Ivy leads the way to the herbs in one small quarter. We pass the bent old couple who continue plucking small brown onions from the rich soil at a speed I could never hope to match—at least, not anytime soon. When she drops to her knees, I do the same.
Although I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing or why Ivy would bring me here, I lower my head just as she does and reach for the same herbs she’s collecting.
“Have you ever seen a shifter with a hunched back?” Ivy’s voice is so low I miss it, and she has to repeat herself.
I shake my head. “No,” I reply in a voice just as quiet.
She nods toward the old couple. “They work the garden for hours. Rain or shine, it doesn’t matter. They have another task as well, but this is what they do almost every day.”
I turn to the old couple. “Beca
