The twisting paths of the garden glistened with dew, moonlight threading through the boughs of ancient yew and belladonna vines. Rows of herbs rustled in the cool air, and somewhere beneath the soil, the mandrakes muttered softly in their sleep.
Perwin the Herbalist crouched beside a bed of flowering nightroot, his green cloak dusted with soil, dark braids falling into his eyes.
“Took you long enough,” he admonished, holding out a woven basket of roots and moss. “They get fussy when they’re hungry.”
Together, they tucked offerings into the soil, whispering a slumber charm as the mandrakes’ leaves quivered. Perwin wiped his hands and pulled a satchel from beneath his cloak.
“Consider this your reward—but be careful what you claim.”