cloak. "The island's been peaceful for decades now. Even the bandits avoid it."

"Thristle?" She paused, one hand on the door frame. "Be careful, even if..." she trailed off, shaking her head with a small smile.

"You know," Thristle said with a fond smirk, "for someone barely older than me, you've got the fretting mother to act down perfectly. Maybe you should finally find someone?"

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Rose let out an exasperated laugh, though her eyes held genuine concern.

"I'll be fine," Thristle said, shouldering her pack. "It's just a few hours of poking around I'll be back in the afternoon, probably covered in dust and cobwebs. What's the worst that could happen?"

Rose's expression suggested she could think of several answers to that question, but the boy was tugging at her sleeve with increasing urgency. With one last concerned look, she hurried away, her herb-stained apron flapping on her legs.

„Right then," Thristle muttered, "let's see what you're hiding."

---

The morning sun filtered through the canopy of oak and birch trees, casting dappled shadows on the narrow path ahead. The forest here was nothing like the dense, dark woods in most places. Everything felt gentler somehow. Sunlight reached the forest floor, encouraging patches of wildflowers and berry bushes. Birds called cheerfully overhead, and a rabbit watched her pass before unhurriedly hopping away.

"Some fearsome wilderness," Thristle muttered, stepping over a fallen log adorned with clusters of bright orange mushrooms. She gestured at a patch of white daisies swaying beside the path. "This looks more like someone's overgrown garden." A slight smile touched her lips. "I missed it."

The path wound uphill, following what had once been a properly maintained trail but had since surrendered to nature's touch, now soft with grass and moss. Fresh tracks in the soft earth suggested recent visitors. Probably Rose, Thristle thought, gathering her herbs and roots for her healer's work, or perhaps one of the village hunters seeking game.

As she climbed higher, the trees thinned enough to offer glimpses of the village nestled in the valley below. Smoke rose peacefully from stone chimneys, weaving grey threads through the morning air. In the market square, she could make out the familiar figure of the mayor in his distinctive red coat, a tiny splash of color against the cobblestones.

Her gaze lingered on the distant scene. The mayor talked to Reedby the well, gesturing with both hands as he always did when frustrated. The brass buttons on his coat caught the morning light. The topmost one was hanging loose by a single thread, and there was a tea stain on his left cuff, dark against the white linen. A sparrow perched on the well's rim was pecking at the crumbs that had fallen from the half-eaten sweet roll in Reed's weathered hands. The tiny bird paused in its feast, turned its head, and looked directly at her, its dark eye meeting hers across the distance.

Thristle shook her head sharply. A faint buzzing she hadn't even noticed until now faded slowly. The figures below became what they should be at this distance – mere dots of color moving in the village square. From this height, it looked like an illustration from a children's storybook.

The old trees should be just ahead now. Thristle adjusted her pack and picked up her pace. The sooner she found whatever Mother had left behind, the sooner she could get back to the cottage. She hoped to return before dinner, having only stolen a heel of bread and a bit of cheese for her journey.

Then, through a gap in the ancient trees, she caught her first glimpse of her destination, and her steps faltered. The old oak wasn't particularly large, but something about it drew her attention. Perhaps it was the way emerald ivy had claimed the gnarled bark as its own, or how it stood over the crumbling ruins of what had once been a thriving hamlet before the well ran dry nearly two centuries past. The stories said the drought had driven the villagers away, but looking at the thick shadows beneath the oak's spreading branches, Thristle wondered if there might have been other reasons, lost to time.

The ruins sprawled before her, half-hidden beneath centuries of fallen leaves and creeping moss. What might have once been house foundations were now just rectangular hollows in the earth, their dark stone edges softened by time and weather. Nature had reclaimed its territory with patient determination. A cool breeze whispered through the leaves overhead, carrying the musty scent of old stone and damp earth.

"Well," she muttered, shrugging off her pack and setting it beside a tumbled wall, "I suppose I'd better start looking."

Mother's actual message was simple enough: "I left my things inside the turnip, the third shelf behind the tree." Yet Thristle had been wandering the ruins for nearly an hour, and she hadn't seen anything resembling a shelf, let alone a turnip. She sighed, leaning against the massive oak trunk. The bark was cool against her back, despite the day's warmth. As she shifted her weight, trying to think, something caught her eye – a shadow that didn't quite match the others. From this angle, partially hidden by a tumbled wall and years of creeping vines, she could make out a small alcove cut into the dark, porous stone.

