I’m not sure what she’s looking at, but her lips quirk up a bit, and she turns to regard me with a smile. “I think I know just the thing.”
I try not to sink in my chair. I have I feeling I’m really not going to like this.
Chapter 2
Cairn
THE KETTLE LETS OUT ITS gentle whistle, coaxing me from the pages of my book—a compendium of fungi—and beckoning me to push up from my plush armchair and walk into the kitchen to pour my tea. This takes me a grand total of only a handful of wide steps—my hut on the outskirts of campus is rather small, especially for a man of my size.
I pull a large mug down from the top shelf, toss a sachet of lemon balm into it, and pour steaming-hot water over the top. The citrusy scent curls up in a rush of steam, sending my nostrils flaring with delight. With mug in hand, I return to my armchair and open my book to the chapter I just started: The Ghostlight Cap.
The most striking feature of the ghostlight cap is its natural bioluminescence, which emits a soft, pale blue glow in thedark—a captivating display that sets it apart from most other fungi. However, it also has another, less appealing trait: a strong—some may say noxious—odor of ammonia. This pungent scent has cast doubt on the mushroom’s edibility, making it more a subject of fascination than of foraging.
After enjoying my tea and finishing the chapter on the ghostlight cap, I rinse my cup in the kitchen basin and prepare to start my day. I shove my arms into the sleeves of a long-sleeve shirt, do up the buttons, and reach for the door handle. My favorite shirt and trousers vanished off the clothesline last autumn, and every time I think of them, I’m still sore.
One of the students probably. Always up to some mischief.
I huff out an annoyed breath at the thought, making my nostrils flutter.
Outside, the air is crisp—it is early morning, after all—but the day promises to be warm, with only a few wispy white clouds dotting the pale blue sky. A playful breeze sends colorful leaves skittering down from the trees overtop my hut and dancing around my hooves before carrying them off across the campus.
I need to rake the grounds today, get all the leaf matter picked up before an early snow can turn it to mush that the students will undoubtedly track all through the halls, turning the janitorial staff cross. But before beginning my day, I must tend to my personal garden.
All about the front of my hut, plants grow in mismatched pots. There are purple coneflowers, fireweed, yarrow, and plenty more. Bees buzz pleasantly around the colorful blooms, keeping me company as I water the pots before moving to the garden at the back of the hut.
At this time of year, when summer is slowly yielding to autumn, I’ve much to do: harvesting, composting, preparing beds for the winter and coming spring. But I always start my day by visiting my most treasured plant: the moonflowers.
They stand at the edge of my garden, where they exist on the boundary between the forest and civilization—much like I do, I suppose. They only bloom at night, under the light of the moon, and in the perfect conditions, they give off an otherworldly glow.
With the sun rising in the east, the white petals have already curled up, protecting themselves from the coming heat of day.
I kneel and work my fingers into the soil about the plants; it’s still damp and will need nothing further from me today. But the same cannot be said for the other plants in the garden. There are tomatoes to harvest and can, potatoes to uncover from their deep-soiled hills, and garlic cloves to soon be planted. The spinach is still growing well, pleased by our cooler days and nights, and I can keep my carrots growing into the winter once I get my cold frames set up. But it’s still early for that yet. And I’ve plenty to keep me busy.
I water the beds that need watering, leave those that are still sufficiently moist, and then give my garden a once-over, ensuring everything is as it should be. I’ve nothing left to toilover. So, with one last glance at the moonflowers, I dust the soil from my fingers, and then I get to work.
RAKING COVEN CREST’S GROUNDS IS always a gargantuan task. Being surrounded by the Mistwood, which has its fair share of deciduous trees, the campus becomes buried in leaves during the autumn. And as the sole groundskeeper, it’s my job to tidy them up.
Despite being big, it’s simple, so far as jobs around here go: rake the leaves into piles, shovel them into a deep wheelbarrow, then make the trek to the compost piles in the big community garden. It’s about time to turn the piles again, to introduce oxygen and encourage the breakdown of organic matter, but that’s a job for another day. These leaves will keep me busy for some time yet—and through the rest of the season, as the leaves continue to fall.
I’m just returning from dumping a load of leaves when the headmistress’s owl, Barron, swoops through the sky over my head. I glance up, meeting his yellow eyes. I know what the sight of the great horned owl means. And sure enough, about ten minutes later, the headmistress appears, moving down the cobbled walkway—which I meticulously maintain—at an unhurried pace. Barron drifts above her, having undoubtedly revealed to her where on the campus I could be found.
It’s not that I dislike the headmistress, or anyone else on the grounds—on the contrary, they’re all warm and genial with me—it’s just that I prefer to work alone. And think alone. Andbealone.
That can be hard to do on a campus full of students and faculty.
“Mr. Axton,” the headmistress says as she steps off the cobbled footpath and crosses the grass to greet me. I’ve already got another pile of leaves ready to load into the wheelbarrow, but I pause in my raking to turn fully to face her.
She’s not a small woman, and in fact, I believe she’s considered tall for a human female, yet she still has to tip her head back just so to fully meet my eyes.
“Headmistress.”
One of her silver-blue brows arches into a point. “Lysandra, please.”
I soften a bit, shedding some of the formality with which I typically refer to her. “Lysandra. What can I do for you?”
“What makes you think I need something from you?”
Now it’s my turn to arch a bushy brow. “Because that’s the only reason you seek me out.”
