Chapter 11: Steeped in Preparation

By the time morning light warmed the edge of the kitchen window, I already had the kettle on.

The air in the cottage held the crisp edge of late autumn—enough to chill my fingers as I pulled herbs from their hooks and laid them gently on the worktable. I wrapped my shawl tighter across my shoulders and held my mug close, sipping slowly as the first steam curled up into the stillroom.

Today would be a long one, but a good one.

Winter was creeping closer by the day, and I wanted to be ready. Not just with salves and tinctures, but with something gentler, more comforting—something people could use to keep themselves well before they ever needed a healer.

Tea. Warmth, herbs, ritual. It was one of the oldest medicines there was.

I’d posted a notice at the Adventurer’s Guild just after dawn, asking for any dungeon-foraged herbs that might boost immunity or aid with cold-season ailments—mushrooms, dried leaves, sporecaps. Porrin had given me two thumbs up and added a little doodle of a steaming cup in the corner. Adventurers weren’t often the tea-drinking type, but they had a nose for unusual ingredients, and I’d made it worth their while.

For now, I had to work with what I had—thankfully, that was quite a lot.

I set down my mug, rolled up my sleeves, and began.

The stillroom had never felt so full. Bundles of dried herbs rustled on the racks overhead, and the worktable was already crowded with neat little bowls, each one holding a different blend of dried petals, roots, bark, or berries. My notebook lay open beside them, half-filled with scribbled ingredient lists and question marks where flavors didn’t quite sit right in my mind.

First came the soothing blend—for coughs, scratchy throats, and lingering chills. I started with licorice root, chamomile, and a pinch of marshmallow leaf, then added dried wild mint from my last forage. I crumbled a few crushed lavender buds in as well, testing the scent with the tip of my nose. Sweet, clean, just sharp enough to brighten the mix.

I brewed a test cup, steeping it in a small glass pot on the corner of the hearth. As it warmed, the scent filled the room—honeyed, floral, and soft as a lullaby. I added a touch of ground fennel and tried again. Better. Soothing and simple.

I labeled the blend Hearth-Ease: Soothing Tea for Throats and Coughs

Satisfied, I moved on.

The next was a warming blend, something to keep the blood moving and the fingers from stiffening on long days in the cold. I began with ginger root, carefully sliced and dried weeks ago, and paired it with cinnamon bark, clove, and a bit of orange peel I’d saved from the last market delivery. For balance, I added dried rosehips, crushed roughly with the side of my pestle.

The mixture smelled like memory—winter kitchens, crackling fires, my mother humming as she stirred preserves on the stove.

I poured boiling water over the blend and let it steep, watching the color deepen to a rich, amber red. When I took the first sip, heat bloomed across my tongue and traveled straight to my chest.

“Traveler’s Ember”, I wrote on the tag.

For cold hands, tired feet, and long walks home.

I jotted a note beside it in the margin:

Try adding star anise for variation. Adventurers might like a stronger brew.

After a break to refill my mug and nibble on a slice of buttered bread, I returned to the worktable and pulled out my small tin of preserved spindlefruit. Tart and bright, it would make a perfect base for a revitalizing tea—something to perk people up after days cooped inside or trudging through slush.

I combined the chopped fruit with dried lemon balm, a bit of blue sage, and a sprinkling of calendula petals for color. It turned pale golden in the water, with a sharpness at the edge I couldn’t quite tame.

I added a pinch of stevia leaf for sweetness, but it was still missing something.

I stared at the jars lining the shelf until my eyes landed on the last of the dried juniper berries. Carefully, I crushed three into the pot and steeped it again.

Perfect.

“Winterwake”, I wrote, tying a small bundle of spindlefruit slices together for the label.

Bright, tart, and sharp enough to make you remember spring.

By midafternoon, the stillroom had transformed into a cloud of scent and color. Herb crumbs coated the table. A trail of spice dust led from the hearth to the shelves. My notebook was littered with little splash marks and errant leaves, and my fingers were stained orange and green.

I paused only long enough to wash my hands and steep another cup—this time from my new immune support blend, made with frostberry, elderflower, goldenbur, and a bit of nettle for strength.

