A polished maple carriage drawn by two dappled gray horses awaited them at the station, its brass fittings gleaming against the wood. Rowan watched as porters and travelers bustled around them with handcarts and simple wooden wagons, unloading supplies from the train. When Elara approached her waiting transport, the uniformed driver bowed slightly and opened the door.

"Come on," she said, gesturing to Rowan. "There's plenty of room."

Rowan hesitated, clutching his dirt-filled suitcase. "Are you sure?"

"Of course. Better than trying to find space with the market deliveries."

Even this fine carriage differed drastically from the automated metal carriages that had overrun Neosilica. As they wound down the mountain path, Rowan pressed against the window. Frostfern drew closer—a picturesque valley town already alive with activity as vendors erected colorful stalls on nearly every street. Fresh bread and sweet cinnamon wafted through the window, making his mouth water.

He jostled in his seat, noting how the buildings grew more densely packed, their pastel colors growing brighter in the morning light as they approached the town center. They passed by stalls, and Rowan noticed how the vendors stopped to look, all eyeing him. Eventually, they stopped in front of a huge home, and their driver helped Elara step out as Rowan nearly stumbled out and fell flat on his face.

Adjusting his clothes, he eyed another carriage pass and asked, "Busy day?"

"Just take my things inside," Elara said to the driver. "I'm going to help my friend find someone who can take him to the greenhouse. Mind grabbing one of the handcarts? He really shouldn't be lugging that around."

The driver grunted, lifting her suitcase and trailing inside without a word.

“What did you ask?” Elara asked.

“Oh, just, the carriages. Busier than I thought it’d be.” The driver came back out, pulling a small metal cart behind him. He and Rowan maneuvered the suitcase on top of it. “Thanks,” he said to the driver, who grunted again and skulked off toward the house.

"Well, you're lucky," Elara said, starting down the road. "The spring shipments just came in. Merchants and traders from all over bring goods from the south, and families from nearly fifty miles away come to Frostfern for the market festival. Some are already trickling in, but by week's end, the town will be bursting." She quickened her pace. "If we go now, I might be able to get you to the greenhouse before the early crowds arrive."

They headed toward the town center, which was a kaleidoscope of color. Not only were homes painted in lilac, mint green, and buttercup yellow hues, but people were also constructing colorful stalls and decorations along the roads.

"This is... amazing!" Rowan said, following behind as the handcart rattled over the cobblestones. He paused at a table filled with white flowers, their petals almost translucent in the morning light. Though slightly dull and misshapen, they held a peculiar beauty.

The vendor, an elderly woman with weathered hands, eyed him warily. “Completely free of any alchemical tampering,” she said.

"We call those frostblooms up here,” Elara said, cutting off the vendor. “They’re the first signs that our frost season is almost over."

He approached the table, studying the blooms. Their petals were thicker than any lily he'd seen, with a waxy coating that caught the light, and their leaves grew in spiraling patterns up unusually sturdy stems. "They're like lilies but hardier. Built to survive the cold, I'd guess."

They walked deeper through the square, dodging a table filled with wilted turnips and another of somewhat questionable apples. Regardless of their looks, much like the flowers, everywhere he could see, people were smiling and eyeing up the tables.

“My mom told me the crops were struggling this season,” Elara whispered as they passed another stall of lackluster produce. “She’s been trying everything we can think of, but nothing’s working.”

“Good thing you’ve got a resident green thumb now,” he smirked. “You all could do with a few healthy medicinal herbs growing too.”

“As long as you don’t introduce yourself to everyone like you did me, then you might get a few of them on your side.”

“For the record, I was quiet. You’re just jumpy,” Rowan said.

Elara smirked and tutted her tongue. “Well, for the record, you owe me a copy of Aether to Quanta then.”

They turned down another street, this one less crowded. "So, uh, where are we going?" Rowan asked.

"To Nevs’ carpentry shop. My cousin’s an apprentice there, and he lives out by your greenhouse,” Elara said. "I’m guessing he came here early to skip out on farm work."

