Violet Thistlewaite Is Not a Villain Anymore by Emily Krempholtz - 6

Nathaniel straightened his shoulders before knocking on the door to the new tenant’s half of the shared storefront. He felt uneasy, just as he had every day since he’d paid the carpenter to build a wall splitting the apothecary in half. Was he really to be a guest in part of the building he’d called home since he first learned the meaning of the word? What would his parents think if they knew he and Pru had been forced to rent out half the shop and the rooms above, where his own childhood bedroom had once been?

Nathaniel could practically hear his father’s booming laugh. “We do what we must for family,” he always said. “And we do it with pride, because family is everything.”

He was certainly doing what he must for his family, Nathaniel thought, but he couldn’t drum up much to be proud about.

The tenant—Miss Thistlewaite, he corrected himself—saw him through the shop window before she opened the door, and he winced when he saw her tense smile.

He’d gone back to the greenhouse this morning to clear out some of his storage, as promised, and marveled some more at the garden she’d grown from thin air. He’d never seen magic quite like it before, and had spent some time studying the blooms, touching their petals as though they might be an elaborate illusion. A potted plant in the corner had even touched him right back, wrapping its long, leafy vines around his wrist and gripping so tightly that he’d grown nervous it was about to eat him and so detached himself. It wasn’t that the encounter scared him, exactly, only that he felt it most practical to meet Miss Thistlewaite in the shop and determine whether the plant posed any real danger before he attempted to venture back into the greenhouse.

He was still miffed about the ruined decoction, but when he’d seen the careful way she had restacked his crates, guilt rose in him, choking him like smoke. Pru had scolded him too last night, and explained that she’d given the new tenant permission to settle in.

“Hello, Miss Thistlewaite,” he said when she opened the door. He was trying to sound pleasant, though he suspected it came out a bit brusque.

Her hair was swept out of her face with a spotted kerchief, and her cheeks were pink with exertion, a broom held tightly in her grip. He felt that unsettled feeling again, the one that had struck him last night and had him staring at her like a fool. There was something about her that drew his eye and held him captive—and Nathaniel Marsh did not like feeling trapped.

“Mr. Marsh,” she said by way of greeting, her tone suspicious.

“Nathaniel,” he corrected. “Please.”

She nodded, studying him with those eyes like sunshine through a cup of tea. “Nathaniel, then. And you must call me Violet.”

She leaned against the door frame, and his gaze dropped to her attire, a pair of breeches several sizes too large for her and a men’s shirt and waistcoat, with a few stray flowers woven into her buttonholes like their stems had snapped and she couldn’t bear to discard them. The clothes obviously hadn’t been made for her by any tailor, and Nathaniel let his eyes wander for a moment, wondering whose they were. Was their owner the reason she’d come to Dragon’s Rest? Not that he cared, of course. Her history was none of his business.

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asked, and her voice was like the unexpected scent of smoke during one of his experiments, warning him, Danger. Be on your guard.

“I’ve emptied the half of the greenhouse nearest your side of the building.” Nathaniel hovered on the doorstep. He hadn’t set foot in this part of the apothecary since the wall went up, and before then, not since—well, no use dwelling on that.

“Thank you.”

“I ask only that you keep any of your plants away from my worktable in the far corner.” Nathaniel cleared his throat, awkward under the scrutiny of her amber eyes. “Please.”

“Of course. It won’t be a problem.” She cocked her head, sheepish, and a smile teased her lips enough that he very nearly forgot his irritation. “Well, it won’t be a problem again .”

He dug in his pockets for a ring of keys and dropped them into her hand, careful not to touch those long fingers that had brought blossoms to life. “My sister asked me to give these to you. Spare keys for the upstairs apartment and the back door.”

“I appreciate it,” she said again. “I should get to work. I’m, er, clearing out the shop today. Trying to get set up. Is there—I mean, is there anything in here I shouldn’t touch? Pru said I was free to make it my own.”

He swept his gaze over the empty shelves and countertops behind her, where his parents and grandparents had once blended teas, mixed poultices, and carefully measured medicines on the brass scales he’d loved to play with. He tried not to focus on the hastily constructed wall.

“No.” His brow creased into a frown. “Do with it what you will.”

“I did find a crate of supplies upstairs. I thought they might be yours. Looks like more flasks and vials.” Her smile turned crooked. “I didn’t break these ones.”

He nodded stiffly. “Yes, they’re mine.”

“For the apothecary?”

“No. They’re my—that is…” Nathaniel cleared his throat. “I used to be an alchemist.”

Those honey-gold eyes widened. “I wondered, when I saw all the—well.” She winced, clearly trying to avoid mentioning all his smashed implements. Nathaniel probably deserved that. He’d been rude.

He cleared his throat again, wondering if perhaps he was coming down with something. “I left the Crucible last year, when I moved back to Dragon’s Rest.”

“Homesick?”

