holding all manner of jars filled with tinctures, decoctions, and finely ground herbs. The wall adjoining the kitchen was primarily taken up with a stone fireplace and an assortment of iron pots and kettles that ranged in size from a few cupfuls to one large enough to boil a bushel of licorice, pennyroyal and yarrow during the grippe season. Numerous bundles of healing plants, collected during the fall and this past spring, hung from hooks that Ben had nailed into the long wooden beams that ran along the length of ceiling. On the only exterior wall there was one good-sized window and a door that led out to my herb garden.
From under the table I fetched a large basket to hold my breakfast provisions along with a hand trowel, gloves and clippers. I then grabbed my straw hat, plunking it on my head as I went out the door. Ben had offered to give Henry a full tour of the property this morning, which was fine by me—I had other things to do.
First, I planned to visit the family burial plot to pay proper respect to my father and other family members. Out of habit, I dallied on the way to gather a large bundle of wild flowers, and the sun was just rising when I reached the spiked iron fence that enclosed the plot in a generous square. The gate swung open with a creaked greeting, and I continued forward in search of solace amongst the deceased.
Over the years the graves of my mother and grandparents had become a familiar sight, but the newly turned dirt over my father made my eyes sting hot with tears. Determined to be strong, I brushed them away with my gloves. Then taking the trowel and clippers from the basket, I knelt down to weed and trim the grass. This was no small job, and my arms ached and dark patches of sweat showed on my gown by the time I had finished. Removing my filthy gloves, I arranged the flowers into bouquets and placed one on each grave.
Pleased with how it looked, I sat down to rest and to eat. My stomach grumbled loudly, and although the eggs and cider were not a feast by any means, they would suffice until I got back to the house.
A narrow strip of grass ran between my parents’ graves, offering just enough room to stretch out for what needed to be done next. Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the clear, blue sky and started recounting all that had happened since my father had died. My confession was thorough from beginning to end. I apologized for my poor behavior, promising to do better just as soon as everything was resolved with Nathan Crowley. Unsure if they could actually hear me in the next life, I talked anyway, on and on until my eyes grew heavy with sleep and I dozed off in the shade of the towering oaks that stood sentry around the graveyard. The sun hung high in the sky when I finally woke. With my conscience greatly relieved, I bid my family farewell and headed off into the forest.
To be sure, I wanted to visit the Otherworld next, but it was too dangerous in the daytime, no matter how well the altar might be hidden. So instead, I spent the next several hours in search of healing plants that thrived on my family’s estate, most likely from the power that seeped out each time the altar was used to open a passage between the worlds. Over the years the surrounding woods and farmland had become infused with this power, giving us not only an abundance of highly potent plants, but also the best wheat in all of Pennsylvania. As a result, my father had always received the highest prices at market while my remedies were considered a staple to many folks in Hopewell and the surrounding villages.
Susanna Appleton was expecting a baby this summer and would want raspberry leaf tea to help with the labor. Lucy Goodwin, the mother of my best friend Nora, suffered regularly from depression and needed more tincture of St. John’s wort. Then there was Gideon Boyle, who complained often of indigestion. He swore by the healing benefits of my marrow tea, which he much preferred to skipping second helpings
From under the table I fetched a large basket to hold my breakfast provisions along with a hand trowel, gloves and clippers. I then grabbed my straw hat, plunking it on my head as I went out the door. Ben had offered to give Henry a full tour of the property this morning, which was fine by me—I had other things to do.
First, I planned to visit the family burial plot to pay proper respect to my father and other family members. Out of habit, I dallied on the way to gather a large bundle of wild flowers, and the sun was just rising when I reached the spiked iron fence that enclosed the plot in a generous square. The gate swung open with a creaked greeting, and I continued forward in search of solace amongst the deceased.
Over the years the graves of my mother and grandparents had become a familiar sight, but the newly turned dirt over my father made my eyes sting hot with tears. Determined to be strong, I brushed them away with my gloves. Then taking the trowel and clippers from the basket, I knelt down to weed and trim the grass. This was no small job, and my arms ached and dark patches of sweat showed on my gown by the time I had finished. Removing my filthy gloves, I arranged the flowers into bouquets and placed one on each grave.
Pleased with how it looked, I sat down to rest and to eat. My stomach grumbled loudly, and although the eggs and cider were not a feast by any means, they would suffice until I got back to the house.
A narrow strip of grass ran between my parents’ graves, offering just enough room to stretch out for what needed to be done next. Lying flat on my back, I stared up at the clear, blue sky and started recounting all that had happened since my father had died. My confession was thorough from beginning to end. I apologized for my poor behavior, promising to do better just as soon as everything was resolved with Nathan Crowley. Unsure if they could actually hear me in the next life, I talked anyway, on and on until my eyes grew heavy with sleep and I dozed off in the shade of the towering oaks that stood sentry around the graveyard. The sun hung high in the sky when I finally woke. With my conscience greatly relieved, I bid my family farewell and headed off into the forest.
To be sure, I wanted to visit the Otherworld next, but it was too dangerous in the daytime, no matter how well the altar might be hidden. So instead, I spent the next several hours in search of healing plants that thrived on my family’s estate, most likely from the power that seeped out each time the altar was used to open a passage between the worlds. Over the years the surrounding woods and farmland had become infused with this power, giving us not only an abundance of highly potent plants, but also the best wheat in all of Pennsylvania. As a result, my father had always received the highest prices at market while my remedies were considered a staple to many folks in Hopewell and the surrounding villages.
Susanna Appleton was expecting a baby this summer and would want raspberry leaf tea to help with the labor. Lucy Goodwin, the mother of my best friend Nora, suffered regularly from depression and needed more tincture of St. John’s wort. Then there was Gideon Boyle, who complained often of indigestion. He swore by the healing benefits of my marrow tea, which he much preferred to skipping second helpings
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