The Stormborne Vine ** PRE-ORDER **

Nemython House, Drake’s Bend.
Rural England, spring 1816



Some people walk an easy path through life. One that is paved with marble tiles, fragrant lavender grows at the edges, and fluffy lambs gambol around them while nightingales sing. Then there are others like Fern Oakby. She navigated a shadowy path with treacherous footing, overgrown with brambles and firethorn as an untuned violin screeched from the trees.


As she pulled a one-inch-long needle-like thorn, belonging to the scarlet Pyracantha coccinea from her hand, Fern considered the decisions she had made ten years ago during her debut in London. She had once stood at a fork in the path and decided to strike off down the more adventurous-looking road.


“I could have had a noble husband and gardeners to do the weeding, you know,” she told the plant that had stabbed her. Since she had the long thorn between thumb and forefinger like a needle, she used it to scrape stubborn dirt out from under her nails. Then the barb was tossed into the soil.


Her work brought her a sense of satisfaction and contentment, even if her path was a difficult and lonely one at times. In truth, Fern loved getting her hands dirty and wouldn’t trade her freedom for the suffocation of a gilded cage. 


Society expected gently bred women to look decorative, do needlework, and produce heirs. If they fell onto hard times, seeking employment as a companion or governess was deemed acceptable. But Fern, literally, dirtied her hands through her work as a plantswoman. She used the botanical knowledge gained at her father’s side to support her household by supplying grand estates with rare and exotic plants or figuring out solutions to gardening woes others couldn’t solve. She also sold ingredients to alchemists and apothecaries.


After a few months of a season in London all those years ago, Fern had retreated to their home, Nemython House, situated in the south-west corner of the picturesque village of Drake's Bend. The walled garden crammed with trees, shrubs, annuals, and perennials had become her sanctuary. Fern had thrown herself into the study of plants. The high stone walls and surrounding forest kept the world at bay. Or rather, it kept the prying and judgemental eyes of society out.


Fern knelt back on her heels and surveyed her work. She had cleared pesky weeds creeping under the rare lunanavis. The firethorn stood guard beside it. A moment of inattention had seen Fern brush her hand too close to the vicious shrub with its wicked barbs. In many ways, it was like a matron at a ball—lingering at the back, watching, and using her tongue as a weapon to strike down the unwary.


Ten years ago, Fern’s father, a renowned botanist, had brought the tiny lunanavis seedling back from one of his many expeditions overseas and planted it in their garden. They had tended it together, watching it grow. A vigil she had taken up alone since his death five years ago.


A shrub with a naturally rounded shape, the lunanavis had taken years to reach its mature size of some three-feet tall and had grey, furry leaves not unlike the lamb’s ear, Stachys byzantina. At last, after a decade of patience, nine slender flower buds had pushed through the dense mass of leaves. 


The plant’s habit had a pleasing symmetry. Three flowers would bloom for three nights under a full moon, for the three months of spring. Then the shrub would become dormant until the next year. After blooming just the once, its flowers would shut tight at the first blush of dawn and remain closed, leaving the next three to bloom the following night. The precious pistil, the reproductive organ of the plant, would be highly sought after once fertilised by moon dust. 


Satisfied that everything was perfect for the flowers’ debut that night, there was little more Fern could do. The plant didn’t know it, but it would be the star of a private viewing for her little family. Once night fell, they would gather to watch it greet the moon.


Fern headed back along the paths to the house, imagining her father’s ghost walking beside her. Rowan Oakby had passed his love of flora to his daughter—along with a name plucked from nature. He had travelled to the corners of the globe gathering rare and unusual plants. Every leaf and blossom Fern touched was a tiny piece of him that still lingered in the world. 


On a bench by the kitchen door sat a bowl of water, a bar of soap, and a towel. Fern scrubbed at her hands and dried them before tipping the water over a nearby moisture-loving lily. 


Heading inside, work was underway for the evening meal. Mrs Bentley, the older woman who ran the kitchen, rolled out dough at the long bench that ran under the window. A slight woman with an olive complexion, her once-raven hair was laced with silver, and she had been a fixture of their home for as long as Fern could remember. 


“Dinner won’t be long. I’m about to add the dumplings. You have time to change out of those filthy clothes.” She picked up a long knife, either to ensure Fern complied or to slice the dumplings into even shapes before laying them in the oven to cook.


“I wouldn’t dream of sitting down to dinner at your table in dirty trousers, Mrs Bentley.” Fern hurried through to the main part of the house before the housekeeper waved the lethal knife at her head.


