“Well, the wind knew better, and carried those haughty words of Orenna’s to the Earie Stone, the oldest and wisest of all the folk. He was incandescently angry at Orenna, and he called her to him. She had no choice but to obey, and she knelt when the Earie Stone looked at her.

“‘You have chosen again and again to disrespect the other spirits, and so I have no other choice but to discipline you, Orenna. From hence onward, you will only grow in dry, heartsick ground where the water may deny you, the fire may destroy you, and the wind can make you bend to its might. In order to bloom, you will have to give your life source; you will have to cut your finger on a thorn, and let your golden ichor flow like sap, down to the ground. And last of all, the mortal kind of the isle will learn your secrets by consuming your petals. This is your punishment, which may last as short as a day should you truly repent, or an eternity should your heart turn hard and cold.’

“Orenna was furious at the Earie Stone’s justice. She thought herself strong enough to resist his verdict, but she soon discovered that her flowers could no longer bloom where she willed. Even the lush grass, who had always welcomed her, couldn’t give her space to blossom, and she had to search the entirety of the isle to find a small patch of dry, heartsick ground in a graveyard. Even then, she couldn’t bloom, not until she pricked her finger on a thorn and her blood ran, slow, thick, and golden, down to the earth.

“She bloomed, but she was much smaller than before. She was vulnerable, she realized, and the other spirits denied her company. Sad and lonely, she called to a mortal girl who was picking wildflowers one day. The girl was delighted, but soon ate the flowers and learned all of Orenna’s secrets, just as the Earie Stone had foretold.

“Defiant, Orenna never repented but carved a life for herself in the ground she was given. She’s still there to this day, if you are fortunate or misfortunate enough to find her.”

Sidra fell quiet, reaching the end. Maisie had fallen asleep, and Sidra carefully slipped from the bed, tucking the blankets around her daughter. She carried Graeme’s book and a rushlight into the kitchen and stood at the table. She had left all of her herbs and supplies out. Jars, salts, honey, vinegar, and an array of dried herbs. The two red flowers Torin had brought her were still where she had left them. They hadn’t wilted, which foretold their magical essence, just like a moon thistle, and Sidra studied them in the firelight, occasionally glancing back over the legend.