Three bouquets on her doorstep. Three men who'll never understand why she always smiles and says nothing.
Eileen opened the wooden door and looked down at the bundles of stems lying on the mat. They were wrapped in rough twine and colored paper, each tied with a different kind of knot. The morning dew had dampened the petals, making them heavy and fragrant. Roses from the blacksmith, lavender from the miller, and expensive lilies from the mayor's nephew. She sighed and leaned against the doorframe. The air was crisp, but she felt a warmth rising in her cheeks that had nothing to do with the sun. It was embarrassment. It was exhaustion. It was the weight of being loved for a face instead of a soul.
She bent down and gathered the flowers. They were beautiful, objectively. Any other woman in Ashveil would have been thrilled to receive even one of them. But Eileen did not want flowers. She wanted silence. She wanted to walk to the market without feeling eyes on her back. She wanted to sneeze without someone asking if she needed a potion. She carried the bouquets inside and placed them in three separate jars on the kitchen counter. They looked like hostages lined up against the wall.
Eileen said, "I am sorry."
She was apologizing to the flowers. They would wilt soon anyway. Nothing lasted forever in this house, especially not things given with expectations attached. She washed her hands in the basin and dried them on her apron. She needed to go outside. The garden waited, and the animals needed feeding. She stepped out onto the porch and looked toward the path.
The miller's son was already there. Thomas was a young man with flour always dusting his eyebrows and a smile that was too eager. He stood by the gate, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When he saw her, he straightened his tunic and waved.
Thomas said, "Good morning, Eileen."
Eileen said, "Good morning, Thomas. Did you leave these here?"
Thomas said, "The lavender is from me. I thought it might help you sleep. You look tired."
Eileen touched her face instinctively. She had not slept well after the vision in the cellar. The marks on her wrists itched beneath her sleeves.
Eileen said, "I sleep fine. But thank you for the thought."
Thomas stepped closer to the gate. He looked nervous. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch made of red cloth. He held it out through the bars of the fence.
Thomas said, "I also found this. My mother said it brings luck to a household."
Eileen looked at the pouch. She did not need to touch it to know what it was. She could feel the hum of it from where she stood. It was a charm. A crude love charm, woven with intention and desire. It was not malicious, but it was intrusive. It was designed to bind affection, to make the recipient look favorably on the giver. In the hands of a witch, it was a toy. In the hands of a villager, it was a nuisance.
Eileen said, "You should keep that, Thomas. Luck is something you make yourself."
Thomas said, "Please. Just take it. Hang it by your door."
Eileen said, "I cannot."
Thomas looked hurt. He lowered the pouch slowly. He said, "I only want you to be happy."
Eileen said, "I know. And I am grateful. But I must work now."
Thomas nodded reluctantly. He turned and walked back toward the mill. Eileen watched him go. She felt a pang of guilt. He was a good man. He was kind and hardworking. But he loved an idea of her. He loved the mystery. He did not know that she woke up some mornings afraid of her own hands. He did not know that she counted the cracks in the ceiling to keep her magic from spilling out.
She turned back to the garden gate. The blacksmith was waiting there. Garen was a large man, quiet and solid like the anvil he worked on. He did not smile often, but when he did, it was genuine. He held a single red rose, thorns carefully removed.
Garen said, "I saw Thomas leaving."
Eileen said, "He brought lavender."
Garen said, "Lavender is for sleep. Roses are for living."
Eileen said, "That is a lovely way to put it."
Garen said, "I fixed the hinge on your shed yesterday. It was squeaking."
Eileen said, "I noticed. It was quiet this morning. Thank you, Garen."
Garen said, "You do not have to thank me. I like fixing things."
Eileen said, "I know."
They stood there for a moment. The silence between them was comfortable, unlike the charged silence with Thomas. Garen did not ask for anything. He did not hold out a pouch or expect a smile. He just stood there, existing in her space without demanding entry. For a second, Eileen wondered if she could tell him. If she could say, *I am not normal. I am dangerous.* But she knew she could not. Secrets were walls, and she had built them too high to climb down.
Garen said, "There is a stranger coming."
Eileen froze. Her heart skipped a beat. The mirror vision flashed in her mind. The black horse. The rider.
Eileen said, "What did you say?"
Garen said, "A stranger. On the north road. I saw dust rising an hour ago."
Eileen said, "Are you sure?"
Garen said, "I have good eyes. He is riding a black horse. It is big. Not like the ones we have here."
Eileen gripped the gate post. Her knuckles turned white. The prophecy was becoming reality. The seven days had started.
Eileen said, "Thank you for telling me."
Garen said, "Be careful, Eileen. Strangers bring change."
Eileen said, "Change is already here."
Garen nodded once and walked away toward the forge. Eileen stood alone in the garden. The air felt heavier now. The scent of the lavender Thomas had left was overpowering. She walked to the flowerbed near the gate where she had placed the bouquets temporarily. She intended to move them inside, but she stopped.
The lavender was glowing.
It was a faint pulse, barely visible in the daylight, but she saw it. The red pouch Thomas had tried to give her must have leaked magic when he held it near the gate. Or perhaps her own defensive wards had reacted to the charm. The lavender stalks were growing rapidly. They stretched upward, twisting around each other. Purple buds burst open in real-time, releasing clouds of scented pollen.
