vii. Forget-Me-Not

It doesn’t take long for Melody to fall in love with Blackberry Thicket.

The air is rich here, spiced. Sometimes the fresh bread from the town’s bakery wafts across mossy ground to Madame Celeste’s cottage in the early hours of the morning, carrying notes of turmeric and blueberries. The first week away from the city passes in a flash, then the second, the third. Melody and Ursula wake up with the birds, help their mentor with the day’s first mug of mint tea with honey, and make the trek into town with bundles of orders upon their backs.

Ursula has been surprisingly civil—it’s a tad unnerving for Melody, having been at odds with her since their grade school days. Melody still isn’t sure what to think of what Garnet told her. Melody doesn’t consider herself cool. She isn’t a prodigy of any kind. Ursula is talented enough for both of them. Still, she can tell Ursula is making some kind of effort. She’s jumpy around Melody, acting as though she hasn’t a clue how to treat her, but her words are kinder.

The intense heat has started to calm the evening Madame Celeste sends them to Sasha’s house to do a follow up visit. Melody hasn’t had a chance to soar among the stars, and she casts her broom a longing glance where it rests against her bedpost. She can almost imagine the cool cut of wind as it drags its nails over her skin, gentle as she falls. The full moon overhead, bright and mystical, basking over treetops below. Even thinking about it makes Melody’s heart ache.

She’ll find time to fly.

Soon.

Once again, little June is the one to open the door, smile behind her sticky, chocolate-covered fingers. She takes off into the house, and by the time Ursula catches the door and pushes it open, June has vanished around the corner.

“Is that you, girls?”

Sasha is in the kitchen, floral apron around her neck, a streak of flour across her rosy right cheek. A massive, plastic bowl is in one arm, an oatmeal-covered wooden spoon in the opposite hand. She’s smiling from ear to ear, golden flyaways once-tucked behind her ears. She presents the mixture, proud.

“I’m making a blackberry crumble,” Sasha announces. “The berries are ripe enough I’m sure I’ll be baking with them all month!”

Ursula takes a step forward. “How are you feeling, Sasha?”

“Quite fine, thank you. I’m all focused on preparations for the autumn festival!”

“You seem much better,” Melody notes. Sasha was bedridden three weeks ago—now she’s up and about, and the oven behind her dings as she finishes mixing crumble toppings.

“Oh, I am! Celeste gave me some sage to burn in the house and the dryads have all but stayed away.” Sasha smiles at them, brilliant as starlight. “Thank you for checking in, girls. You’re going to make fine brewmasters one day.” She nods at Melody. “Both of you.”

On the walk back to the cottage, Melody hopes it’s true. Her inability to remember the basics about herbal medicine and its uses is a dark stain on her mood. Against the forest backdrop, the sunset is an explosion of color, burnt orange and toasted pinks contending like gladiators in the sky. Their footsteps are muted by beds of pine needles, lining the path back to their home. Smoke drifts in with the breeze—someone is roasting a pig in town.

“Melody, stop.”

Ursula frowns. She’s shifting from foot to foot, uneasy. Melody blinks. “What’s wrong?”

Ursula hesitates. “I—I made you something. I’d like you to try it.”

“Okay…?”

Ursula sucks in a breath, expression schooling, and drops her pack to the cushioned pathway. She digs around in her canvas bag, moving dried-and-tied bundles of sunflowers, marigold, and yarrow. From the bottom, she withdraws a tin-wrapped loaf, no larger than her wrist, holds it out.

“It’s bread,” Ursula says shortly. “Banana.”

“I’m suspicious.”

“Don’t be—it’s just bread. I made it for you, don’t you want to try it?”

Perhaps this is Ursula’s attempt to bridge the gap between them? Melody cannot deny she’s tired of fighting with Ursula—she’d prefer if Garnet was telling the truth, and Ursula truly wants a friendship. Melody takes the bread, tin crinkling under her fingers. “...Thank you. Should I try it now?”

“If… if you want to.”

It has a nice rise and, upon proper inspection, has browned well across the top. The banana bread has already been sliced into thick pieces, sponge is moist and fluffy in her hand. It smells nice, too. Melody takes a bite.

Something isn’t quite right—the flavor isn’t all there, masked by something delicate, but it’s obvious, potent, strong. It’s something she can’t have, but she can’t remember why, and Melody stares at the loaf in her hands.

“Ursula, what did you put in this?”

Ursula inhales. “Forget-me-nots.”