Flour Dust and Bitter Herbs

Bloom stood in the center of her tiny kitchen, finishing her batch of scones, her cheerful disposition revived by a little honest pranking. Her spirits had been raised by the morning's mischief—a cunning prank on Lord Hartfield—and she was now channeling that happiness into her baking. Her voice was light and beautiful, rising and flowing across the warm room like a soft wind as she sang a whimsical song about a knight and his adventures. "Oh, Sir Cedric stumbled through the dale, lost his sword, and tripped on his mail," the lyrics blurted forth. Her laughter blended with the crackle of the oven fire as she giggled softly, picturing the haughty nobility in such a predicament.

Warm and sweet, the aroma of freshly made scones filled the air, blending with the subtle earthy scent of herbs, lavender, thyme, and rosemary, drying in tidy bundles on the ledge. Motes of flour dust danced in the beams as sunlight filtered through the glass. With its robust oak table worn from years of use, its wooden shelves creaking under jars of preserves in ruby reds and golden hues, and the stone oven exuding a gentle, residual heat that enveloped the area in coziness, the kitchen was a haven of comfort. Her hands, rough and calloused from hours of caring for her garden, moved with deft precision as she shaped the remaining dough, pressing it softly into rounds with care. Flour sprinkled her old apron, sticking to the cloth in powdered places.

Nevertheless, a darkness intruded into her mind as she was working. To think that a noble had entered her haven—my backyard. Bloom harbored a deep and intense hatred for all nobles, and Lord Hartfield was the one who was aware of her secret. With whispered stories and hard-won scars, she was all too familiar with the danger that loomed over her like a blade. Her breath raced and her chest clenched as the thought tore at her like a sharp, nagging anxiety. Just hours ago, she could still see him, his towering, commanding presence creating a sharp silhouette against the greenery of her yard. He had loomed over her rows of flowers and vegetables, dressed in exquisite velvet and silks, his cloak glistening with golden threads. His voice was deep and laced with menace, warning her of terrible repercussions if she didn't comply with his demands. With icy, unforgiving eyes, he had declared, "You'll regret crossing me."

With a resolute breath, Bloom pushed the memories away and concentrated on the scones browning in the oven, even though her heart was racing and hammering against her ribs.

However, the fact that she had forced him to go strengthened her determination. He had assumed she was unaware of his presence, but you can't hide anything from a plant, particularly one you're leaning against or sitting on. Her greatest power was her bond with the plants, a profound, unsaid magic that she trusted without completely understanding. An old oak had answered her whispered plea when Lord Hartfield had leaned haughtily against it. He stumbled uncomfortably as its roots wiggled beneath the soil, its branches moved delicately, and its leaves rustled as though agitated by an invisible wind. After straightening up, his angular features flashed with surprise, and he turned to back off along the path. Knowing that her plants had her back in a way that no human could, Bloom had watched from her window with a victorious smile tugging at her lips.

She hardly knew Lord Hartfield outside of his position and threats, so it wasn't that she hated him personally. However, she believed that aristocrats were generally unreliable, and he had the audacity to threaten her with a lashing, which she acknowledged was more of a severe warning than a commitment. She was filled with anger at the moment, and her hands were shaking with rage as she held onto her gardening shears, the metal cool and firm under her fingertips. Years of adversity and the tales her father had told her about aristocrats robbing the common people of their money through harshness and taxes had engendered that mistrust in her very nature. Her resentment was only heightened by the loss of her parents: her father, a cook, died soon after, exhausted from grief and labor, and Bloom was left to forge a life on her own in a society that valued the titled above the commonplace. Her mother, a maid, died giving birth, her cries resonating in a chilly manor room.

As she cleaned her hands on her apron, leaving flour smudges behind, she prayed quietly and bitterly, "I wish nobles would stay out of my life." Nevertheless, a peculiar thought crossed her mind—a glimmer of amazement amidst the bitterness. She was not a noble at all, yet she was using magic in her own way, despite nobles claiming it was their birthright and a privilege of their ancestors. Her father had been a cook, stirring pots in a noble's kitchen; her mother had been a maid, cleaning floors for scraps. Despite the fact that neither had any titled blood, Bloom's relationship with plants disregarded their regulations. It must be spreading among ordinary people, she thought, a glimmer of hope igniting in her chest. Could her magic—her silent communication with leaves and roots—be an indication of a new development, a break in the inflexible structure of her world?

She was brought back to the present by the scent of homemade scones wafting through the cottage. With a smirk on his face, Bloom carefully removed one tray from the oven and replaced it with another. Her favorite fruit was scones, or more accurately, the dried blossoms baked inside, which is why people called her that. The golden-brown pastries had the ideal ratio of flavor to comfort; they were crunchy on the outside and delicate on the inside, with dark, sweet bits scattered throughout. She smirked and asked herself, "After all, who would want to be Liliana Elaina?" Too noble and delicate for her earthly existence, it was a nobility's name. Bloom was rooted like the trees she cared for, simple and strong.

With the basket swinging softly by her side, she served two scones for herself and put the other six in a covered basket for Grandmama and Rory. As the sun sank behind the house, she was greeted by the warm evening air, which was dense with the embrace of summer. Her garden was glowing in red and gold, with rows of vegetables—sturdy carrots, luscious tomatoes, and crisp lettuce—mixing with flowers and herbs as the light faded. A breeze caressed the leaves of the apple trees scattered throughout her field, and the sky streaked with pinks and oranges, giving the lavender where bees buzzed idly a gentle sheen.

Bloom loved her cottage, which was connected to the village by unseen threads but stood apart from it. With its garden extending out back and apple trees acting as sentinels, it was stunning in the twilight. She strolled into the orchard after jumping the gate in her gardening attire, which included boots covered with dirt and an old, patched dress with sleeves rolled up. The smell of ripe apples filled the air as the cold, dew-soaked grass brushed against her legs.

She ate her scones while leaning against a tree whose trunk contoured nicely to her back, allowing the warmth of the food to fill her. She chewed gently while watching the sun set, without thinking or making any plans. All around her, night sounds surged: owls hooting softly, crickets chirping in a rhythmic chorus, and leaves rustling as little creatures scurried. She laid back and looked up through the branches as the stars pierced the sky. The branches parted at her silent request, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind.

She watched the stars glitter and fell asleep. A tree root lifted softly to hold her head as the long grass moved to cover her, warm and gentle. Her plants were as devoted to her as the soil itself, moving in time with her enchantment. They would do anything for her, protecting her under the stars, even though she didn't completely understand it. Amidst the natural world that loved her as much as she loved it, Bloom slept well.