Her heart quickened, she pushed away from the tree and made her way over. The alcove was deeper than it first appeared, its rough walls lined with crude stone shelves. Ceramic containers filled the spaces, their shapes oddly uniform – each bulbous at the bottom and tapering to a narrow neck, like... "Turnips," she breathed, a smile tugging at her lips. "Of course."

Most of the containers were empty, their wax seals long broken. Her fingers moved across them, counting. One, two... third shelf. There, tucked against the back wall, sat a jar with an intact seal. The wax seemed different from the others – not as degraded by time, its surface bearing a sheen that spoke of more recent crafting. The container was heavier than she expected when she lifted it, and something shifted inside.

Working carefully, she broke the thick seal. Seeds cascaded into her palm, small and white, along with a folded piece of parchment. Her eyes widened as she recognized them – Sun Dewdrop seeds. Here, outside the protection of her village, where they were guarded so preciously that every part was counted and recorded in the town ledger. How had they come to be hidden away in these forgotten ruins?

The parchment bore her mother's familiar script on one side, detailing cultivation instructions she knew by heart. But as she turned it over, her breath hitched. Another hand had written there, the strokes sharp and precise: "Dewdrop Tincture Recipe."

The breath left her lungs in a quiet rush as she studied the handwriting more closely. Those neat, measured strokes – how had she not recognized them immediately? This was her father's hand, the same script that had labeled every jar in his workshop, every carefully stored tool. The carpenter's attention to detail that had made his work so sought after, transformed into the patient notation of an alchemist's experiments.

But her father had never mentioned working with Sun Dewdrops. He'd stick to his wood stains and varnishes, she'd thought, occasionally brewing up paint pigments. Simple things, practical things. Not this – not something that touched on the village's most closely guarded treasure.

Thristle sank down against the cool stone wall, the parchment trembling slightly in her hands as she began to read. The recipe was nothing like the traditional one she knew. Each unfamiliar step, each strange substitution, made her grip the parchment tighter until her knuckles whitened. Her father's precise handwriting continued down the page, accompanied by neat annotations in the margins. Years of experiments were distilled into these careful instructions.

Her mind raced. The village's potion was sacred, its recipe was passed down through generations. Each step was measured, and each ingredient was weighed with the precision of tradition. No one altered it much through the ages—to do so would be to risk wasting the precious flowers.

Thristle's hands shook slightly as she divided her finds. Most of the seeds went into a small leather pouch tucked to her belt, some into her secret pocket. She folded the recipe carefully, sliding it between the pages of her journal and wrapping it in an oilcloth to protect the precious writing. Three places, just to be safe. Just in case.

The weight of her discovery pressed against her chest like a physical thing. She needed air, needed space to think. Her feet carried her automatically through the ruins until she found herself beside the old well. Sinking down beside it, she pressed her palms against her temples.

Should she tell Rose? Her friend had always been trustworthy and had kept every secret they'd shared since childhood. But this... this was different. This wasn't about stolen sweets or sneaking out. This was her father's work, his hidden experiments with the village's most precious resource, if the elders found out about the seeds they'd take them from her, of course. But what would they do when they realized those had been hidden away, kept secret?

Lost in thought, she leaned back against the well's stone rim, seeking its familiar solidity. Instead, there was a grinding sound, a shift of ancient mortar giving way. Her stomach lurched as empty space replaced the stone behind her. She grabbed desperately for the edge, but her fingers found only crumbling debris.

The fall seemed to last forever. The wind rushed past her ears as she tumbled through the darkness, her body scraping against rough masonry. Something struck her shoulder – hard – sending her spinning. She slammed against the well's curved wall, fingers scrabbling uselessly against the slick surface. She couldn't tell up from down anymore as she plummeted deeper into the darkness.

With a sickening crunch, she hit bottom. Pain exploded through her body, the impact sending waves of agony radiating from her back. For a moment, she lay there, lungs refusing to work, ears ringing with a high, insistent whine that drowned out even her heartbeat. Something warm and wet was seeping through her shirt, spreading across her back.

Each breath became more labored than the last, sending fresh waves of agony through her chest. Darkness crept in from the edges of her vision, the world growing distant and hazy until her consciousness ebbed away.