Eileen said, "No."
She knelt beside the bed. This was bad. Out-of-season blooming was noticeable. It drew attention. It whispered of unnatural things. If the villagers saw this, they would talk. If they talked, rumors would spread. If rumors spread, hunters might come. She placed her hands over the plants. She needed to stop the growth. She needed to reverse the flow.
She closed her eyes and focused. She visualized the energy within the stems. It was frantic and eager, driven by the desire woven into the charm. She pushed her own will against it. She commanded the plants to sleep. The silver veins on her wrists burned hot. She gritted her teeth. The glow faded slowly. The growth halted. The flowers remained large, unnaturally large, but they stopped moving.
Eileen said, "Stupid boy."
She was not angry at Thomas. She was angry at the situation. She stood up and brushed the dirt from her knees. She would have to cut these flowers down and burn them. She could not let anyone see them. She reached for her shears, but a voice stopped her.
Julian said, "Those are magnificent."
Eileen turned around. The mayor's nephew stood at the edge of the garden. He was dressed in fine clothes that looked out of place in the village. He leaned on a cane he did not need, pretending to be sophisticated. He smirked when he saw her flushed face.
Julian said, "I did not know you grew such varieties here."
Eileen said, "They are common lavender, Julian."
Julian said, "Nothing about you is common, Eileen."
He walked closer, ignoring the gate. He stepped onto the grass as if he owned it. He looked at the glowing stems with curiosity. He did not see the magic, but he sensed the value.
Julian said, "My uncle wants to host a festival. We need decorations. You should supply the flowers."
Eileen said, "I do not sell my herbs."
Julian said, "Everything has a price. Name yours."
Eileen said, "There is no price. The answer is no."
Julian said, "You are difficult. It is part of your charm, I suppose."
Eileen said, "It is not charm. It is a boundary."
Julian laughed softly. He reached out to touch one of the large lavender blooms. Eileen stepped forward quickly.
Eileen said, "Do not touch them."
Julian paused with his fingers inches from the petals. He looked at her, surprised by the sharpness in her voice.
Julian said, "Why? Are they poisonous?"
Eileen said, "They are delicate. They bruise easily."
Julian said, "You are protective of them. Like you are protective of yourself."
Eileen said, "Please leave, Julian."
Julian said, "I brought lilies. They are from the city. Rare."
Eileen said, "They will not survive here."
Julian said, "Nothing survives here forever. Eventually, you will want to leave. When you do, remember who offered you a way out."
He tossed the bouquet of lilies over the gate. They landed in the grass near the lavender. He turned and walked away, his cane clicking on the stones. Eileen waited until he was out of sight before she exhaled. She looked at the lilies. They were perfect. Too perfect. They smelled like perfume and money.
She picked up her shears and began to cut the lavender. She worked quickly, severing the heads before they could release more pollen. She gathered them into a pile. She would burn them in the fireplace tonight. She looked at the lilies. She could not burn those without raising suspicion. She picked them up and carried them inside. She placed them in a dark corner of the pantry.
Eileen said, "Too much attention."
She walked back to the porch and sat on the bench. Her hands were shaking. The magic mishap had drained her more than she expected. She looked at the north road. The dust Garen mentioned was visible now, a faint haze on the horizon. The stranger was coming.
She thought about the three men. Thomas wanted to protect her. Garen wanted to fix things for her. Julian wanted to own her. None of them asked her what she wanted. None of them asked her what she feared. They saw a beautiful object to be won. They did not see the woman who locked her cellar at night.
Eileen said, "I want to be known."
The wind rustled the trees. The crow from yesterday landed on the fence post. It watched her with its dark eyes. It cawed once, a harsh sound that broke the silence.
Eileen said, "You are back."
The crow tilted its head. It looked toward the road, then back at her. It was waiting. Eileen stood up and went inside. She locked the door. She checked the locks on the windows. She went to the cellar door and placed her hand on the wood. It was warm.
Eileen said, "Today is the first day."
She did not know what would happen when the rider arrived. She did not know if he was friend or foe. But she knew one thing. The flowers on her doorstep were a distraction. The real story was coming down the road. She walked to the mirror in the cellar, but she did not uncover it. She did not need to see again. She could feel the vibration in the floorboards.
She went back to the kitchen and made tea. She sat by the window and watched the road. The village went about its business. The mill turned. The hammer rang at the forge. The mayor's office opened. Life continued, oblivious to the magic gathering at its edges. Eileen sipped her tea. It was cold now, but she drank it anyway.
She thought about the black horse. She wondered if the rider knew about the flowers. She wondered if he knew about the charm. She wondered if he knew about her. She set the cup down. She smoothed her dress. She prepared herself. She would not run this time. She would stand in her garden. She would meet him with her head high.
The sun climbed higher. The dust on the road grew thicker. The flowers in the jars began to wilt, their petals falling onto the wood like tears. Eileen watched them fall. She did not sweep them away. Let them fall. Let them die. Something new was coming. Something real.
Eileen said, "Let him come."
The house settled around her. The locks held. The wards hummed. The village slept in the afternoon sun. But Eileen was awake. She was waiting. And for the first time in five years, she was not afraid of the silence. She was afraid of the noise that was about to break it.