“Does this cousin have a name?”

“Jimson. He’s really good, too. You’ll see.”

As they turned a corner, Rowan caught sight of a quaint little shop nestled between two bright blue-painted buildings. The scent of slightly burnt pine wafted out from the partially cracked sliding door, somewhat minty and earthy all at once.

“Jimson, I hope you’re decent!” Elara shouted, sliding the door open the rest of the way, revealing a treasure trove of masterfully crafted wooden wonders. From furniture with smooth clawed feet to delicate figurines that looked so real, Rowan had to do a double take on some of them.

“Holy hell. Is this all his?” Rowan breathed, unable to tear his eyes away from a red wooden statue of a man draped in fabric. Somehow, the fabric, which was also carved, looked like it could slip off any second. “It’s amazing.”

“That one is,” Elara said. “But mostly, it’s all Nevs’.”

“Is that a Lars I hear?” A tall figure emerged from the back of the shop, wearing a thick apron and wiping sawdust off his large belly and bushy reddish beard with thick, muscled arms. He grinned ear to ear when his dark eyes met Elara’s, and Rowan’s heart skipped. “Hey, little cuz. I didn’t know you’d be back so soon. Finally, drop out of school and start shadowing Aunt Willow?” Jimson asked.

“Ha. Ha. You and she wish. I’m on summer holiday,” Elara said, sticking her tongue out.

Jimson’s eyes met Rowan’s, and all Rowan could think about was how warm and squishy those arms would be wrapped around him, holding him close and running his hand through that short-cut hair—

“Who’s your friend here?” he asked.

“Uh-hi. Uh, I’m Rowan. Rowan Mosswood,” he stuttered, the words tumbling out. He shook Jimson’s hand, feeling the rough warmth of his calloused grip. As he looked around the room again, his gaze fell upon a set of simple cabinets just behind Jimson. Around the edges of the doors were delicate etchings of leaves and vines, curling around the wood as if they were growing right before his eyes.

“Is that—is that what you’re working on?” Rowan stammered.

"Yep," Jimson said, looking back at his work. "Couldn't do it without Nevs—"

"Couldn't do what without me?" a voice called from the back of the workshop. A tall woman emerged from behind a partition, her muscular arms covered in light sawdust that stood out against her dark skin. As she approached, she wiped her hands on her work apron, her bright red braided hair wrapped into a large bun on her head.

"Speaking of," Jimson grinned. "Nevs, this is Rowan. He's, uh—Lars’ friend?”

“Alchemist,” Rowan said. “Here from the college to help.”

Nevs' eyes lit up as she studied Rowan, her gaze sharp and considering. "Botanical, right?" When Rowan nodded, she smiled. "Good. This town could use someone who can help with the farms." She ran her hand along the cabinet's etched vines.

"These works are so detailed. Did you—" Rowan started, then stopped.

"Use magic?" Nevs laughed. A warm sound filled the workshop. "Nope, just years of practice. Though some people might call it magic, I guess. So, you’ll be living out of that old greenhouse then?”

Rowan nodded. “Yep, the college said it might not be in great condition, though."

Nevs turned to Jimson. "Let’s show our new alchemist some Frostfern hospitality. Help him get settled—those repairs won't be quick."

"That place has been abandoned for years," Jimson said, pulling off his apron. "It's not bad, but uh, you might be better off shacking up at the inn."

A buzzing hum traveled through Rowan as he looked at Jimson, one he couldn't quite put his finger on, but something that made his heart beat hard in his chest.

"I'll finish up the Tiller order," Nevs said, heading back to her work. "Take what time you need."

"Great. See? I brought a friend for you, cousin." Elara smiled. "Now don't pick on him, you hear me? Mom will kill me if we get letters from the college that the townsfolk of Frostfern are harassing students."

“As will I,” Nevs said, heading back to her workstation. “You won’t be giving us carpenters a bad name.”

