The General's Apothecary Apprentice

Chapter 7

She tried to let the memory of the day's event to rest by spending the day with mindless reading and light meals. Yet the general's face taut with forehead lines seemed to be painted by the winds that passed by, fluttering in her view.

Her self-imposed distraction lasted tilll she finally scoffed at her own enforced idleness. She hated lazy days like this, but she knew her father would much rather she stay home.

Suddenly, she heard her father’s jarring voice downstairs, a deep rumble of anxiety, followed in less than a minute by him calling her name too.

Genevieve sighed, resigning herself to a long, familiar lecture. Tristan, her father, looked stern, his brow furrowed with the collective worry of the village council.

Tristan’s voice was low and harsh. "I will not have your reputation destroyed because you are keen on exchanging foolish words with a brigand."

“You have said this before, Father,” Genevieve replied quietly, her eyes fixed on the wooden floorboards.

“Please excuse me, I must water the greens now that the air is warmer.”

Tristan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He only watched as she turned toward the doorway, her shawl slipping slightly from her shoulder. The sunlight poured in through the open door, spilling over her as she stepped outside.

He stared at her retreating shadow stretching across the yard, his heart heavy. Raising two daughters was no task envied by men, yet by the gods, he swore he would protect them from every whisper of danger that lurked beyond the hedges of their quiet village.

Outside, the morning had ripened. Mist still clung to the hilltops, and the scent of wet earth filled the air. Sheep bleated lazily in the meadow beyond the stone fence, their wool thick with dew.

Jovias, the shepherd boy waved from afar, his crook resting against his shoulder, the soft echo of his whistle carrying through the open fields.

Genevieve walked toward the garden patch behind the cottage. The soil was dark and rich, the rows of cabbage and greens still glistening from last night’s drizzle.

She fetched a wooden bucket from beside the trough and began to draw water from the well. Each pull of the rope made her arms ache, but she welcomed the pain, it steadied her thoughts, kept her from thinking.

Lucienne, walked right in then, her hair in messy braids. “He’s fretting again, isn’t he?” she called out, resting her chin on her palms.

“He always frets,” Genevieve replied with a faint smile. “It’s what keeps the roof from falling, I suppose.”

Lucienne laughed softly. “You make it sound like worry is a trade.”

“In this house, it is,” Genevieve said, glancing toward the cottage door where her father still stood, a silhouette against the dark of the hallway.

She turned back to the greens and began to water them, careful not to drown the young leaves.

“What are you doing here though?”

“I just stopped to share my greetings Vieve. I believe myself to be your friend?”

Genevieve gave a tight smile and continued her chores till Lucienne face turned a shade redder and stomped away.

The air buzzed with the sound of crickets, and the distant clatter of hooves marked the passing of a farmer’s cart.

Life went on, slow and steady. The warriors were good guests, rarely disrupting the day-to-day rhythm of the village.

Her father finally stepped outside, his boots crunching over gravel. He looked toward the sky where clouds drifted lazily, the same sky that had watched over his father and his father before him. His voice was softer now when he spoke.

“You think I am too harsh,” he said, not looking at her.

“I think you are afraid,” Genevieve answered, her tone calm, her hands still busy with the bucket.

He sighed, his gaze fixed on the sheep grazing at the far end of the pasture. “Fear keeps people alive. It kept me alive when the raiders came through here years ago. It will keep you safe too, if you listen.”

Genevieve straightened, brushing her palms on her apron. “I do listen, Father. But I also live. There is a difference.”

He looked at her then, truly looked at her, the girl who was no longer a child but not yet the woman he feared the world would break. “Your mother had that same spirit,” he murmured. “It was both her strength and her undoing.”

Genevieve did not reply. She only returned to her work, the bucket dipping and pouring, the water darkening the soil around the roots. The sheep bleated again, as though echoing the quiet tension between them.

From the road beyond the hedges, the faint ring of a bell drifted in, the sound of the baker’s cart making its final morning round.

Her stomach rumbled as she smelt smoke rising from chimneys, the scent of bread and hay mingling in the warm air. She hoped breakfast would be ready soon.

Tristan turned back toward the house, his hand brushing the wooden doorframe as if to steady himself.

“Water the greens well,” he said. “The weather is changing.”

“I know,” Genevieve replied softly. “Everything is.”

As he disappeared inside, she looked toward the hills again, where the morning sun burned through the mist. From afar came the echoes of the soldiers’ drills, steady, rhythmic, too sharp for a peaceful morning.

The baker’s grumble reached her from the lane. “These warriors will scare away all the animals with their noise!”

Avana’s laughter floated from the kitchen. “Sire, give them credit. For such a big army, they try to be quieter than expected.”

The baker muttered as he pushed his cart away. “What’s it with the women in this village defending these soldiers? Even my Yolanda says the same.”

Avana called after him, “Maybe it’s because they represent something bigger than we’ve seen in years.”

Genevieve listened quietly and in her chest, something deeper was stirring, an ache for something beyond the fences and the fear.