Chapter 23 - The Power of the Land

Morning came softly to Rowanmere, as if the house wanted to place a gentle hand on Lucy’s shoulder before waking her. Pale light filtered across her quilt in thin, golden stripes. Sam was already there, curled in the crook of her arm like a tiny, judgmental sphinx. He blinked once, slowly, imperiously, then nudged her cheek.

“Alright,” she whispered, stretching beneath him. “I’m up. You win.”

Sam hopped off the bed with a chirp that sounded suspiciously like finally, and Lucy followed with a soft exhale that wasn’t tired so much as thoughtful. A quiet hum pulsed within, warm, insistent, expectant. Something in the land was waiting.

But first: coffee. She was still human.

The kitchen was already warm, smelling faintly of butter and honey. Mrs. Hughes moved with her usual purposeful bustle, shawl draped over one arm.

“There you are, dear,” she said, placing a plate of toast and herb-sprinkled eggs in front of her. “Eat something before you go wandering off.”

Lucy lifted her hands in surrender. “I wouldn’t dream of skipping breakfast.”

Mrs. Hughes eyed her. “You look too thin this morning.”

“I look the same as yesterday.”

“Exactly.”

Lucy gave a tiny laugh, picked up her fork, and felt the warmth of routine steady her nerves. After making enough progress to satisfy Mrs. Hughes’ standards, she slipped into the foyer, and found Timothy waiting.

He stood with hands loosely folded, posture relaxed but purposeful. There was a steadiness in him today, not forced but earned, as though the land itself had loaned him strength.

“Before we leave,” he said gently, “you should know what lies ahead.”

Lucy stilled, attentive.

“There are places around Rowanmere that still hold the memory of what once was,” he continued. “Homes. Resting places. Quiet corners where the old balance lingers. I walked them long ago. Now it is your turn.”

Lucy absorbed that without flinching. “And you’ll come with me today?”

“Yes. Today and tomorrow. After that, the land will guide you better than I can.”

She gave him a soft smile. “Comforting and terrifying.”

Timothy’s answering expression was subtle but warm. “Good.”

Outside, Evan stood beside her bike, looking like the most devoted guardian a bicycle had ever known.

“I checked the tires and brakes,” he said. “And oiled the chain.”

Lucy placed a hand on his arm, gentle, grateful. “You’re the reason I don’t end up in a hedge.”

He flushed. “Just doing my job.”

“No,” Lucy said quietly, “doing it with care. I see the difference.”

Evan couldn’t hide his pleased, slightly embarrassed nod.

Lucy mounted the bike and looked to Timothy. “Lead the way, wise one.”

“You won’t need wisdom,” he replied in his perfectly dry tone. “Just attention.”

“I’ll have you know I’m very attentive.”

“You nearly hit the gatepost on Tuesday.”

“It was a gentle brush.”

“A brush implies contact.”

Lucy gasped. “It was eight inches away!”

Timothy’s eyes warmed. “Of course.”

The banter eased her nerves, and she pedaled down the lane, gravel crunching beneath the wheels. The morning air kissed her cheeks; sunlight drifted through the hedgerows like soft gold. She felt… right. Balanced. Quietly expectant.

After a few minutes, Timothy raised a hand.

“Here.”

Lucy leaned her bike against a birch tree. When she stepped past the edge of the road, something shifted, subtle, unmistakable. As if the forest had inhaled.

They followed a narrow path through young oaks until the trees opened into a clearing that breathed with centuries.

What remained of the village wasn’t grand or imposing. Low stone outlines softened beneath moss. Hearthstones collapsed into gentle heaps. Wildflowers grew where gardens once flourished. A worn well sat half-swallowed by green.

Lucy stopped dead.

“People lived here,” she whispered.

It wasn’t something Timothy had told her. It was something the earth itself whispered up through the soles of her boots.

“Not warriors,” she murmured. “Not legends. Families. Ordinary people.”

Timothy kept respectfully behind her. “They were gentle. Communal. They wove magic into living, not fighting.”