As she took the stairs two at a time with a long stride, Fern was grateful that she lived far enough away from London that she could wear trousers. In her room, she stripped off her dirt-stained clothes and rubbed at her skin with a damp cloth before dressing once more. This time, she donned a gown of light wool in a pale greyish-green that reminded her of silver foliage. She drew a brush through her short auburn hair and released a twig that had somehow become tangled in there.


Clean, and almost civilised appearing apart from her bare feet, she padded down to the dining room. Breakfast was a casual affair, always taken in the kitchen at the worn oak table. Dinner was held in the room painted a deep green at a polished table that only sat six at most.


Fern paused at the doorway, her two uncles already within. Their bodies angled towards one another as they discussed their day while they waited for her. They were an unconventional household. The spinster of nearly thirty years old, living with two older gentlemen. One uncle by blood on her mother’s side, and the other an uncle by bonds of love. Or whom society euphemistically referred to as her uncle’s good chum. 


Of average height and lean, Ambrose had the Reid family red hair (which had faded to a burnished gold as he aged), styled in an elegant fashion, and sparkling hazel eyes. He sat at the head of the table. To his right was George Hawkins. A barrel-chested man with a luxurious beard streaked with silver. 


Once the heir to a viscount, George lived a quiet life as a dead man. Thankfully, not actually dead, as Fern loved him dearly, and the Fates had snatched too many loved ones from her grasp. George gave up his wealth and a title for love. His hate-filled family declared him dead, held a modest funeral (closed coffin, since it was weighted with rocks), and his younger brother became the heir and viscount. 


“Ah, just in time.” Ambrose smiled as Fern took her seat beside him.


“I wouldn’t dare be late, Mrs Bentley had a firm grip on that knife she loves when I came in earlier.” Fern flicked open her napkin and draped it over her lap. She inhaled the aromas wafting from the meal laid out on the table. Butter slid over potatoes sprinkled with rosemary and left a golden trail. Fat, fluffy dumplings were piled on another plate and were begging to be smothered with gravy. 


George stood to carve a leg of lamb and picked up the meat fork and knife. “I’m surprised you’re not camped out with that plant.”


Fern had briefly considered the idea, but there was no point. Nature had decreed it would only bloom by the light of the moon, and prising open the petals to satisfy her curiosity would ruin its delicate beauty. “It won’t open until after dark. I can wait.”


“Your mother had no patience at all. Once, an aunt wrote to say she had a small gift for Delfie. Unable to wait until our aunt visited, she set off on foot to collect it. Delfie was six years old, and our aunt lived twenty miles away.” Ambrose chuckled at the memory of his younger sibling marching off across the countryside.


Fern’s mother had rushed through life headlong, eager to experience all she could. A trait Fern had inherited. Although she had learned a small amount of caution over the years. “I have no patience with people. Plants are different.”


By the time they had finished dinner, dusk had fallen outside. Before full dark settled over the countryside, George fetched three wooden chairs from the greenhouse. While he had been born into nobility like Fern’s father, he also preferred to use his hands. In George’s case, he had a natural talent for woodwork and had crafted the outdoor chairs so that Fern could enjoy the garden.


Ambrose fetched cushions covered in canvas from a chest by the back door. He picked a thick one and placed it on the chair where George would sit. 


“For all his size, he likes something soft under his bottom,” he murmured and winked at Fern. 


Fern had gathered woollen blankets from inside to ward off the night chill. While it was spring, the air lost all warmth once the sun disappeared.


Ambrose disappeared into the house and returned carrying a tray. “Hot chocolate for you, beloved niece, and a special coffee for George and I.”


Fern settled on her chair and held her mug in two hands. She enjoyed the spicy aroma of the brew before taking a sip. Ambrose made the best hot chocolate with a secret blend of spices that he refused to divulge. While their special coffee had a not-so-secret ingredient—a liberal pour of whiskey. 


The three of them sat in companionable silence, lost in their thoughts under a sky scattered with stars. The night deepened around them, and like a diva making her grand entrance, the moon rose from behind the trees. When the silver orb reached its highest point, Fern set her mug down on the ground and got out of her chair to kneel on a cushion before the lunanavis like a worshipper before an icon.


The buds unfurled with a whisper. One by one, the petals peeled wide open until they were nearly horizontal. The dark-grey outer concealed a creamy inner that reflected the moon’s radiance. While Fern had studied drawings of the plant in bloom, it paled in comparison to the wonder of seeing it before her eyes.