His mouth tightened, and his eyes flickered toward the worktable in the corner of the room. The phantom smell of burning chemicals filled his nostrils. “Something like that.”

Violet was already flitting over to the table in question. “Well I imagine you’ll want your supplies back, then. What are you doing running an apothecary if you’re an alchemist? I suppose it’s helpful to source your own ingredients for potions, but do you sell any of your creations in your shop?”

Memory fled him like a rabbit from a hound, and Nathaniel’s eyes narrowed. “Absolutely not,” he said sternly. “Herbal medicine and alchemy have no place at the same table. The alchemical arts are for weaponry or entertainment, and an apothecary provides a real service to the community.” He was halfway through the sentence before he realized he was quoting his mother.

Violet’s head snapped up sharply. “Oh. I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s fine.” Nathaniel tried to brush off his reaction. He strode toward her. “Now where are those boxes?”

“Just over here,” she said, waving him closer.

Nathaniel stepped next to her, trying to ignore the sharp floral scent of her hair as she hefted the large wooden crate onto the worktable and pried off the lid. Ah, there was his barrier set. Used to prevent contamination, particularly when working with volatile solutions that had a high chance of exploding, it wasn’t something Nathaniel expected to have much use for in Dragon’s Rest, but the sealed glass box was a pain—not to mention expensive—to replace, and he’d thought it lost.

“I’ll just take this back to my shop,” he started to say.

Violet interrupted him with a vehement “ No! ” and he shook in surprise, jerking back until he felt something cold and sharp against the back of his neck.

“Put it down,” said Violet, her eyes flashing with a strange light. “Bartleby, put it down.”

The sensation left his skin, and Nathaniel turned around to find the same viny houseplant in the blue-glazed pot that had grabbed him this morning. He would have been relieved to find she’d moved it out of the greenhouse if not for the fact that it was now brandishing a knife. He lurched back, bumping his hip into Violet, who stared furiously at the plant.

“We’ve talked about this,” she said in the exasperated tone of a parent disciplining a child. “No more knives, or I’m going to build you a terrarium and lock you inside.”

The vine around the knife’s hilt unraveled, and the blade clattered to the floor.

“Three moons!” Nathaniel cursed. “What is that thing?”

Miss Thistlewaite flapped a hand at him, her attention still on the plant. “That’s just Bartleby. I promise, this won’t be a problem, he’s just not used to the new place and he’s a little skittish around strangers. Even though he promised me no more stabbing .” She hissed this last part quietly enough that Nathaniel wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. The plant had done this before? She tapped her foot and held out a hand, approaching the plant—er, Bartleby. “Come on now, give me the other one.”

Bartleby heaved its—his? Violet had used his , hadn’t she?—leaves as if in a sigh and extended another vine, this one wrapped around the handle of a pair of sharp pruning shears. Violet waited until the plant dropped the scissors carefully into her hand and then set them down on the worktable out of Bartleby’s reach.

“And the one in your pot too,” she chided.

Sure enough, Bartleby reached a vine into his pot and dug through the soil until he produced a folding pocketknife. Violet stared him down for another hard moment, as if trying to determine whether he had any other sharp weapons hidden away. Finally she gave a curt nod and dropped the third knife on the table next to the others.

“Sorry about that,” said Violet, turning back to Nathaniel. “He and I are going to have a serious conversation about how to be neighborly.”

“What…is he?”

“These days he’s a golden pothos.” She shrugged. “Sometimes called devil’s ivy. I’m sure you can imagine why after that display.” Her tentative smile, trying to assess his level of anger, brought his attention to the scar on her face, which was much more noticeable in daylight than it had been last night.

Where would she have gotten a scar like that? he wondered. Had she been unlucky enough to cross paths with Shadowfade or one of his ilk? Certainly not, or she wouldn’t have settled so close to his castle. But she was definitely not from Dragon’s Rest, Nathaniel could tell, and unless news of the sorcerer’s demise had spread quicker than he thought, he struggled to understand how a magic user would come to be here.

“What brought you here?” he wondered, then started when he realized he’d spoken the question.

Panic flared in her eyes for a moment, and he clocked the way her gaze darted around him, as though looking for an escape route. “I needed a change,” she said at last. “A fresh start.” She ducked her head so her scar was out of sight.

“Hmm.” He covered his own embarrassment at being caught staring. None of your business , he chided himself, but couldn’t help adding, “And you ran a flower shop where you came from as well?”

She shook her head. “No, but I…gardened.”

He remembered the way those plants had sprung from the ground, blossoming like it was midsummer, not the last stubborn dregs of winter. “I imagine you did. And you truly expect to find success here?”

She blinked at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s just that Dragon’s Rest seems a strange place to settle, of all the places in the world. We’re not much for flowers here.” The mountain climate was harsh, for one thing, and the summers short, though he supposed she didn’t need a good climate to make things grow. Not with a power like hers.

