iv. Jealousy’s Garden

Melody isn’t quite sure how to begin—Ursula places the back of her hand against Sasha’s forehead, asking her when she last ate. Melody swallows, but the bitter taste in her mouth remains. As painful as it is to admit, Ursula is right. Melody never did well with earth magic in school. Even now, with a genuine interest, she can’t remember plant combinations or simple herbal remedies to save her life. But, she’s here—she won’t go down without a fight. Melody mirrors Madame Celeste’s last move, pressing the pads of her middle and forefinger to Sasha’s wrist.

A pulse, faint and slow, drums under her skin. Melody leans in, close enough for Sasha’s breath to tickle her cheek, and she hears it—rasping, from deep within the lungs, grating on Melody’s ears like loose change in a washing machine.

“Sasha, are you having trouble breathing?”

Sasha blinks, tilts her head. “Hm, now that you mention it, my chest does feel tight. Full, almost.”

“And you’ve been fatigued?”

“Very. It’s been difficult to be on my feet most days.” Sasha motions to the chair she hasn’t stood from since they arrived. “I’m trying my best to take care of June, but it’s hard like this.”

“Could be some kind of cold,” Ursula murmurs, checking Sasha forehead again. “You aren’t feverish.”

“It’s not a cold,” Madame Celeste says. “Keep observing.”

“Celeste,” Sasha chuckles, warm exhale ghosting across Melody’s face, “are you using my health as teaching fodder?”

Sasha’s breath is sweet—very sweet, like floral sugar and honey, icky, strong, cloying. Melody leans back, air caught in her chest. “Sasha, your breath smells like yellow hyacinths.”

Ursula’s jaw drops. Madame Celeste smirks.

“Do you know why Sasha’s breath smells like yellow hyacinths, Melody?”

“I do.” Ursula crosses her arms, expression smug. “Sasha pissed off a dryad.”

Melody is familiar with illustrations of dryads—they prefer the woods, clean air, quiet meadows, ancient trees. They wouldn’t be caught dead in the hustle and bustle of the city, betwixt concrete and rebar and metal. Melody’s mother used to tell her dryads were envy incarnate—the pressure one gets in their chest when they’ve been blindsided, or put in a massive amount of work for no return. If dryads live anywhere, they’ll live in Blackberry Thicket.

“Oh, dear,” Sasha murmurs, hand fluttering to her heart.

“Flowers are growing in your lungs.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Melody asks. “We need to clear them out right away!”

“It’s harmless,” Madame Celeste assures. “Dryads are always chasing what they don’t possess, and I think in this case they’re upset Sasha is the town belle.” She chuckles. “You know how vain dryads are.”

“So they gave you Jealousy’s Garden,” Ursula sighs. “Yellow hyacinth. Of course.”

“Melody, are you at all familiar with Jealousy’s Garden?”

“No, ma’am.”

Madame Celeste gestures to the pack, where the sweet and savory scent of herbs drifts from within. “It’s a spell—curse, technically—that grows flowers where flowers shouldn’t bloom. While it’s a condition caused by magic, they’re still plants. Beyond fatiguing Sasha and giving her difficulty breathing, it isn’t very threatening. How do you think we should treat her?”

Everything evaporates at once—Melody’s mind is a desert filled with sand, nothing but sloping dunes for miles and miles.

You’ve read about a plant that negates negative energies. The textbook is sitting on your bed. You know this.

You know this.

Sand.

A hand on Melody’s shoulder pulls her from limbo, grounds her to the present. They’re standing in Sasha’s parlor, orange light spilling onto the floor. Ursula’s eyes are fixed on her, Sasha rubs her chest, and Madame Celeste smiles kindly.

“It’s okay, Melody. You’re here to learn, after all.”

Melody drops her gaze to her shoes.

“Ursula? Any ideas?”

Ursula rifles through the pack, withdrawing different green shapes. “Ginko leaf and ivy.”

“What function do both serve?”

“Ginko for the lungs—they’re an all-encompassing lung treatment. Ivy means friendship in flower language. It should help neutralize the yellow hyacinth, which means jealousy.”

Madame Celeste claps her hands so hard the walls quake. “Very good! Now, make tea for Sasha. With any luck, those hyacinths will be gone before tomorrow’s breakfast.”

--- --- ---

The walk back to the cottage is quiet. They left the air in Sasha and June’s house smelling of posies and overturned earth. Melody loves that smell—it reminds her of the apothecary from the city, an elderly woman who wore her hair in braids and always kept the windows open to let in the breeze. The first time Melody stepped inside, steam swirled before her eyes, tickling the tip of her nose. The humidity wrecked Melody’s already-dry hair, but there was an innocence to the atmosphere she couldn’t do without, a magnetism to the way sandalwood smoke clung to her skin hours after she’d gone home. It stayed with her even while she fell from her broom and sliced through the canopy of stars.

“You did well today.”

Ursula clasps her hands behind her back, cords of hair spilling over her shoulder. Their gaze locks.

“With Sasha. I didn’t notice the sweetness on her breath. You did well.”

Melody swallows to wet her throat. It stays dry. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Do—do what?”

“Pity me. I was useless in there. You knew about Jealousy’s Garden and the dryads and what plants to use to fix it. I didn’t help, and I don’t want a consolation prize.”

Ursula’s feet come to a stop atop dried, dead foliage. “I’m not pitying you. I’m complimenting you. Many magical illnesses are identifiable solely by scent.”

“Whatever.”

Melody takes off after Madame Celeste, who is strides ahead. Madame Celeste’s bare feet crunch the ground on each step, her shoulders oddly rounded, as though she’s trying not to listen. Pressure on Melody’s wrist drags her to a stop. Melody tugs, but Ursula doesn’t let go.

“Melody, I’m not trying to make this a competition. We’ve had our differences in the past, but we’re working together now. If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have been able to diagnose Sasha.”

“Save it, Ursula. You think I believe you want to be friends, all of a sudden? From grade school to now, you haven’t changed. You always have to be the best, so excuse me if I don’t stick around to stand in your shadow again.”

Melody’s shoes break twigs and snap dead leaves as she speeds up, past Ursula, past Madame Celeste, all the way to the cottage. She slams her bedroom door behind her, then reluctantly reopens the door upon remembering they’re sharing the space.

“You okay?” Poppy asks. She yawns and arches her back, white fur on end.

“No.” Melody climbs in bed, yanks the covers over her head. They smell like lemongrass.

Poppy sighs, curls up at Melody’s side, and takes care to tuck her tail between her paws. “Such drama.”