Page 29 of Lost Moon

Elara looks at the woman, unfamiliar with the scarf though she does not wish to offend her by asking. The woman smiles, as if she is sensing her confusion. “It is the scarf I wear to cover my hair, neck, and ears. It is a culture my family and I follow back at home.”

Elara listens with fascination. Though she does not understand the tradition, she admires the woman’s confidence and composure in wearing what is proper and comfortable for her.

“There,” the woman concludes, as all three step back to check that the fabric is secure. “And here is the gardening apron.” She slips it over Elara’s head and ties it at her waist.

A study of her reflection reveals a transformation, and a sense of lightness and support takes root. Within minutes, surrounded by these women, a long-cherished wish becomes reality. She has been here for only three days, and although the burden she once carried has eased, unease remains beneath everything she has begun to experience. The entire arrangement, this kingdom, and the life now unfolding around her still feel unreal.

Maybe the world is finally listening to my struggles, she thinks, a rare sense of peace settling over her.

For the past hour, the three women have guided her through the steps of gardening. They teach her how to plant securely, how to cover each bulb with care, and the measures necessary to ensure the poppies grow healthy and endure within the cold ground.

Pouring water over the soil, she pats the earth with her bare hands until it is even and firm, the rhythm of her motions settling into harmony. The damp earth catches beneath her fingernails as she attempts to smooth a stubborn ridge of soil. A thick, buried root resists the pressure of her palm, springing upward and threatening to displace the newly planted bulbs.

Noting her struggle, Celestia kneels into the mud beside her. Without a word, the blonde woman places her gloved hand over Elara’s wrist, guiding her hand to alter the angle of her weight until the earth finally yields and packs down flat.

When her task is complete, impatience stirs within her. She longs to see a flower emerge, or even the rise of a stem. Nothing appears, and Elara knows patience is required for the winter bulbs to sleep until spring. Turning toward the three women, an unaccustomed smile touches her lips, born from the warmth of an experience she has never known before.

Only two words come to her. “Thank you.”

Instead of a simple nod, Asma reaches deep into the pocket of her black gardening apron. She produces a rough linen pouch tied with a piece of twine and presses the coarse fabric into Elara’s soiled palm. “These are the seeds of the winter poppies from my family’s valley,” she says, her voice low so the sound does not carry beyond their small circle. “They are resilient. They thrive even when the frost is harsh.”

Elara closes her fingers around the small weight, the texture of the twine pressing against her skin. Feeling her heart thump with warmth and new gratitude, all she can do is offer a genuine smile.

Asma’s smile only grows, the warmth of kindness growing warmer than the sun’s heat. “This is your garden. You may shape it as you wish. You may grow your own flowers, plant what pleases you. You could even cultivate fruits and vegetables.”

“I wish I could do all of that,” Elara says. “I have never been given such freedom. When you mentioned roses earlier, I found myself wanting to grow them. The deep red ones. There is more than enough space in the garden.”

Before any of the women can answer, a sudden, heavy sensation presses against the back of Elara's neck. The warmth in her chest turns ice cold. Tilting her chin upward, her eyes land on the high balcony of the private chambers.

Queen Maereth stands motionless against the stone balustrade, her immaculate posture rigid as her icy gaze fixates directly on Elara’s mud-stained hands and pinned-up skirt. The open disgust on her face fractures Elara’s peaceful sanctuary in an instant. Without a word, Queen Maereth turns her back and disappears inside, leaving a suffocating shadow over the courtyard.

The dark-haired woman gives a thoughtful shrug, breaking the heavy quiet. “It would transform the gardens, Your Highness. Still, I think more flowers would only make them lovelier. Especially with the Flower Festival approaching. Raeverband will look stunning again.”

Still recovering from Queen Maereth’s coldness, she replies nonetheless. “The Flower Festival?” she asks. “What is it?”

“It marks the season when the flowers across Riverath are at their finest,” the woman with the scarf explains, the silk draped over her shoulder shifting with the breeze. “After the old king's wife passed away, it became a festival in her honor, a way for the kingdom to remember her.”

The story returns to Elara at once. A king who filled his kingdom with flowers after losing the woman he loved, offering their beauty not only to himself but to everyone around him. She cannot decide whether the tradition is born from devotion or grief. Perhaps both. Even so, it leaves her wanting to learn more.

“When does it begin?” she asks.

“In about three months,” the blonde woman replies. “It sounds far away, though the seasons always seem to arrive sooner than expected.”

Following her words, Celestia gestures toward the nearby garden shed. “Before we begin organizing the rest of the seasonal seeds for the spring and summer crops, we should make sure these winter pods are sorted.”

The woman with the scarf clasps her hands together with sudden excitement. “I cannot wait to grow oxblood lilies again. They always bloom beautifully during the festival. I only wish it were sooner.”

“Besides, have you forgotten what happened the last time? You neglected them,” the blonde woman says with an amused smile.

Asma wrinkles her nose. “I was working two jobs and looking after my sister. Do not make me sound irresponsible, Celestia.” Her arm nudges her playfully.

Celestia’s smile widens. “My starburst lilies, on the other hand, were magnificent.”

“They died because you forgot to water them,” the dark-haired woman remarks, laughter already creeping into her voice.

“Oh, please, Claire,” Asma and Celestia reply together before dissolving into laughter.

“And you never grew anything at all,” Celestia adds, nudging Claire lightly with her elbow, “because you were far too busy with your girlfriend. Kissing like there is no tomorrow.”