26 – Rosemary and Mint

I’m not even sure what is happening as Lydia moves through her home with purpose, gathering towels, jars, and what looks like every spare piece of cloth in the house. Through the windows, I watch the men making their way to the lower fields, their voices fading into the morning air.

“First things first,” Lydia announces, “proper baths for everyone. You can’t feel human again until you’ve washed off the Dread Wastes.” She leads us to a back room where a large copper tub sits near a wood-burning stove. Steam rises from kettles of water, carrying an unfamiliar sweet scent. “It’s rosemary and mint,” she explains, catching my curious expression. “I grow the herbs in my garden.”

I smell in the sweet aroma and feel my body instantly relax.

“Amari, you first,” Lydia says kindly, noting how the healer keeps adjusting her niqab. “We’ll give you complete privacy.” She shows Amari where to find the soaps and oils, then ushers the rest of us out. I catch a glimpse of Amari’s eyes above her covering – they’re filled with grateful tears.

While Amari bathes, Lydia keeps us busy. She and Maggie transform the main room, arranging cushions in a circle on the floor. