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spoken to a man before, alone, and I am terrified and thrilled all the same.
    Was I too obvious, watching him closely while I tended to his arm? I hope he didn’t notice and think me strange. I couldn’t help myself. I planned to keep my head low, thank him politely for saving me from the brambles, and make my way home. But he was hurt. I couldn’t ignore that. And from the moment I’d pulled at his sleeve to survey the damage the hedge had inflicted, I could barely concentrate.
    He was handsome, with a shock of unruly chestnut hair, and very tall, with wide, broad shoulders. The look upon his face was impish, yet he was more man than boy. He was dressed impeccably for a rider—his boots not too soiled, and the knees and elbows of his trousers and waistcoat not too thin, except for where the thorns had ripped through the fabric.
    But I should have watched where I was going. How was I to know a person would be on the other side of the hedge, the forest side of the hedge, the very moment I leaped across? Thank goodness he noticed my basket and not the vaporous laughter I was trying to run from. It made going along with his assumption, that I was out for a day of gathering, easier than explaining what I was really doing, which was running off to hide from the voices I’d heard. My insides tighten at the very thought that he might have heard. I am certain his horse did, the way she whinnied and stamped.
    I let myself steal a few moments, sitting upon the soft pine needles, and suddenly I am unsure of containing the emotions flooding through me—fear, delight, confusion. I only wanted to help him. I can’t explain why the cut on his arm disappeared beneath my touch. I’ve never seen anything like it in all my life, yet I believe I made it appear as if such a thing was normal.
    My head is still spinning at the way he smiled at me. He was certainly beautiful for a man, and I wonder if that was my luck today, to find beautiful things I would feel oddly about. Frowning, I reach inside my basket to find the handkerchief gone. I scan the ground, but it is nowhere to be found, and I realize it has been left behind. Maybe it’s just as well. I don’t deserve it anyway, although it would have been nice to have studied it and quietly learned the stitches on my own. I would like to make one for myself one day, or one I could give to Matilde at the end of the summer harvest, just before the first snow, or perhaps for Yule. It would be something special to have during the cold months, something pretty to look at when the sun is not growing flowers for us to admire.
    I stare at the hedge that divides the forest from the village. As much as I wanted to pretend I belonged on the other side today, it is clear to me where my loyalties should lie. I will always belong here, among the protection of the shaded trees, instead of in the open, pretending I am someone I’m not.
    I stand up and brush the needles from my dress and apron, then set about scouring for herbs. I plan on honoring at least one of Matilde’s wishes, and begin filling my basket while I wait for the sun to sink behind the tree line, just like she told me to.
    There are butterflies and dragonflies diving in and out of the dappled light around me. How could I possibly wish to be anywhere else on a day like today? Little white and yellow Chamomile blossoms poke their heads up from the ground between beds of Sphagnum Moss, and I can barely contain my excitement. Matilde will be more than happy to have it once again. Only last week, Matilde used her last mound of the spongy pale-green moss to dress a patient’s leg wound; since then, it’s been difficult to find enough to replenish her supply. My basket is nearly overflowing, yet I continue to fill it. Finally, when it can hold no more, I add a few strips of Silver Birch bark on top and make my way home.
    The sky is a blood-red glow between the treetops when I hear the butcher’s wagon behind me. I groan beneath my breath.