Page 2 of The Bear Between Us

She nods, visibly relieved to have a plan.

I write the note, talk her through the changes, and let the consultation settle into its natural close. By the time Nessa brings the chamomile I've already finished up, and I send Petra off with the new blend and Mrs. Calloway's sachets in a separate bag to make sure they don't get mixed up.

Nessa waits until the door closes.

"She looked rough," she says.

"She's not sleeping well."

"The forest dream one?"

I look at her. "You've been listening at the doorway again."

"I've been restocking the display shelf which is directly adjacent to the consultation room, which is not my fault architecturally." She perches on the edge of the front counter, eyes bright with curiosity. "It's the third one this week, right? The forest dreams?"

"Don't make it into a pattern, Nessa."

"It is a pattern."

I pick up my notepad and don't answer, because she's right and I don't want to encourage it. I move back toward the workbench to start Petra's adjusted blend, measuring out the mugwort with more focus than it strictly requires.

It's while I'm doing this, hands occupied, attention split between the herbs and the list of afternoon appointments, that it hits me.

Not a sound. Not a vision. A pulse.

It moves through me from the ground up, fast and deep, like something enormous just shifted its weight far beneath the soil. My hands go still on the workbench. The jars rattle, or I think they do, but when I look they're sitting exactly as I left them. The candles don't flicker. Nothing in the room has changed.

But the air feels different. Thicker. Like the moment before a storm when the pressure drops and the birds go quiet.

And underneath it, just at the edge of what I can properly perceive, something that feels like listening.

"Elowen?"

I realize I've put both hands flat on the workbench. I straighten up and turn. Nessa is standing in the doorway again, no phone this time, watching me with an expression I don't see from her very often.

Concern.

"You okay?" she asks. "You just kind of stopped."

"I'm fine." I pick up the measuring spoon. "Static electricity. Do we need to restock the willow bark? I thought we were getting low."

Nessa doesn't look entirely convinced, but she pivots to it. That's one of the things I value about her. She knows when to let things go. "Yeah, we're getting low. Also the valerian, and I think the St. John's wort."

"I'll do a forest run," I hear myself say.

Nessa blinks. "Now? You've got afternoon appointments."

"Tomorrow morning, then. Early, before we open." I'm already mentally cataloguing what I need and which sections of the forest edge I prefer for the better stock. It's a routine thing. I've done it dozens of times. The forest and I have an understanding, or I've always told myself we do.

That pulse is still faintly present somewhere under my sternum, like a second heartbeat that doesn't belong to me.

"I can reschedule your Thursday afternoon if you want to go tomorrow instead," Nessa offers. "Mrs. Calloway usually doesn't mind, and the Tremont consult can move to Friday."

"Do that." I tie off the new sachet. "Thank you."

Nessa disappears to manage the calendar, and I stand at my workbench and try to convince myself that the feeling is fading.

It isn't.