It had been a handful of quiet days since the beast was slain.

  Apart from the occasional knock at the door and an armful of gratitude gifts, mostly salted fish and shellfish still smelling of the sea, life had slipped back into its gentle rhythm. The cabin no longer hummed with urgency.

  Today Lydia stood over a small iron pot, watching a bundle of crushed leaves stain the water a deepening hue.

  “Do not discard the liquid once you are finished,” Maera had instructed that morning. “It serves twice.”

  Twice. Imagine that. In her old world, everything came shrink-wrapped and labeled with expiration dates. Here, even leftovers had purpose.

  The herb simmered patiently. Lydia had measured the time carefully, one quarter of a candle’s length, marking the wax with a pin. When it fell, her brew would be ready.

  She returned to her reading, mouthing plant names under her breath, when a knock split the quiet.

  “Come in!” she called.

  Maera was out, as she often was during daylight hours. Lydia felt steady enough now to answer doors and manage small matters. At least… she hoped so.

  The door swung open with theatrical confidence.

  “Fair morning, Lydia!”

  In strode Thane, the village seamster, bright as a banner in festival season. He carried a carefully wrapped bundle of cloth beneath one arm.

  “I’ve come to see whether the dye mixture we requested is prepared,” he said, then lifted the parcel slightly, “and I thought I would deliver this while I was at it.”

  “Already?” Lydia blinked. “That was fast…”

  In her previous life, clothing came in oceans of identical copies. Here, every stitch was a decision. She remembered once listening to a podcast about cosplay, how costumes could take months to complete. Yet here stood Thane, smiling like a cat that had outpaced the wind.

  “The dye will be ready when the pin drops,” Lydia explained, pointing toward the candle. “Just a moment more.”

  Thane leaned closer, inspecting her method. “A candle timer? I haven’t seen one used in this cabin in quite some time.”

  Lydia tucked her hands together and twisted her thumbs. “Maybe one day I’ll tell by scent or color alone.”

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  “I’m certain you will. Though comparing yourself to the hag is quite the mountain to climb.”

  “A hag, hmm?”

  Maera’s voice entered before she did.

  She stepped in from the back room with perfect timing, eyeing Thane as if he were a loaf of bread she was debating whether to slice.

  “A hag who still corrects your crooked hems, if I recall,” she said smoothly.

  Thane placed a hand over his heart. “Cruelty. Pure cruelty.”

  “You charge double for sailors with wandering hands.”

  “They wander,” Thane sniffed, “because they lack discipline.”

  “And you lack modesty.”

  Their exchange danced like well-practiced partners. Lydia watched them spar with ease and familiarity, laughter tucked between their words. They had history. Roots. A shared understanding.

  She felt something small and quiet twist in her chest.

  Invisible.

  “Anyhow,” Thane said, clapping his hands lightly, “aren’t you curious about the fit?”

  “Right now?” Lydia asked.

  “Of course,” Maera said. “It is past time you stopped wearing hand-me-downs.”

  As if summoned by cue, the candle’s pin slipped free and struck the saucer below with a soft, decisive tick.

  “Perfect,” Maera murmured. “I’ll see to the dye.”

  Lydia gathered the parcel with careful hands and retreated to her room.

  The cloth felt smoother than any linen she had owned before. The chemise was off-white, with airy lantern sleeves tied delicately at the cuffs. It moved like it had opinions about wind.

  Layer by layer she dressed.

  Woolen stockings striped in soft blue wrapped her legs. Bloomers. A high-waisted skirt structured in box pleats. Over that, an open overskirt in brown and green tartan, earthy and dignified. A half-waist corset trimmed in golden thread that shimmered faintly, like it had borrowed sunlight from a field of dandelions.

  Then she noticed the embroidery.

  Trailing along the skirt’s trim was a flowering vine, curling in deliberate spirals. Each leaf narrow, edges finely serrated like tiny gears. At first it appeared simple green, but when she tilted the fabric toward the light, a faint silver vein traced through each leaf’s center, almost pulsing.

  The Chronos vine.

  Its stitched form captured that peculiar quality the real plant held, as though it were not entirely in step with the world around it. Even in thread, it seemed to breathe in a rhythm all its own.

  Lydia’s fingers brushed the embroidery. Cool, even through cloth.

  She swallowed.

  Without a mirror, she could only guess how it all came together. Did she look foolish? Pretending at something she had barely begun to understand?

  The murmur of voices outside nudged her forward.

  She stepped into the main room.

  Thane’s expression brightened instantly. “Well now. Look at that. A refined young lady.”

  Maera studied her in silence for a long moment.

  Then she approached with a brooch and fastened it at Lydia’s collar, tying a ribbon neatly at her throat. A short capelet settled across her shoulders like a seal of office.

  “There,” Maera said. “You carry the aspect of a respectable herbalist.”

  “W-What? Me? No way,” Lydia stammered. “It’s only been a week.”

  “Lydia,” Maera said quietly.

  The tone shifted. Solid. Serious.

  “You already grasp more than most apprentices manage in a month. And no matter what happens from here, you will be able to stand on your own.”

  The words landed heavier than the corset.

  No matter what happens.

  Lydia felt her stomach drop, as if the floor beneath the cabin had shifted a fraction out of place.

  The Chronos vine at her hem seemed almost to glimmer in the corner of her eye.

  Time, it whispered without sound, rarely walks in straight lines.