It tasted green and grounding, with a hint of tartness from the berries. Simple, nourishing. The kind of tea best taken daily, not just when you felt something coming on.

“First Frost Blend”

To ward off the season’s first sniffle—and the next one, too.

I made a mental note to include brewing instructions with each jar tomorrow. Not everyone in town knew the difference between a 3-minute steep and a bitter mess.

When the sun finally dipped below the eaves, I lit the oil lamps one by one, their warm glow curling into the corners of the room. I stretched, cracking my knuckles and rolling my shoulders. My back ached, but my shelves were full.

I had:

* 8 jars of Hearth-Ease

* 10 tins of Traveler’s Ember

* 6 packets of Winterwake

* 7 jars of First Frost Blend

* 5 bags of Mulling Spice Mix for wine or cider (cinnamon, clove, orange peel, ginger, nutmeg)

And that didn’t include the small sample satchel I’d packed for Bitty, Mira at the inn, and the seamstress.

I sat down at the corner desk and began labeling each item with hand-written tags—twine for jars, parchment slips for packets, little folded cards with ingredients and usage notes. The handwriting was slow going, but worth it. The names mattered. The care mattered.

These weren’t just things to sell. They were offerings. Anchors. Pieces of the season to keep people warm.

As the last jar was tied and labeled, I stood back and surveyed the room.

It was cluttered and fragrant and utterly mine.

My shoulders sagged, not from weariness this time, but from contentment. From the deep, well-earned kind of tired that came after a day of real, honest work.

I made one final cup of tea—Traveler’s Ember, heavy on the cinnamon—and curled into the chair by the fire with my notebook on my lap. By now, the room smelled like everything at once: spice and citrus, root and leaf, warmth and sharp cold on the air.

I added one more note to my growing list of blends:

Need to restock goldenbur and mint if adventurers can find more.

Test a frostwort blend if any comes in.

Perhaps an evening blend—soothing, but without drowsiness. Chamomile + sage + ??

Ask Mira which flavors the inn patrons prefer this season.

Watch for ghostcap—use sparingly if it comes in. Use gloves.

Then, quietly to myself, I wrote:

Today, I made enough. Tomorrow, I share it.

As the final labels were tied and my fingers began to cramp from writing, I finally admitted I was done for the day.

My stomach reminded me I hadn’t eaten since a quick piece of bread and tea at midday. I crossed to the kitchen nook and began pulling together a simple dinner with the last of yesterday’s foraged finds.

I sliced the mushrooms I’d carefully brushed clean that morning—velvety and pale, with deep, earthy scents that reminded me of shadowed glens. Into the small iron pot they went, sizzling gently in a splash of oil. I added diced root vegetables from the cellar—turnip and carrot—and a handful of finely chopped wild greens and herbs: sharp-flavored wood sorrel, a pinch of savory, a dusting of dried chive blossoms.

A dash of salt, a sprinkle of crushed red pepper, and a bit of dried garlic I’d found in the pantry gave it bite. I poured in water from the kettle and let it simmer while I tidied the table and cleared the blend bowls into neat rows for washing tomorrow.

The stew thickened into something hearty and fragrant, the kind of meal that clung gently to the ribs without weighing you down. I ladled a generous portion into a wooden bowl, tore off a crust of the brown bread Mira had sent over the day before, and sat at the little table in the corner with my feet tucked up under me. The first spoonful warmed me to the marrow.

I closed my eyes for a moment and just let the quiet settle. No knocking. No asking. No schedule. Just the faint creak of the rafters, the soft wind outside, and the steady beat of my own pulse slowing after a long, fulfilling day.

When the last of the stew was gone, I washed the bowl, banked the fire low, and carried my candle up the ladder into the loft. My bed waited with its extra quilts folded neatly, the air scented faintly with lavender from the sachet I’d tucked into the pillowcase.

I slid between the sheets, letting out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My limbs ached, pleasantly so, and my mind hummed with blends and herbs and imagined customer faces.

Tomorrow would come with its own bustle. But tonight, I let the work fall away.

Warm, full, and tired in the best possible way, I let the candle gutter low and curled into the quiet.

Sleep found me quickly.

