Chapter 8: A Place to Keep Warm

I woke to the sound of dishes clinking and the low murmur of voices below. For a long moment, I simply lay there, wrapped in blankets, my limbs heavy and warm. The scent of something baked and spiced drifted up through the floorboards—apple, maybe, or cinnamon root. Sunlight angled in through the small window, catching on the frost etched lightly along the corners of the glass.

I hadn’t realized the nights had grown that cold.

With a sigh, I sat up and stretched, rolling my shoulders until the last of the stiffness from yesterday’s travel eased. My spatial satchel sat where I’d left it on the bedside table, the runes on its surface faintly glowing in the morning light. It didn’t look like much—a soft, weathered bag with a leather strap and a few decorative beads on the drawstring—but inside, it held nearly everything I owned.

And none of it was warm enough for what was coming.

I rummaged through it with a thought, drawing out my usual tunic and leggings—clean, soft, and blessedly not the road-stiffened clothes I’d worn through yesterday’s rain. I laid those grimy garments out near the hearth and whispered a light cantrip, tracing a slow spiral in the air above them. The spell flickered gently as it activated, lifting the dirt and damp in lazy swirls of ash and vapor before fading from sight. They’d be clean in an hour, though I wasn’t in any hurry to wear them again.

As I dressed, I frowned at the thickness of the fabric in my hands. My tunics were comfortable, suited to forest walking and foraging, but not made for snow or wind. I had a single heavier cloak with a water-resistant lining, but nothing truly insulated. No thick boots. No gloves. I hadn’t been planning to settle anywhere long enough to need them.

That felt like another life already.

I pulled my journal from the satchel and sat on the edge of the bed, flipping to a fresh page.

To-do:

Ask Bitty about winter gear. Trade? Commission?

Inventory healer’s supplies.

See what food is already stored at the cottage.

Check fireplace, chimney, and warding stones.

Decide: am I staying? (for now is not a real answer.)

I capped my pen, took one last look around the room, and tucked the journal back into the satchel. The bed was still warm, and I could’ve easily curled back under the covers and let the morning drift by—but Bitty would be waiting, and I had a feeling she wasn’t the type to take well to dawdling.

Besides, if I was going to see this place properly, it was best to start with a full belly and clear eyes.

The inn’s common room was already half-full. A warm fire crackled in the hearth, and the scent that had lured me from sleep turned out to be stewed apples over oatcakes, thick with spices. I sat near the window with my plate, nodding politely at a few of the locals who glanced my way. The half-orc innkeeper offered a grunt of acknowledgment as she poured me a cup of dark chicory tea.

I ate slowly, letting the warmth seep through me. Outside, the sky was clear and pale, the kind of sharp-edged blue that meant the wind would bite even if the sun was out. A few villagers bustled between shops, bundled in wool-lined coats and cloaks heavier than anything I owned.

If I was staying the winter—and Bitty certainly seemed to think I was—I’d need more than a good fire to get by.

I found Bitty exactly where she said she’d be: bundled in layers of knitted shawls and standing outside her cottage with her stick tapping the cobblestones in a slow, impatient rhythm.

“Thought I’d have to come knock on your window,” she said when she saw me. “Figured you might’ve melted into that feather bed.”

“Tempting,” I admitted.

She gave a crooked smile and turned on her heel. “Come on then. Let’s see if the old girl’s place is still standing.”

We walked past the edge of the square, past houses with smoke curling from their chimneys and frost clinging to the mossy fences. The healer’s cottage came into view just as the morning sun touched its roof—a stone building a bit taller than the others, with crooked shutters and a sloping porch that looked like it had been built in pieces across different decades. A pair of lilac trees flanked the doorway, their bare branches clattering softly in the wind.

Bitty stopped and fished a key from somewhere deep in her shawls.

“She didn’t like visitors,” she muttered. “Not even me. But she kept everything tidy until the end. It’s been locked up since. Wards are fading. Shouldn’t give you any trouble.”

