Chapter Three
Daisy
"And that one?" I point to a brilliant orange flower peeking through the morning mist. "Please tell me it has a dramatic name. Something like Dragon's Breath or Sunset's Kiss."
"Butterfly weed," Rowan says, not breaking his stride.
I scribble in my notebook, adding a quick sketch. "That's disappointingly practical."
"Plants don't care what we call them."
"Says you." I hurry to catch up, which is harder than it should be in my new hiking boots. They're sturdy and sensible and completely adorable, even if Rowan rolled his eyes at the pale purple laces I swapped in this morning. "Everything deserves a little magic."
He glances back at me, and I swear I catch a hint of amusement in those forest-green eyes. "Even butterfly weed?"
"Especially butterfly weed." I flip to a fresh page, already imagining the possibilities. "Maybe it's actually a rare flower that only blooms when brave little butterflies complete their first solo flight."
Rascal yips in apparent agreement, straining at his leash to investigate yet another fascinating bush. I've already filledthree pages with potential woodland characters inspired by his adventures.
"You're anthropomorphizing again," Rowan says, but there's less grump in his tone than yesterday.
"Big word for this early in the morning." I catch up to him at last, slightly out of breath. For someone who claims he's just here to keep me alive, he sets a pretty demanding pace. "And yes, I am. It's kind of my job."
He stops so suddenly I nearly run into him. "There's movement in those bushes. Watch."
I follow his gaze to where the undergrowth rustles slightly. A moment later, a small head pokes out. It’s a groundhog, its whiskers twitching as it surveys its domain.
"Oh," I breathe, frantically flipping pages. "Oh, he's perfect. Look at his little face! He needs a name. And a backstory. Maybe he's the mayor of the woodland council, all proper and important..."
"You're going to scare him," Rowan whispers, but he doesn't move away when I inch closer to his side for a better view.
"Gordon," I decide. "He looks like a Gordon. Very distinguished. Probably wears a waistcoat and pocket watch when humans aren't looking."
The groundhog sits up on its haunches, and I swear it's giving me the same exasperated look Rowan usually wears. Then it spots Rascal and darts back into its burrow.
"Gordon's shy," I note, adding detail to my sketch. "Probably because he's carrying the weight of all woodland governance on his tiny shoulders."
A sound suspiciously like a choked laugh comes from beside me. When I look up, Rowan's face is carefully neutral, but his eyes are dancing.
"What? You don't think groundhogs can be mayors?"
"I think," he says, starting down the trail again, "that you should focus on where you're putting your feet instead of making up political systems for rodents."
I follow him, adding a little top hat to Gordon's portrait. "You know, for someone who claims to dislike whimsy, you sure know a lot about these woods. Like a real-life field guide." I gasp as inspiration strikes. "Oh! You could be the mysterious narrator in my book! The voice of the forest, guiding young readers through?—"
"No."
"But—"
"Absolutely not."
"You wouldn't have to do anything," I wheedle, skipping ahead to walk backward in front of him. "Just share all your woodland wisdom. Like how you knew that cardinal was building a nest yesterday, or how you can tell which mushrooms are friendly..."
"Mushrooms aren't friendly or unfriendly. They're just funghi." But his lips twitch slightly. "And you're about to trip over that root."
Strong hands catch my elbows as I inevitably stumble. For a moment, we're close enough that I catch the scent of pine and something spicy. His soap, maybe. He steadies me but doesn't immediately let go.
"Thanks," I manage, suddenly very aware of how solid he is. "My hero."
