Mated to the Alpha King
A cat sleeps on the stone threshold as if it owns the door.
Inside, bundles of sage and thyme hang from rafters, lavender in braided ropes, dried bay leaves crinkling like paper when my sleeve brushes them. The list on the peg has a tidy script, Marek’s, I think. Mint, marjoram, bay, rosemary, and a handful of dried pepper pods crushed to dust.
I pack them into a basket, nose filling with the clean green of crushed stems and something sweet underneath from the lavender ropes. For a moment, just one, my chest loosens. Herbs don’t lie. They do what they do, every time.
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