“ Yet ,” she added, a smile tugging at her mouth. “You’re not much for flowers yet .”

“I’m sure you know that until quite recently the sorcerer Shadowfade lived in the castle just at the edge of town.”

“Oh?” When he frowned, she amended, “I mean, yes, I know. Everyone knows that. Of course it’s common knowledge. There’s no reason for me not to know that. But he’s gone now, isn’t he?”

“And good riddance,” said Nathaniel. So she had heard. “He and his band of ne’er-do-wells have held this place beneath his thumb for far too long.”

“Oh,” she said again.

“What I mean to say is that folks around here haven’t had much use for flowers, not when we’ve lived in fear of the sorcerer blasting us off the map when he was in a bad mood, or of one of his associates finding their way into town and taking what they pleased.”

Her voice was quiet. “Perhaps it’s time for something new.”

“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But in this town, I reckon you’d find more success selling something that’s actually useful.”

“Useful?” Her eyes narrowed. “Flowers bring people happiness. Isn’t that useful? Especially now?”

“Hardly. Herbs, maybe, or vegetables. Many of us barely made it through last winter, after Shadowfade’s pet witch destroyed Silbourne and the surrounding trade routes.” Nathaniel watched her wince, and he wondered if she’d been affected by the Thornwitch too. Maybe that was how she’d gotten that scar. “Believe me. A bouquet that sits on a windowsill for a few days before wilting and dying is only going to remind people in this town that they should have spent their money on something that will help them survive.”

“Well,” she said stiffly. “I suppose we’ll see.”

And then she ushered him to the door and shut it in his face. Anxiety pulsed through Nathaniel as he stared at the shop windows. He had an uncanny ability for saying the exact wrong thing in a situation. He knew that the memory of it would haunt him for days, the moment repeating with perfect clarity in an endless cycle that would, in turn, probably affect every other interaction he had until a worse one took its place. He had a potion for times like this, but he was nearly out, and the unfinished next batch he was working on had faced an untimely death at the hands—or leaves—of a troublesome clematis last night. Two weeks’ work down the drain. Nathaniel felt frustrated all over again.

He marched back over to the apothecary, where Pru was measuring dried vervain for a customer. The jar was almost empty—he made a mental note to add it to the order list for the next time their supplier came through town. Perhaps with Shadowfade gone, and word spreading that Dragon’s Rest was no longer an undesirable place to be, he’d have more options. And more customers.

Hopefully it would happen sooner rather than later—preferably sometime in the next two and a half months. He still hadn’t told Pru about the letter yet. Maybe , said the little voice in his head that dared to be hopeful, it will all go away and she’ll never have to know.

He stood behind the counter scowling until the customer left and Pru rounded on him.

“Smile,” she hissed. “You’re going to scare everyone away.”

Nathaniel did not smile, but he did make an effort to relax his face.

“Marginally less disturbing,” said Pru, pinching his arm. “Has anyone ever told you that customer service is not your calling?”

“Neither is running an apothecary,” he snapped, immediately regretting that he let his sister needle him so. “And yet here we are.”

“Oh, whose fault is that?” Pru’s tone was teasing, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she snapped her lips shut. “I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine.”

It wasn’t, but Pru knew that already. Belaboring the point would do nothing but make them both feel worse. Nathaniel much preferred his emotions like his workspace: tidy, uncomplicated, all the messy edges swept neatly out of sight.

Pru looked like she wanted to say more, but Nathaniel was grateful when all she asked was, “You gave Violet the keys?”

“Yes.”

“How was she?” In perfect Pru fashion, she seemed content to change the subject. Fine by Nathaniel. “Poor thing must be exhausted after all that magic she used at the park yesterday. I should have had you bring over some pixie dust to ease the magic burn. I know we still have some left around here somewhere…”

But Nathaniel had stopped listening after “magic she used at the park yesterday.”

Any average mage who had managed to dispel a slide of rock goblins with the ease Pru had described would have exhausted herself. And yet Nathaniel had seen before his very eyes the garden Violet created from thin air barely an hour after she saved Pru in the park. He could practically still smell the scent of her magic—tart blackberry and nutty almond—as the garden burst to life.

He’d seen the effects of magic burn before, the way it brought a person to their knees, sometimes causing fever, chills, or even a magically induced sleep that could last for days. People who overextended their magic looked exhausted if they managed to stay conscious, with dark circles under their eyes and a pallid tone to their skin. He’d even heard of extreme cases where their magic became permanently diminished. It was one of the risks of using innate magic rather than drawing upon an external source as in alchemy, because there was no known way to prevent magic burn and no way to speed the recovery. Magic was above all else a balance, a give-and-take—and this was part of the cost.

But Violet had been bright-eyed and alert when he’d seen her just moments ago, as if yesterday had never happened. Could she have some sort of amulet? A device that allowed her to draw on some other source of power?

Or could it be that his new tenant was much more powerful than any small-town florist had the right to be?