I woke before the sun had fully risen, the light faint and grey beyond the loft window. The air in the cottage was cool, crisp with the unmistakable bite of early frost. I wrapped myself in one of the heavier quilts and padded downstairs, lighting the small fire I’d banked the night before with practiced ease.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

The hearth crackled to life, its warmth slowly chasing the chill from the stillroom and kitchen. I filled the kettle and set it over the flames, then rummaged in the bread tin for a small heel of Mira’s oat bread. I spread it with a bit of soft cheese I’d bartered earlier in the week and added a spoonful of plum preserves from a gifted jar. Simple, but filling enough.

I cradled my tea while watching the firelight flicker against the shelves, and reminded myself—today was the first real test. All those hours in the stillroom, all the careful blending and labeling, would be out on a table for others to see. A small flutter started in my chest, excitement and nerves tangled together like drying herbs on a rack.

Once breakfast was done, I moved efficiently. I fetched the wide, shallow basket I’d set aside and began laying in my wares: neatly tied bundles of dried tea blends, small sealed jars of spice mix, corked tins of herbal powders, and the carefully labeled salves and balms in tinted glass pots. Everything fit snugly, the heavier jars cushioned by folded fabric scraps to keep them from shifting on the walk.

For good measure, I added a folded cloth sign I’d inked the night before—“Seasonal Teas & Tonic Blends – For Warmth and Wellness”—and tucked in a few sprigs of pine and dried oranges tied with twine for decoration. A gentle touch of scent and color always helped, especially when one was a newcomer.

I took a breath, slung my cloak over my shoulders, and lifted the basket with both hands. Thanks to the satchel, I could have stored it all in magical weightlessness, but something about carrying it in the crook of my arms made the moment feel more grounded. More real.

The walk to the community hall was brisk but pleasant. The village was already stirring: thin curls of smoke rose from chimneys, roosters called from somewhere behind a fence, and the scent of baking bread drifted on the cold morning air.

The community building sat near the center of the village, one of the larger stone-and-timber structures with a gently sloped slate roof and thick wooden beams. On most days, it served as a space for meetings or gatherings, but today, it was the heart of the winter market.

Inside, the large room had been warmed with several iron stoves tucked into corners, their chimneys curling into the ceiling rafters. The scent of warmth, wool, and sweet baked goods greeted me at the door.

People were already inside—villagers and merchants, arranging baskets and boxes on long tables pushed around the room’s edge. Laughter and conversation rippled through the air, familiar and unhurried. Children darted between legs, playing tag while adults called reminders not to trip on the rugs.

Mira waved from across the room, flour dusted on her apron, already arranging small parcels of hand pies and spiced loaves. I gave her a nod, then found an empty spot near one of the windows and set my basket down.

The wooden table felt slightly uneven, one leg shorter than the others, but I folded a corner of my display cloth underneath and made do. I began laying out my teas, stacking a few sample jars and labeling the prices—some by coin, others with suggested barters for those who might prefer trade.

Immunity Boost – Wild Elder & Mint Leaf Blend.

Deep Warmth – Applebark, Cinnamon Root, Dried Plums.

Calm Nights – Chamomile, Bluepetal, Toasted Lavender.

The names weren’t especially clever, but they were true, and the colors in the jars looked inviting—soft greens, russet browns, gold-flecked petals. I arranged a few of the salves off to the side: one for sore joints, one for cracked hands, and another for winter coughs rubbed onto the chest.

As I stepped back to look over the table, I felt a small, proud smile tug at the corners of my mouth.

This wasn’t a shop or a permanent stall. But it was something. A first step.

And the doors were still swinging open, more villagers filing in with bundles and boxes and arms full of winter goods.

The room gradually filled with warmth and sound, boots stomping off the cold, greetings tossed like scarves over shoulders, and the gentle scrape of baskets and boxes shifting into place. Someone opened a small case of carved wooden ornaments near the far wall, their scent mingling with that of beeswax candles and cinnamon buns.

I stayed close to my table at first, fiddling with the arrangement of the salves more than necessary, and nodding politely when a few villagers passed by with curious glances. I didn’t call out to anyone or try to catch their eye. That wasn’t really my way. But eventually, the market energy swept me into its rhythm.