Lucy crouched beside a cluster of hearthstones, brushing her fingertips across them. Warmth spread beneath her hand, not fire, but the memory of fire.

She closed her eyes.

A child braiding wildflowers. A woman stirring an herb pot. A man repairing a basket, humming under his breath. Soft laughter. Bread baking. An elder tending a small pot of herbs.

Her chest tightened. “They were happy,” she whispered. “I can feel it.”

“The land kept their peace,” Timothy said quietly. “And it remembers.”

Lucy moved slowly through the village, trailing her hand over stones and grass. She didn’t ask for anything.

The land simply leaned toward her, softening, warming, recognizing.

Every step she took felt like a memory slotting back into place.

By the time she turned toward Timothy again, the light had shifted toward afternoon. He watched her with quiet pride, saying nothing until she met his gaze.

“You listened well.”

“I wasn’t listening,” she said softly. “I was… feeling.”

“Exactly.”

She held that single word close as they walked back to the bike. The ride to Rowanmere felt different, lighter around her shoulders but fuller in her chest.

Jason waited for her on the front steps, arms crossed. His expression eased when she swung off the bike.

“You okay?” he asked, stepping closer.

“I am,” Lucy said. “It was… beautiful.”

“Yeah? Tell me.”

She did. Not everything, some things belonged to the land alone, but enough. Enough for him to understand the warmth of it, the humanity of it.

Jason listened without interrupting. When she finished, he nodded. “They sound like good people.”

“They were,” Lucy whispered. “And they’re not gone. Not really.”

He squeezed her hand. “You’re carrying something important.”

Emotion rose again, gentler this time. “I just hope I do it justice.”

“You will.”

Later, curled beneath her quilt with Sam pressed against her side, Lucy replayed the day, the warmth of the hearthstones, the quiet laughter that lingered in the grass, the feeling of being welcomed rather than watched.

She didn’t feel powerful.

She felt connected. Rooted. Part of something human and good and worth remembering. And as sleep finally pulled her under, she carried one truth with her: The land remembers. And it remembers her.

Tomorrow, she knew, would dive deeper. But tonight, she held their memory close.

It seemed every morning was pleasant at Rowanmere, the kind of soft grey light that made the world feel hushed rather than cold. Lucy woke slowly, Sam pressed warmly against her ribs. He lifted his head just long enough to confirm she was conscious, then resettled with a grunt that clearly meant yes, good, stay still, warmth is happening.

“Sorry, furry sir,” she whispered, sliding out from under him. “Duty calls.”

He flopped dramatically onto his side, as if this betrayal were unforgivable.

Lucy dressed without rushing, aware of a weight, not heavy, but solemn, resting in the air. Yesterday had opened something in her. Today felt like it would open something deeper.

Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Hughes was already bustling. She didn’t fuss as much this morning, perhaps sensing that Lucy’s thoughts were already full, but she still set a mug of coffee in front of her with a quiet, “Drink this.”

Lucy smiled, grateful. “Yes, ma’am.”

Breakfast passed in a soft sort of silence, comfortable, familiar. When she rose to go, Mrs. Hughes gave her sleeve a tiny pat, nothing more. It was enough.

Outside, Evan stood by the bike again, but this morning he didn’t have his usual “guardian of gears” expression. He just looked… steady. Present.

“Morning,” he said, offering a small nod.

“Morning,” Lucy echoed. “Thank you for doing all this every day.” He shrugged, but his eyes warmed. “You’re doing something important.” Lucy’s throat tightened. She squeezed his arm lightly. “You too.”

Timothy approached then, footsteps soft on the gravel. He looked the same as yesterday, calm, steady, quietly composed. But his expression held a subtle gravity Lucy hadn’t noticed before. “Today,” he said gently, “we walk a different kind of ground.” Lucy nodded. “I feel that.”

“Good,” he murmured. No dramatic speeches. No warnings. Just acknowledgment.

