Chapter 12

Flora spent the next few weeks getting her cottage, her garden and her life sorted. None of them needed as much doing as she first thought. She had prepared herself for months of work but the cottage was in better condition than she had first thought. The garden was way beyond her expectations.

Consequently, her life was so much easier. Peggy had told her that the roof had been mended two years before Sybil died and she had kept up with most of the repairs too. Apart from the obvious ones that Flora had noticed when she arrived. Flora wondered if it was because she knew she was passing it on to her. It seemed like that might be the case.

Nevertheless, after the gutter was repaired, the paintwork, the paint and the plaster work needed freshening up - so she had the decorators in to paint all the walls white and brighten it up. It was all a faded cream which may or may not have been white to start with. The walls above the fires were black with soot and she felt it was rather a shame to get rid of the history. Still, she would be using the fires again and would make her own impression on the fireplace walls in good time.

While the decorators were in, she kept out of the way by exploring her new and exciting garden. She wandered up and down the main path and across the many little narrow paths between them. She collected seeds to use again and snipped off flower heads of lavender to dry. She pulled out any weeds but was surprised at how remarkably weed-free it was. What were weeds anyway? A flower in the wrong place, as the saying goes.

More often than not. She carried a book with her. One of the many books she had found on the single shelf above Sybil's desk. With her herbal training, Flora could recognise most of the flowers and herbs that populated the meadow, but there were quite a few she had never seen before.

To her delight, she found that Sybil had kept a detailed watercolour sketch of every flower she had found in her meadow, alongside a description of its qualities, What it was used for, how it was applied or administered and, very important to Flora, how effective she had found the remedy. Many of Sybil's book entries were already known and used by Flora but Sybil knew so many more ways of healing with the plants and flowers. The old ways, ones that had been used for hundreds of years. She had even mentioned the Hilde from Culhain's story.

She had lived in the eleventh century and her potions and methods had been copied into this book to be handed down through the years. There was an underlined note next to the mention of Hilde saying ‘ These remedies still work!' .

Again Flora wondered if these notes were written for her benefit as it seemed she was the one entrusted now to carry these recipes on. She suddenly felt very humble when she realised this and was so glad that she was in the position to put it all into practice.

This brought her up short. It was too much of a coincidence that she had chosen the same path as a woman she had only met once. Had anything been said at that one meeting to set her on this course? She racked her brains but couldn't recall anything. She had only been left alone with her briefly in the back garden while her mother had gone to make tea. She could remember showing her some flowers and talking about them and Flora had picked some daisies for Sybil. Then she had made herself a daisy chain. That's all. Surely that couldn't have been it?

In another book from the shelf. She found information on how to take care of a wildflower meadow, again with copious underlined notes next to paragraphs. Sometimes ‘ Yes, that works' or occasionally ‘No! At least not in these conditions.'

Flora could see both these books becoming her horticultural bibles. There was another large book, not on the small shelf but on one of the bigger bookshelves against the wall. It was leather-covered and was as tall and as thick as an encyclopaedia. Inside it were hundreds of written recipes. Potions and salves, remedies for all occasions. They were written in different inks and handwriting, the work of more than one person.

Flora had looked at some of the earlier entries, handling the book reverently, and had found a couple of them were potentially dangerous. She would look them up before she wrote them off but realised that we knew and understood things today that these people didn't, all that time ago. There were long-term effects that, even if they were healed of one thing at that time, could potentially have given them something worse.

She was extremely careful, by instinct and training and she would weed these out. There didn't appear to be many, thankfully, that she herself wouldn't use today. She had her own extensive notes for the book she was hoping to write when she had time but these books were a wonderful discovery. This whole cottage and its garden was a treasure trove for someone like herself.

Boxes had been delivered and stored in the newly decorated shop. They contained paper packets which she would use to send culinary herbs or calming herbs through the post along with her own recipe herbal teas. She had made a couple of trips to the nearest market town of Beck Isle to get new throws, cushions and more bedding. She had bought some new cushion covers but Sybil's crocheted and embroidered ones were beautiful, so she washed them carefully and would reuse them.

When the paint dried she finished unpacking her bits and bobs and eventually, the place began to look like home. The little black and white kitten she had seen on the first day had also made her home here. She had named it Freya, which was approved with a purr. Flora wondered if it belonged to any of her neighbours, but extensive enquiries had proved this wasn't the case. She was told that there were usually odd cats running around here and there, products of feline liaisons up at the farm that operated independently now, alongside Peverel Hall.

The kitten wasn't the only visitor. Peggy popped in a few times, making friends with the cat. Peggy remarked on the name, telling her that she knew her Norse mythology. They had more in common than Flora had realised and she came to enjoy her visits.

Mary popped down every couple of days bringing a sandwich from her mum and with a message to go to the Peverel arms for a free meal while her house was being invaded by workmen.

The lady who she had seen in the inn on the first night had been in the bar again the next time Flora went in. A frequent visitor perhaps? She had hugged Flora and squeezed her shoulders as though she knew her well. A week later, she had come round shouting over the hedge at the bottom of her driveway when Flora was in the garden. She was Lady Bianca Peverel and had invited her up to the Hall for a coffee. As there were workmen spilling out of both the shop and the kitchen doorways at the time, Flora promised her she would be there as soon as all this was finished.

Even Cal had popped around briefly, ostensibly to find out how she was settling in. He also asked her if she could come up to his farmhouse sometime to show him where the rocks she had sheltered under in the storm had been. She promised him too, that she would do that when things had eased off here. Meanwhile, she invited him into the garden to show him exactly why Sybil had been called the Wildflower Witch. He was very impressed and looked around the meadow in wonder. She watched him and thought how different he was now from the fierce monster she had first met. In attitude at least. The dark, brooding good looks were still there. Unfortunately.

The only unfriendly person in the whole village was the woman from the bookshop who made a point of leaving when Flora went in. Her husband was still nice though and helped to find whatever book she had been searching for.

Now, everything was done. As she sat at Sybil's desk first thing in the morning to write a list of supplies out, she felt very happy in her lovely new home. She felt as though she belonged and always had done. Her biro had out of ink and there were only broken pencils on the desk. She would have put ‘more biros' down on her list if she had anything to write with.

She tried again to get the narrow drawer just above the leather desk surface, to open. It had been stuck ever since she arrived. She jiggled it about a bit. She didn't want to prise it with a knife or a screwdriver as the desk was an antique and too lovely to damage. There wasn't even a keyhole so it couldn't be locked. Was it a secret drawer? She laughed to herself. That only usually happened in murder mysteries, the place where a gun was found. Despite that, she pressed all the knobbly bits at the side and above the drawer.

Suddenly one of the carvings gave way under her fingers and the drawer shot out. Well I never, she thought with a grin. Still no pens though, although there was something. She peered in and took out a small thick envelope. It had her name on it. Flora - in the same handwriting Sybil had used in the books. Frowning, she slit the letter open and saw many pages packed with neat handwriting. She read the first lines and then put the letter back in the envelope with trembling hands.

She went out of the back door through the meadow and to the wood. Her legs were shaking. She looked at the tree right on the edge which she always noticed first. It looked down past the meadow towards her cottage. A rowan tree. The sun shone on the ground in front of it and Flora sat down with her back against the tree. Slowly she took the letter out of her pocket to make quite sure she had read those first words correctly. The kitten appeared and curled up on her lap as she unfolded the pages.