Chapter 170 No Magic Needed

Chapter 170 No Magic Needed
Rae
By the time Cian returns, the flower crown is spread across half the table in careful little pieces.
The best blossoms are tucked between sheets of thin paper, their petals pressed flat so the colour will hold. The stems are tied together with a scrap of last night’s ribbon. The bruised petals sit in a shallow bowl beside me because there is no way I’m wasting them. I keep turning one between my fingers, watching the gold edge catch the light.
Fleetwood Mac is still playing softly when Cian steps back into the room with coffee in one hand and a basket in the other.
Then Torin appears with another basket behind him.
And Saoirse with another.
And then Eiran appears carrying two very large clay pots against his chest.
“I was told there would be gratitude,” Eiran says.
“There might be,” I tell him. “Depending on the quality of the pots.”
He looks down at them, feigning offence. “These are excellent pots.”
Cian passes me the coffee as I laugh. The cup is warm against my palms. I take one sip and immediately love him even more for the garden supplies he has managed to gather in the time it took me to preserve a handful of flowers. The coffee tastes like the morning I wanted.
I follow them all back out and downstairs, where there are a lot more things. There is dark soil in sacks tied with rope, the kind that stains and stays under your nails for days. There are small tools with worn wooden handles, the edges dulled from use. An oddly shaped watering can, seedlings, and packets of seeds wrapped in paper and labelled in careful handwriting.
Rosemary. Lavender. Thyme. Chamomile. Sage.
Mint has been placed right in front of all of them with a little distance.
I look up at Cian with a wide smile.
“You were extremely clear about the mint,” he says, already knowing.
“Nanna would be proud.”
Eiran sets the pots down with a grunt. “Is anyone going to explain why the small leafy menace needs containment?”
“Because it is ambitious,” I say.
We carry everything outside together.
The morning has warmed while I worked. Sunlight spills over the lower gardens of Hollow Hill, catching on last night’s ribbons still tangled in the branches and the petals pressed into the grass. A few fae are clearing tables near the main garden, moving slowly, talking in low voices.
Cian leads me down a small slope beyond the busier paths, to a patch of earth bordered by some old stones covered in moss.
“I thought here might be nice,” he says.
The spot is perfect.
It gets sunlight, but not too much. The ground is tucked near the roots of Hollow Hill, close enough to feel held by it, but far enough from the main garden that it feels private. A little path curves past it, half covered in moss. Beyond that, the land dips toward a stretch of wildflowers and low shrubs that move gently in the breeze.
It is quiet without being lonely.
“It’s perfect.”
The words leave me softly, as I set the coffee down on one of the stones and kneel.
The earth is cool beneath my knees. I pick up one of the little tools, then put it down again and use my hands instead. The soil gives beneath my fingers, damp and dark, gathering under my nails the way it always used to at the cabin. I dig a small hole, then another, feeling the quiet resistance of the ground.
For a moment, I wait for it.
The pull.
The hum.
The old deep magic that usually rises when my hands touch the ground.
It is there, somewhere beneath everything. I can feel it sleeping under Hollow Hill, aware of me in the way roots are aware of water. It knows I am here, but it leaves me be.
It does not ask.
So I do not answer.
I dig with my hands.
Cian kneels beside me after a while, watching what I do before trying it himself. He is careful. Painfully careful. He handles the seedlings as if they were made of spun glass and royal secrets, lowering each one into the holes I make.
“You can press the soil around it,” I tell him.
He presses one finger gently beside the stem.
“With slightly more confidence.”
He adds a second finger.
I bite my lip to keep the smile from spreading too wide.
But when he looks at me, his own mouth curves, and he presses the soil more firmly this time. The seedling settles, and a tiny leaf trembles in the breeze.
“There,” I say. “See? No one died.”
“The day is young.”
I snort and reach for the rosemary, and we continue to plant slowly.
Rosemary near the path, where the scent will catch on anyone walking past. Lavender along the edges. Thyme between the stones, already looking like it plans to take over if given half a chance. Chamomile where the sun falls warmest, the little flowers not yet open. Sage close enough that I will be able to brush my fingers over it whenever I pass this way.
The mint goes into its pot, which I place with great seriousness on a flat stone slightly apart from the others.
“Stay,” I tell it.
Cian looks between me and the plant. “Will that work?”
“No.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because it should at least know I’m watching.”
Behind us, Menace appears in the grass with a ribbon in his mouth. He watches me talk to the mint, head tilted, then trots closer and drops the ribbon beside the pot with the air of someone making an official contribution.
By midday, there is dirt on my dress, my knees, my arms, and probably my face. My hair has escaped whatever loose shape it had been in this morning and keeps falling into my eyes. Cian has soil across one cheek and no idea it’s even there. The garden is small, uneven, and nowhere near finished. The rows are not straight. The stones along the edge do not match. The mint is already leaning toward freedom in its pot.
But it is real.
It’s happening.
I sit back on my heels and look at it.
It is not much, but neither was Nanna’s garden when she began.
I remember her kneeling in the dirt outside the cabin, sleeves pushed up, hair coming loose around her face, telling me that growing things taught patience. They grew when they were ready. They took root quietly. They became strong where no one could see.
I did not understand then, but I think I might now.
Cian lowers himself beside me and takes my hand carefully, dirt and all.
Then he brings my knuckles to his mouth and kisses them.
Nothing answers me. Nothing hums beneath my palms.
The little garden only sits there in the sun, small but alive, and somehow that feels closer to home than magic ever has.