Lucy climbed onto the bike, and they set off down the narrow lane. The morning air was crisp enough to pink her cheeks, and the world smelled faintly of dew and earth. Timothy walked alongside her until the road curved toward a more overgrown path. He raised a hand.

“Here.”

Lucy dismounted and leaned the bike against a mossy bank. As soon as her boots touched the ground beyond the lane, something in the air shifted, quieter than yesterday’s welcome, more like a held breath.

The path wound uphill through tall grasses and bright clusters of wildflowers. Birds chattered distantly, muted under the hush that settled over the earth. Lucy felt it even before the meadow opened before her. Presence. Not a ghostly kind. A human kind. Living echoes of lives that had returned gently to the land that loved them. When they crested the rise, Lucy stopped.

The meadow stretched before them like a great, soft quilt of gold and green. The grass rippled in patterns that didn’t quite match the breeze, and ancient tree roots wove through the earth like gentle arms. She understood instantly. “This… is a resting place,” she whispered. Timothy didn’t answer with words, just a slow nod.

Lucy walked forward, her steps instinctively slow. The air felt full, like a room where many people had once gathered and left warmth behind. As she crossed the meadow, emotional impressions brushed against her awareness, not visions, not voices, just soft touches:

A healer kneeling beside someone with a fever. A mother singing a quiet lullaby. An elder weaving bundles of dried herbs. A father holding his newborn daughter. A man who carved whistles for children, each one slightly off-key. A woman who came here every morning to sit beneath the same tree and thank the world for another day.

Ordinary moments. Beautiful ones. Lucy’s eyes stung. “These weren’t warriors,” she murmured. “These were… everyday people. They lived real, gentle lives.”

“They did,” Timothy said quietly. He remained a respectful distance away, head bowed. “And the land holds each of them. Fully and kindly.”

Lucy felt something tug at her, not a force, more like a familiar hand slipping into hers. She followed the sensation through the meadow until she reached a wide old beech tree with roots that curled like a cradle. Warmth rose from the earth beneath her fingertips when she knelt. She didn’t know whose resting place this was, only that the presence felt soothing. Maternal. Steady. Like someone who had once tended to the hurts of many. Lucy bowed her head. “Thank you,” she whispered, not even sure what she was thanking her for. For existing. For living. For leaving warmth behind. A breeze lifted her hair, soft as a hand brushing her cheek. She stayed there awhile, letting the meadow breathe around her, letting the weight of lives lived fully settle into her heart.

By the time she stood again, her chest felt both heavier and steadier.

She walked back to Timothy. He didn’t ask. She didn’t explain. He simply turned, and she followed. The walk back was quiet but not tense. Just thoughtful.

When Rowanmere finally came into view, Jason was waiting at the edge of the lawn, hands in his pockets, watching her approach with that mix of concern and relief he barely tried to hide.

“You back,” he said softly.

“I’m back,” Lucy replied, rolling the bike to a stop.

He stepped closer. “Was it bad?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Not bad. Just… full. Very full.”

“You want to talk about it?”

Lucy nodded, and they sat together on the low stone wall at the edge of the garden. Sam trotted over and flopped across her foot, offering emotional support in the form of weight and warmth.

Lucy told Jason what she could, about the meadow, the impressions of lives lived kindly, the feeling of being held by something ancient and gentle. Jason listened the entire time, jaw set but eyes soft.

“That sounds… heavy,” he said finally.

“It was,” Lucy admitted. “But it wasn’t sad. Not really. Just… profound.”

Jason nodded, gaze drifting briefly toward the far tree-line. “I get that. When I was seventeen, I used to visit the old fishing pier in my hometown. My dad took me there every weekend until the year he got sick.” His voice stayed calm, steady. “After he passed, I went there a lot. Not to be sad. Just to… remember. Some places hold the memories of people who lived well. You can feel it, even when they’re gone.”

Lucy’s breath caught, not out of pity, but recognition. “That’s exactly what it felt like.”

He met her eyes again. “Then you understand it better than you think.”

She gave a small, watery laugh. “I’m trying.”

Jason squeezed her hand, not for reassurance, but solidarity. “You don’t have to figure all of this out by yourself, Lucy. You’re not meant to carry everything alone.”

Something loosened in her chest then, a knot she hadn’t realized she was holding. A warmth unfolded inside her, anchored and real. A shared understanding. A shared future, even if neither of them fully grasped its shape yet.

Later, in her room, Lucy curled beneath her quilt with Sam nestled against her hip, purring like a tiny furnace. The meadow’s warmth still lingered in her, humming softly beneath her heart.

She closed her eyes. These people were gone… but they weren’t lost. The land remembered them. And today, it had shared that memory with her.

Tomorrow, she sensed, would lead her deeper still, somewhere she would have to walk without Timothy at her side.

But for now, she rested inside the quiet truth she’d learned:

To heal the land, she must first understand the lives it held.

And the land was beginning to trust her with that understanding.

Lucy woke before dawn, long before the sun had even considered lifting its pale face over the hills. There was no dream, no sound, no sudden jolt, only a quiet, certain awareness rising inside her like the echo of a familiar melody she hadn’t realized she remembered.

She lay still for a moment, Sam curled at her side like a warm comma in the story of her morning. He blinked once, slow and affectionate, then head-butted her arm as if granting permission.

“I know,” she whispered, kissing the top of his head. “I have to go.”

Sam gave a soft chirp of protest but didn’t try to stop her as she slipped out of bed.

The hallways of Rowanmere were cool with early winter air. Pale light pressed gently at the windows but hadn’t yet flooded in. She found Timothy in the foyer, already awake, as if some part of him had felt her leave her room.

“You’re called,” he said softly.

Lucy nodded. “The stream.”

He didn’t question it, only stepped aside.

“Go alone,” he said. “Water listens best when there’s only one voice.”

She hesitated. “Will you be here when I come back?”

“Aye,” he murmured, something like pride behind his eyes. “We’ll all be here.”

Lucy stepped outside.

The air was crisp and tasted faintly of frost. She walked past the front gardens and down the slope toward the orchard. Devon’s winter had stripped the apple trees bare, leaving them skeletal and beautiful, branches like arching fingers dusted in ice crystals, clusters of shriveled apples clinging near the top. The ground was scattered with windfalls softened by cold, their sweet scent faint but present.

She brushed her fingertips across a trunk as she passed. The bark felt cold, textured, old. Centuries old. These trees had witnessed families come and go, storms and summers, wars and weddings. Just like Rowanmere itself.

Beyond the orchard stood an old stone wall, low and uneven, covered in moss and pale green lichen. One of thousands across England, stitched into the countryside like quiet, enduring thread. Lucy paused there, tracing a line of frost along the top stones.

“They outlast everything,” she whispered. “People. Seasons. Time.”

Something in her chest tightened, not painfully, but meaningfully.

She continued, guided by a pull she didn’t need to question.

Soon she heard it, the brook, its voice a bright ribbon of sound weaving through the hush of morning. Lucy followed it, her steps slow and steady. When she reached the stream’s edge, she crouched and touched the water.

Immediately, the current warmed beneath her fingertips and curled toward her hand like a greeting.

Lucy smiled. “Hello, friend.”

The stream bubbled in response, not words, but recognition. A companion.

She stood and followed its winding path. The water tugged her forward with subtle deviations, little bends in current, tiny shifts in flow.

The stream narrowed as the terrain dipped, carving itself deeper and deeper until the earth split into a steep ravine. Lucy stepped carefully down the slope. The walls rose around her in layers of slick stone and thick moss, ferns jutting sideways, roots threading through rock and soil.

Rowan trees grew atop the ravine, their roots cascading over the edge like braided hair. As Lucy moved closer, the roots thickened and tangled into a natural arch, a living woven gate that blocked any ordinary passerby.

Lucy placed her hand on the nearest root.

It pulsed under her palm.

With a soft creak, the roots shifted, unwinding just enough to reveal the hollow beyond.