A middle-aged woman with a sprig of holly tucked behind her ear paused in front of the table, squinting down at the jars. She picked up the tin labeled Warm Hands Balm and cracked the lid, sniffing deeply.

“Oh, that smells like my grandmother’s hearth,” she said, smiling. “What’s in it?”

“Pine resin, ground cinderleaf, and a bit of rosehip oil,” I replied. “It works best if you warm your hands before applying.”

She nodded approvingly and slid a small bundle of dyed wool yarn from her satchel. “Would you take this for one?”

The red was so rich it glowed. I nodded. “Gladly.”

From there, things picked up. People drifted by in a slow, steady stream, drawn in by the colorful jars and curious about the new healer—though no one said the word healer directly. I noticed that, and felt oddly grateful.

Two children tried to sneak a sniff of every tea blend at once, giggling each time they got a bit of spice in their nose. Their father trailed behind with an apologetic look, but I just smiled and handed them each a dried orange slice with clove and cinnamon.

Mira stopped by briefly with a hot mug of spiced cider and a soft “You’re doing well.” I flushed a little at the kindness and thanked her, hands warming around the mug as I took a sip and let the flavor bloom on my tongue.

One man with a farmer’s tan and wind-chapped cheeks traded me a bundle of garlic, still braided, for two jars of cough salve—one for his daughter, he said, who always caught something during the turning season. Another offered a pot of thick honey in return for three pouches of Deep Warmth tea, his hands trembling ever so slightly from age or cold.

Each trade made the basket at my feet grow fuller, but not with coins—only things I’d use. Food, fibers, soap, beeswax. The sorts of goods that meant more than copper.

I made a note of every sale or trade in a small ledger tucked beside me, jotting down what people preferred, what questions they asked, and which items sparked the most interest.

More Calm Nights. Less elderflower. Warm Hands Balm very popular. People like the spice tea. Consider stronger blends for laborers?

It became clear after the first hour that while most people came to browse and chat, a few had very real aches to soothe—wrists stiff from weaving, knees that ached in the damp, dry skin cracked from hauling wood. I passed out samples freely, taking only the occasional token in return. Mira had warned me it would be like this.

By midday, the hall was full enough that people had to angle around each other carefully. Someone had started a small performance in the corner, playing a cheerful tune on a stringed instrument while two children spun in circles to the beat. Baskets of root vegetables and onions were bartered for sacks of flour and preserves. Bits of cloth and ribbon passed from hand to hand.

I looked up from my table and caught the seamstress giving me a subtle wave, her stall nestled between a weaver and someone selling buttons made of bone and stone. I returned the wave and saw her tap the satchel at her side, a smile tucked in the corner of her mouth. I had the feeling more rune commissions were already brewing.

I even spotted the half-orc smith standing near the cider table, holding court with a few other tradesfolk. His booming laugh cut through the crowd like a forge hammer on steel. When he saw me, he raised a fist in greeting and mouthed, “Getting along?” I nodded back with a grin.

Sometime in the early afternoon, I realized how much the noise had stopped bothering me. I’d spent so long in quiet spaces—woods, inns, stillrooms—that I’d almost forgotten what this kind of gathering could feel like: warm, buoyant, grounding.

Old Bitty didn’t appear, though I kept half an eye open for her telltale shawl or familiar gait. I had the distinct impression she was avoiding me, letting me find my feet in the village without her guiding hand for once.

At some point, Mira passed by again with a half-eaten pastry and slipped me a small wrapped parcel.

“For your dinner later,” she said, tucking it under the tablecloth. “You’ve earned it.”

My eyes stung a little. I blinked quickly and nodded.

“Thank you.”

She gave my shoulder a squeeze and moved on.

By mid-afternoon, the swell of the crowd had begun to ebb, and the air in the hall had gone soft with the sounds of quiet chatter and the occasional laughter of children weaving between tables. I had only a few jars of balm left and a single small bundle of Deep Warmth tea tucked in the bottom of my basket. It felt like a good place to stop.

I packed my things with care, stacking tins and tying off bags, sliding my ledger into the side pocket and covering everything with a folded cloth. My hands felt pleasantly sore, and I caught myself smiling at nothing in particular.