Jimson pinched Elara's cheek hard and said, "The only one I'd pick on is you." He turned to Rowan and clapped his hands together. "I'll grab some tools and help you take a crack at it. No guarantees, but better start fixing up the place now."

“Uh, yeah, that’d be great. Thank you,” Rowan replied.

“And I’ll leave you both to it,” Elara said, grinning from ear to ear as she turned on her heel. “I’m sure Mother Mayor would be mad if I didn’t stop in and say hi.”

As Elara left, Jimson turned back to a bench and started gathering tools. Rowan ran a finger along one of the wooden figurines and cut through the silence. “So, what got you into woodworking?”

Jimson pulled off the apron and hung it up on the wall. “Well, I used to get in trouble for hanging out near the woods when I was younger. Always making wooden swords and shields to fight off the monsters. And it’s this or farming, and my brothers seem to do that just fine.”

“The talent, though. I’ve never seen anything like it. Neosilica is too focused on industry to make anything like this.”

“Yeah, I think that’s why Elara loves it down there. What’s your discipline?” Jimson asked.

“Botanical. Not quite the industry-driving discipline.”

“Ha, maybe not there!” Jimson laughed, dimples showing on his close-shaved face. “But up here, we could use a little magic. What you do is what I try doing here every day. Taking nature and exposing its beauty.”

Heat flushed through Rowan’s cheeks, and he looked down at the floor. “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Well, Mr. Rowan. Shall we get you settled in?” Jimson hefted a bag of tools.

“Sounds good to me,” Rowan agreed, following behind Jimson as he closed the shop.

Rowan pulled the wooden handcart holding his suitcase behind him as they strolled through the cobblestone streets of Frostfern, the air perfumed with the scent of wildflowers and freshly baked bread. Rowan’s throat stayed dry as his mind raced. Buildings dwindled, and homes spread farther and farther apart. Once they reached the outskirts of the town, Rowan couldn’t help but notice the stark contrast between the dense forest filled with greenery and budding leaves that trailed off beyond the valley and the struggling yellowed farms.

“So, uh, Jimson?” Rowan asked.

“Yes?”

“Is it just me, or do the farms around here look… well, off?”

Jimson slowed his pace and stared out at the wilted crops. “It’s been a tough start to the year. The snow didn’t want to melt, and now we’re fighting against weak soil. All I’ve heard from my dad and brothers is that nothing wants to grow, no matter how hard they try.”

“Any idea why?” Rowan asked.

“Nope. But if this keeps up, we’re gonna need more supply trains,” Jimson said.

They continued toward the edge of the woods, cresting over a small hill, and the once majestic structure came into view. Rowan’s heart sank like a stone. The greenhouse was worse off than he’d imagined; many broken windows stared back at him like empty eye sockets, and ivy had wrapped itself around the rusted metal and wood frames. It seemed to groan beneath the weight of years of neglect.

“This is it, isn’t it?” Rowan asked, not ready for the answer.

“Yup,” Jimson replied. “We’ve got an extra bed out on the farm. We could probably get you all set up there if you didn’t want to walk back into town.”

Rowan’s heart raced at the thought. “No. That’s fine. I can do this. It can’t be all that bad. I mean, half the building is still standing, and looks like the living quarters have all four walls and a roof.”

Rowan fished around in his pockets for the small brass key as he tried to quell the doubt gnawing at him. He could be back in Neosilica right now, sharing an apartment with Marley. Maybe even setting up a small shop of specially crafted metal plants. Instead, he was pretty sure some animal had made a home of half this building, and he’d have plenty of manure to contend with.

“Well, uh,” Jimson said softly. “I’m here to help. We’ll start with the living quarters. Get the windows patched up. Clean out the debris. I can get some glass this week and we can get you some proper windows. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I mean. If you—” Rowan took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the crisp forest air. “Yes, I would love the help.”

Jimson smiled, “Great! Let’s do this.”