Lucy drew in a breath. “Thank you.”

She stepped inside.

The chamber was small and warm with a subtle golden glow reflecting off the stone walls. The air was cool but comforting, as if the space recognized her. She felt a soft déjà vu, not from her own past, but from someone she carried in her blood.

Elowen.

In the center of the chamber rested an oval pendant on a stone ledge. Amber resin glowed like captured sunlight, a slender piece of Rowanwood suspended within, wrapped in golden thread. A simple silver loop attached it to a braided leather cord.

Lucy approached slowly.

When she lifted it, the amber warmed instantly, a gentle palm pressed against her hand. Her breath caught.

She slipped the cord over her head.

Warmth spread through her chest. Clarity followed. Purpose. The unmistakable feeling of being held by something older and wiser than herself.

Visions unfurled.

Twilight fields. Elowen standing barefoot in a circle of stones, silver hair moving like water. Her hands shaping amber resin with patient care. Golden thread wrapping Rowanwood. A fracture in the world, slow and creeping. A healer’s touch mending a wound in the earth. Light pulsing from balanced palms. Lucy, older and steadier, hands glowing with the same gentle strength. Jason beside her, grounded as ever. Timothy watching with deep, quiet pride.

Lucy gasped softly as the vision faded. The necklace hummed against her skin.

And she felt it.

“The Chronicle,” she whispered. “It calls me.”

There was no doubt.

She barely noticed the walk back. The brook guided her as gently as a hand at her back. The orchard and the stone wall passed in a blur of gold and memory.

The moment she stepped onto the estate grounds, she felt the pull again, stronger. She moved as though the path was unfolding beneath her feet.

The Chronicle Tomb greeted her like an open door.

She entered, knelt in the center of the chamber, and placed her palms on the cold stone floor. She bowed her head and whispered to the still air.

“Let me be steady. Let me be kind. Let me heal.”

Warmth rose beneath her hands. A soft pulse of light traveled outward and faded. Another thread in the Binding loosened, gentle and natural.

When she rose, her chest felt clearer than it ever had in her life.

Timothy waited in the corridor outside.

He looked up, saw the necklace, and froze.

His breath hitched, eyes brightening with a memory he had not touched in centuries.

“I remember her making it,” he whispered.

Lucy touched the pendant gently. “Elowen.”

Timothy nodded. His voice softened. “She warmed the amber by hand for hours. Shaped it until it held the light just right. She wrapped the Rowanwood in golden thread, whispering blessings of balance. She used only a sliver of silver for the loop.” His gaze drifted inward. “She said it was meant for the one who would finish what she could not.”

Lucy stepped closer. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Respect did not require ritual. It simply lived between them.

Timothy swallowed hard but smiled softly. “It suits you.”

Lucy offered a quiet, grateful smile in return.

She spent hours afterward in her room. Sam curled beside her as she wrote in her journal, capturing every sensation, every vision, every fragile thread of understanding. She talked softly to Sam as she wrote, letting her thoughts settle. She reflected on Elowen, on the water, on the way the trees had opened their roots for her.

When she finally came down for supper, the house felt warmer than usual. Firelight danced across the walls. Mrs. Hughes had prepared roasted root vegetables, warm bread with butter, a hearty stew fragrant with herbs, and hot tea steeped dark.

Evan glanced up with shy concern, Jason stood immediately with quiet relief, and Timothy watched with calm pride.

Lucy sat among them, feeling the warmth of the food spread through her. The bread was soft and comforting, the stew rich and earthy. Mrs. Hughes fussed about whether she’d had enough, Jason made a soft joke that brought a smile to her lips, and even Evan relaxed enough to talk about some small trouble with the garden shed.

Lucy felt her heart settle. These were her people. Her circle. Her grounding. The warmth she needed to face what waited ahead.

She laughed softly at something Jason said, dipped her bread into her stew, and let the moment sink into her bones. Her destiny was vast and frightening. But tonight was simple. And she was loved.