She handed me the key, then stepped aside to let me approach. I ran my fingers lightly over the frame—just a trace of residual magic, faded and gentle, like an old scent on a favorite shawl.

“She really left everything?” I asked.

“Books, jars, notes, dried stock from last harvest... All of it. Needs sorting. Some’ll be spoiled. Some’ll be pure gold. Someone’s got to figure out which is which.”

I turned the key in the lock. The door creaked open, the scent of thyme and dust and something faintly medicinal brushing past me like a memory.

“And before you start arguing,” Bitty said from behind me, “you’ll be staying here.”

I looked over my shoulder. “Bitty...”

She pointed at the porch with her stick. “This cottage needs someone in it. The hearth needs tending, the stock needs checking, and you need a roof over your head when the snow comes. Until we have a proper replacement—and we won’t for months, if ever—you are what we have.”

I stepped inside, half in protest, half in curiosity. Dust swirled in the sunlight slanting through the shutter slats. Shelves lined the walls, crammed with carefully labeled jars and stoppered bottles. A long table dominated the center of the room, scattered with bundled herbs, waxed paper packets, and an open journal still resting where its owner must have left it.

Bitty stood behind me in the doorway, hands on her hips.

“Don’t fuss,” she said. “You’ll only be here until spring. Unless the place grows on you.”

She smiled sweetly.

Which, coming from Bitty, was a threat and a blessing all at once.

I stepped further into the cottage, letting the door ease shut behind me.

Bitty didn’t follow. I heard the soft creak of her boots on the stone step, then nothing at all—no parting words, no farewell, just the quiet shuffle of her walking away, leaving me alone with the hush of a place that no longer belonged to anyone in particular.

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was expectant. A kind of stillness that comes after a space has been emptied, swept, and made ready for something—or someone—new.

The air smelled of dried herbs and clean stone, with only a faint trace of dust. Someone had been in recently. I could tell by the way the floor had been swept clean of cobwebs, the way the fire grate had been emptied and scrubbed, and the subtle order to everything—quiet, respectful, not lived-in but not abandoned, either.

The main room stretched wide and open, anchored by a long oak worktable that bore the stains and scratches of decades of work. Shelves lined every wall, filled with carefully organized jars, labeled crocks, paper-wrapped bundles, and wax-sealed tincture bottles. Some labels had faded. Others had been written in different hands, their lettering round or angular, depending on who had penned them.

I made my way up the narrow wooden staircase that curved into the loft. The bedroom up there had been stripped bare of personality. The quilt had been folded and placed at the foot of the bed, along with a set of fresh linens and a second, thicker quilt tucked neatly on top. Someone had cleared the space with care—the shelves were dusted, the floor swept, the bedside table empty. No half-read books, no tea mug with a forgotten spoon, no half-finished embroidery waiting to be picked up again. Whoever had lived here had been gently, lovingly, removed.

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Downstairs again, I opened the two side doors off the hallway. Both led to modest patient rooms—plain beds, clean curtains, fresh-washed basins. The kind of spare comfort meant to reassure someone who’d come seeking help. I lingered in one of the doorways for a moment, thinking of what it must’ve been like when both rooms were full. When the healer moved between them with a hand on a forehead, a murmur of encouragement, a salve or potion drawn from memory more than notes.

Then I turned and stepped through the wide arched opening at the back of the cottage.

The stillroom made me stop in my tracks.

Flooded with natural light from a long window that spanned the back wall, the space was full—but not in disarray. The long counters were lined with mortars, pestles, drying racks, presses, and bundles of herbs strung from the ceiling beams in organized rows. Someone had tidied, yes—but they hadn’t dared to sort or discard anything. The workroom had been preserved as it was. As if the village knew someone would come who would understand what to do.

There was so much.

I moved through the room slowly, fingers grazing the worn countertop, the bundled stems. Some herbs were already going brittle and pale. Others still held their color and scent. A few tincture jars sat near a window ledge that had let in too much sun. They’d need to be tested. The drawers beneath the worktops were full—measuring spoons, wrapped bundles of clean cloth, thick sheaves of handwritten notes bundled with ribbon. No one had touched those. They were waiting.

I pulled out my journal and flipped to a clean page, the weight of it in my hands grounding me as I sat on the low stool beside the center table.

Initial Inventory Priorities:

– Check all dried herb bundles for signs of rot or dust bloom.

– Sort tinctures by label date (if any).

– Test infused oils for clarity or rancidity.

– Identify what's salvageable, what's spoiled, and what still needs processing.

– Ask Bitty where the compost pile is.

– Fireplace appears functional. Small stove intact. Stillroom ventilated.

I looked around the room once more. Someone had cleared space for me without ever asking if I would stay.

I shed my cloak, rolled up my sleeves, and breathed in the scent of sage and old lavender. Then I reached for the first bundle on the table and began.

Time slipped past me like water through open fingers.

I meant to stop for lunch—I remember thinking about it, even reaching for a heel of bread I’d packed in my satchel. But the herbs wouldn’t wait. Not with so many needing attention, and certainly not with the faint scent of over-drying creeping through some of the older bundles. So I pressed on.

I moved from shelf to shelf, organizing by utility and freshness. Breathsteep bark—still good. Mountain marigold—brittle, but salvageable for poultices. The batch of pine sap I found in a wax-sealed tin was perfectly preserved and smelled like cold mornings in the hills. I made a small note to warm it gently and re-store it in smaller jars for easy use.

Somewhere between sorting the wintermint and peeling back a jar of dried cloudleaf, I realized the light had changed. The bright slants of mid-morning sun had dulled into the gold of early evening. My stomach growled—not subtly, not gently—and I finally straightened, rolling my shoulders with a groan.

A soft knock sounded on the cottage door before I could even brush the dust from my hands.

I turned just in time to see the door creak open and Bitty let herself in, wearing the kind of expression that said I knew this would happen.

“Well,” she said, looking around. “Looks like you’ve been swallowed whole.”

I blinked and laughed, rubbing a smudge of herb dust from my chin. “I may have...lost track of time.”

Bitty made a satisfied hum and held out a wicker basket draped with a linen cloth.

“Dinner,” she said. “And enough for breakfast too. Stew, a small loaf, boiled eggs, and a jar of blackberry jam—the innkeeper sent that over. Said you looked like the sort who forgets to eat when working.”

I blinked at her. “That’s... very kind of her.”

“She makes too much of it anyway,” Bitty replied with a shrug. “She probably just wanted to clear shelf space.”

I reached for the basket, heart unexpectedly full. “Thank you.”

She handed it over without fanfare, then gestured toward the back of the cottage with her stick. “Woodpile’s behind the shed. Good pine and applewood, stacked since midsummer. Should burn clean if you use the split logs first.”

I nodded, already mentally adding “start fire” to my evening list.

Bitty didn’t leave right away. Instead, she cast a look around the stillroom, eyes flicking over the reorganized shelves, the drying rack I’d started reassembling, the pile of compostable trimmings in the corner bin.

“You’ve got a good hand,” she said. “She’d have liked that.”

“She?” I asked, though I already knew.

“The old healer. Never said so, but she wanted someone like you to follow. Not just anyone. She kept too much close to the chest for that.”

I swallowed around the sudden tightness in my throat. “I’m not... I don’t know if I’m staying.”

Bitty smiled in a way that told me she’d already decided I was.

“Well, while you’re here,” she said, “you might think about starting rounds. We’ve got a few folk who need checking in on. Elders, those with chronic aches, the usual. Tomorrow or the day after. You’ll want to come see me first—I’ve got the route written down.”

I stared at her. “Rounds?”

She raised a brow. “You are the only healer in town.”

“I’ve never done them alone,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ve always... shadowed. Or assisted.”

“Well,” Bitty said, already turning toward the door, “then it’s about time you practiced leading.”

She stepped outside, pulling her shawl tighter around her shoulders.