On my way out, I paused at the seamstress’s table.

She was chatting with an elderly woman about wool mittens but looked up the moment I approached. I drew the bundle of red yarn from my basket and laid it gently between us.

“I traded for this earlier today,” I said, smoothing the strands with my fingers. “It’s beautiful work. I was wondering if you’d be willing to turn it into a scarf.”

Her brow lifted slightly. “It’s a lovely dye lot. Thick, too. Should weave into something dense and warm.”

I nodded. “I’d like to trade the rest of my teas for it, if that’s fair. I know you’ve already got some, but…”

The seamstress chuckled and waved a hand. “I’d be happy to. Scarves are easy this time of year—and that tea was a hit with my apprentices. You’ve got yourself a deal.”

I passed over the last pouch of Winter’s Hearth and she tucked it into her apron, already reaching for her measuring string.

“Shouldn’t take more than a week,” she added. “Anything special? Fringes? Runed threads?”

I thought for a moment. “No runes. Just long enough to wrap twice.”

She gave a satisfied nod and slipped the yarn into a small wooden bin behind the stall.

I thanked her and left the hall, stepping out into the crisp, late-day air with the soft satisfaction of a good trade warming my chest.

By the time I reached the cottage, the light had gone golden at the edges, the kind of light that painted frost on fences and made the moss on the stone walls glow faintly green.

Inside, I set the basket by the door and hung my cloak by the hearth. The quiet settled around me like a familiar blanket.

Only then did I remember Mira’s parcel.

I drew it from beneath the tablecloth, unwrapped the linen slowly, and found a small, beautifully crimped meat pie tucked inside. The pastry was golden and flaking slightly at the edges, with a faint scent of thyme and root vegetables escaping from a small vent in the top.

I knelt by the hearth, coaxed the coals back to life, and placed the pie on a small warming plate above them. While it heated, I went about lighting the lanterns, their soft glow filling the stillroom with comfort and shadows.

When the pie was warm through, I carried it to the table and sat down with a steaming cup of Calm Nights—one of the last pouches I’d kept for myself. The taste of lavender and lemon balm curled around the savory pie like a perfect contrast.

Every bite was thick with potato and mushroom, a hint of pepper and what I thought might have been wild sage. It was simple, hearty, and more nourishing than I expected from something wrapped so carefully and tucked beneath a cloth.

I ate slowly, savoring every bite.

Afterward, I pulled my journal from the side shelf and turned to a fresh page.

Field Notes – End of Market Day

Most popular teas: Deep Warmth, Winter’s Hearth, Calm Nights.

Need more beeswax soon for salves.

Possible trades: garlic, wool, root vegetables, preserves.

Begin preparing stronger blends for field workers and older villagers. Consider a midday “stamina” blend?

The seamstress will make a red scarf. Might be nice to enchant it in spring.

I should gather more pine resin and elder bark soon. Add to foraging list.

Mira makes excellent meat pies.

I paused, pen in hand, then added one more line.

Today felt like something new. Not home, not yet—but steady. Maybe that's enough for now.

I closed the journal, blew out the lantern, and tucked myself into bed with the warmth of the hearth still lingering in the walls. The sounds of the market day echoed faintly in my memory, woven with the scent of tea and the rustle of wool yarn.

As I pulled the quilt over my shoulders, I whispered a quiet thank you to the silence.

Sleep came easily that night.

📓 FIELD JOURNAL – END OF WINTER MARKET DAY

Most popular blends:

* Deep Warmth

* Winter’s Hearth

* Calm Nights

Trades received:

* Garlic (braided)

* Dyed wool yarn (red)

* Root vegetables

* Preserves

* Beeswax

* Honey

Observations:

* Warm Hands Balm was very well received.

* Stronger tea blends may be needed for laborers and elders.

* Elderflower blend was less popular—consider adjustments.

* Two children enjoyed the clove oranges—make more next time.

* Mira’s meat pies are excellent. Possibly spiced with wild sage.

To do:

* Restock: goldenbur, mint, pine resin, elder bark, beeswax.

* Trial: frostwort infusion and stamina tea for midday use.

* Note: The seamstress will make a red scarf—pick up next week.