Wilted Stalk, Watchful Eyes

Bewildered, Julian watched the female he had knocked into flee. He wondered if she recognized me.

But wouldn't she have avoided eye contact and bowed low, as commoners always did when they saw aristocrats, if she had known who he was?

It seemed more likely that she just didn't want to talk. She had met his gaze fiercely, looking stiff and indignant, as though she was expecting scorn or rage.

But if she didn't know who I was, why would she anticipate that? He pondered. He shrugged; it was unlikely that he would be able to slip out in disguise once more. Even if she knew the face of Lord Julian Hartfield, it would not matter.

With a sigh, he headed home and trudged up the steep hill to the mansion at Hartfield. Due to the war and his knightly training, he had not lived there permanently for more than fifteen years. He could stay for a long time, maybe forever, now that everything was finally ended.

He didn't change inside the manor when he arrived. He continued to stroll instead, past the gardens, past the stables, and into the fields. There were trees all over the place, and between the village and the castle was an apple orchard. Julian walked in its direction.

He enjoyed the uncommon luxury of leisure as he walked through the verdant orchard. He was overcome by the alluring aroma of apples. He selected one from a branch and took a bite out of it, enjoying the combination of sweetness and tartness on his tongue.

He had hardly started his second when he heard music—a nearby voice singing.

Julian stopped roaming aimlessly, enthralled. A child's rhyme was transformed into something eerily lovely by a woman's voice. He was drawn by the sound out of curiosity.

Wearing men's clothing, she knelt in a garden and sang gently. Julian was startled to see that she was the young woman from the market. Her heart-shaped face was framed by stray tendrils of her long brown hair arranged in a loose bun. With little protection from the sun, she was barefoot and her clothing was lightly dusted with dirt.

She pulled weeds from a section of new maize that was just two feet high. In sharp contrast to her previous tension, her demeanor was tranquil and calm. As though they were her children, she crooned to the plants.

Silently he watched as he drew closer to the fence. She was too focused on her work to notice.

Her song then changed. Julian's neck was pricked with hair. Despite the fact that no breath touched his skin, a sudden wind agitated the plants surrounding him. She was encircled by it. She cupped the base of a wilting corn stalk and grinned.

The plant straightened in front of his eyes, its drab color changing to a vivid green, and any signs of illness vanished. It extended many inches upward. It was a minor change; he may have missed it completely if he hadn't noticed it change.

"Now, now, you know better," she reprimanded, laughing softly. "You won't get any corn if you keep behaving that way!"

Julian could only describe the plant's small slump as a sheepish one.

Grinning, she gave it a light touch. "Don't worry, young one. We'll turn you into a real plant, though.

Jaw slack, Julian stared stunned, until he remembered stories of aristocratic families using enigmatic magic. But not his ancestry—generations before, the Hartfields' gift had waned.

He moved, planning to back off. He had no desire to interfere with magic. Now, however, she saw him—probably catching his motion. She twisted around, forgetting she was kneeling, and yelled. Two corn stalks were flattened when she fell backward.

She sat up, gasping, and gave him a fierce look. She reached back and picked up the smashed stalks, bringing them to their feet. He wouldn't have known she had used magic to heal them if he hadn't noticed that odd breeze rustling the bushes earlier.

She accused him of squashing her corn, but as she spoke, the stalks became stronger and more upright.

"I apologize," he said.

With a sigh, her annoyance subsided. "Why are you in this place?"

"This is my territory," he answered. "I'm free to go wherever I want."

As she observed him, her stance tensed and her eyes grew more focused. Her voice was tight as she continued, "You're Lord Hartfield."

He bowed slightly with his head. "At your disposal, Madily. Could you tell me your name?

She frowned. "Your lordship, leave."

He arched an eyebrow. He remarked nonchalantly, "I could have you beaten for that." Of course he wouldn't—his morality wouldn't allow it—but she couldn't tell.

The threat didn't work. Rather than retreating, she squirmed, rage blazing in her eyes, a glimmer of agony underneath them. She answered in a chilly, flat voice, "Try it, my lord, but you won't get far." He felt guilty for provoking her.

"Is this related to your extraordinary gardening ability?" he inquired, pulling himself up onto the fence.

Her eyes darted like a doe's in a corner as she froze. "You've been there for how long?"

He grinned. It depends. What is your name?

Tension was coursing through her like a hunted animal as she looked at him and considered her alternatives. Finally, she murmured, "Bloom."

"Bloom," he repeated. "Unusual."

She scowled. "Everyone calls me Bloom, but my real name is Liliana Elaina."

Then, with the sun shining on her eyes, which were a rich, vivid purple like ripe flowers, she looked him in the eyes. His eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Do all witches have eyes like that?" Before he could catch them, the words escaped his lips. I apologize; that was impolite.

Her eyes glowed like purple lightning as anger blazed in her gaze. He would have taken a step back from the impact if he had been upright. With a deep, deadly voice, she declared, "I am not a witch."

Without thinking, he snapped back, "I beg to differ."

It was a stupid mistake. Leaping up, Ivy from the fence twisted around his arms and legs and pulled them apart. There he hung, vulnerable and defenseless. Bloom stood up.

Once more, she stated, "I am not a witch." As you say, I have a talent. If you value your comfort, keep that in mind. Go now, noble.

He was freed by the ivy. As if nothing had happened, she dropped back to her knees and resumed her weeding.

Julian was wise enough to avoid getting too close since either she would jump or the plants would. One question, though, kept bothering him. "Why do you have this gift when only a select few from noble families typically possess it?"

She looked up, her eyes blazing with surprise. "I'm not sure. Please leave now.

"Please," she had said. That forced him. He jumped off the fence, made a little bow, and walked away. "Goodbye, lovely maiden," he beckoned.

He left with a muted snort of amusement in his wake. He smiled, strangely happy. He enjoyed the way she treated him, treating him like dirt.

He stopped to listen to the singing that floated after him. It was a lovely ballad about King Marius and his last stand, not a kid's song this time. Julian took a seat away from her to enjoy an apple tree.

At first, the tree seemed comfy, but as he stayed there, it appeared to ridge and twist more beneath him. He scowled at it as he leaned forward. The trunk has distorted into the worst possible seat. It smoothed back to normal when he moved. He glanced over it and saw Bloom's sly smile directed at him.

He felt a chill go through him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but a plant changing color was one thing. Observing one, however, move as if it were alive? That was a whole other matter. He shivered once more, got up, and went home, turning around once to see her garden empty.