“Oh,” she called over her shoulder, “and don’t forget to eat. There’s no wisdom in starving yourself just because the thyme smells nice.”

The door clicked softly shut behind her.

I stood there, still holding the basket, the last glow of daylight spilling through the stillroom window.

Rounds. Patients. Expectation.

The quiet weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders, heavier than my satchel had ever been. Not unbearable—but firm. Real.

I looked down at the stew-filled basket in my hands, then toward the glowing hearth. The room around me no longer felt like it belonged to someone else. It felt like something living. Something waiting.

And tomorrow, it would be listening to me.

The stew was still warm in its stoneware pot, wrapped tightly in cloth and packed beside the loaf of bread and jam. I lit a few oil lamps around the stillroom and carried the basket to the small hearth nook, where a low table and a worn armchair waited—clearly once well-used, now quietly mine.

I set a few logs from the back pile into the hearth and lit a small flame with a heat cantrip, whispering the activation word with a practiced flick of my fingers. It caught quickly, warming the space and washing the stillroom in a soft golden glow.

I ladled the stew into a bowl and broke off a corner of bread. The first bite made me sigh out loud—parsnips, barley, a hint of thyme and pepperroot. Something about eating a meal someone else had made made it taste better than it had any right to.

While I ate, I let my thoughts wander—not aimlessly, but in the slow, circling way of preparation.

Rounds.

I’d never led them. Not alone. I'd always watched someone else step into homes, ask questions, check joints and pulses, offer teas and poultices. But now... Bitty was right. If I didn’t do it, no one would. And the turning of the season always brought its own set of challenges:

Stiff joints from the cold

Early coughs and chills

Sleep issues as the nights lengthened

Dry skin, aching bones, melancholy

I’d need to be ready.

I chewed slowly, jotting a mental list of what to bring in the morning: a few pots of warming balm, cough tincture, some peppermint oil for headaches, calming tea blends, a few blank notecards in case I needed to leave instructions. Maybe a small jar of comfrey salve and something sharp for splinters. Just in case.

After wiping my bowl clean with the last bit of bread, I corked the jam and eggs for morning and tidied the hearth. I cleaned my hands at the washbasin, then wandered back through the cottage. The stillroom still smelled like a dozen varieties of mint and leaf-dust, but the baskets were organized, the drying rack rebuilt, and my compost bin was ready for the morning’s first trip out.

I should have felt satisfied.

Instead, I felt the nerves beginning to rise.

What if I didn’t know what someone needed? What if they asked for something I hadn’t been taught? What if I gave the wrong dose?

I climbed the stairs slowly and folded myself onto the freshly made bed. The new linens smelled faintly of soaproot and sun. I lay there, staring up at the wooden beams above me while my mind spun faster than it had all day.

Eventually, I reached for my journal and lit the candle on the bedside table. If nothing else, I could at least record what I’d found today.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL: DEEPROOT HOLLOW – STILLROOM SORTING, DAY 1

New or Noteworthy Finds:

Sourblossom – Still fresh, bright scent. Likely harvested before the frost. Excellent for stomach teas and cooling fever. Must be stored away from sunlight.

Pine Sap (Wax-Sealed) – Clean, potent, no crystallization. Can be used for salves or wound-sticking. Repack in smaller jars for easier use.

Blackberry Leaf (Partial) – Half of the bundle lost to spotting; remainder salvaged. Drying again on rack.

Willow Bark (Discarded) – Improperly cured, soft and mildewed. Added to compost.

Wild Lavender – Dry, still usable, but no longer strong enough for internal use. Good for satchels, baths, or calming sachets.

Personal Notes:

I worked straight through lunch without noticing. That says something. This place is quiet but full. Like it remembers. I’ve barely touched the deeper drawers yet—who knows what else she left behind?

Bitty says I need to start rounds. Tomorrow or the next day. I’m not ready.

But I wasn’t ready for today either, and here I am—still standing, with something warm in my belly and a house that hasn’t crumbled around me.

Maybe that’s enough for now.