“It’s beautiful,” she murmured in a voice tinged with wonder. “The petals are like points on a compass rose.”


The flowers were breathtaking. Each one a perfect compass rose, with eight petals pointing to the cardinal and ordinal directions. In the middle of the flower jutted a tall and slender stalk of some three inches that seemed to be made of silver. The stalk was attached to the plant’s unseen ovary, hidden in the base of the flower. It had no visible stigma to collect pollen, since it was fertilised in an unusual way—moonlight.


“Lunanavis. Luna for moon. Navis for ship or navigation. The plant’s name reflects its compass rose-like appearance and lunar blooming cycle. It is said there is a spell that can be brewed with the needle-like stalk that will point to whatever the seeker desires.” Fern recited the passage about the plant contained in one of her botany books.


“It is a wonder. What a shame its blooms are so fleeting and cannot be enjoyed inside,” Ambrose said.


“That’s why they’re so valuable.” George leaned forwards in his chair.


“I am a monster, that I must cut down such a marvellous thing to line our pockets.” Beside the plant sat a basket and a cloth. The fabric was draped over a pair of secateurs in a similar way to how an executioner would hide their axe behind their back. Once the moonlight had pollinated the flower, Fern would snip the blooms from the shrub. Then she would use a knife to cut away the entire pistil.


“The filthy world of commerce destroys the natural world in order to meet the shallow demands of greedy people. I shall turn that into an essay for the Midnight Chronicle,” Ambrose mused from his chair.


“People need to eat and have roofs over their heads. How do you do that without cutting down a few trees or roasting a delicious leg of lamb?” George had a more practical approach to life.


Fern considered how to meet the needs of people without losing the beauty all around them. “We find the balance. While it pains me to pick the blooms, I will leave those from the third night to set seed, so that I can propagate more plants.” But she wouldn’t make too many plants available. There was another sort of balance. While the plant remained rare and difficult to grow, it ensured a small and highly valuable market for its needle-like stalk. If Fern sold too many seeds or juvenile plants, she would increase the supply of pistils.


As minutes elapsed, accompanied by the hoot of a hunting owl, three blooms fully opened. The petals glowed with the moon’s caress, and the stalk reflected a metallic glint. Nature was truly wondrous.


“Father should have been here to witness this. Life’s not fair.” Tears burned in Fern’s eyes. With a corner of the blanket, she wiped them away.


“No. It’s not fair. It’s like a game of cards. You can only play the ones you are dealt, and sometimes, the Fates stack the deck against you.” George reached out to squeeze her shoulder. 


“Both your parents should have been here to see this. But I have no doubt that Rowan and Delfie are looking down on us tonight.” Ambrose’s clear voice carried on the still air.


It comforted Fern to think her parents were reunited in death. But it hurt to navigate life without their love and guiding presence. Why couldn’t they have been together on her side of the veil? Why was she deprived of two loving parents, while others who were cold and heartless, lived on?


“None of us know how much time the Fates will gift us. That’s why we grab hold of the good we find in this world.” George fixed a long stare on the man who had walked beside him for more than three decades.


“I shall remind you of that next time you claim I have hogged all the blankets.” Ambrose winked at George, and the large man’s shoulders heaved in silent laughter at some private joke. 


“I am grateful to have both of you. It eases the loss of Mother and Father a fraction.” Fern had an abundance of love for the couple. They were a splendid example of a long-lasting romance that had weathered the many storms life threw at them. The challenges and prejudices they faced could have made them bitter. Instead, they made them stronger. 


Ambrose rose from his chair and tugged the blanket closer around his shoulders. “While the flowers are gorgeous to behold, unless they are going to start singing or dancing, I am off to my bed. I need a few hours of beauty sleep before I greet the morning.”


George also stood and collected the empty mugs. He paused beside Fern. “Are you going to stand guard all night or go to bed as well?”


“I will stay a little longer before I must cut the flowers.” Fern almost whispered the last three words, worried the plant might hear her and snap its blooms shut and sulk.


“We shall see you at breakfast, then,” George said.


They said their goodnights, and the two men returned to the house. Silence draped itself around Fern. On her cushion, she hugged her knees to her chest and stared at the luminous petals. Invisible to her eye, moon dust settled on the stalk and its stigma to pollinate the flower. If she gave the pistil to a magic caster or alchemist to brew her a potion to point to her heart’s desire, who or what would she find?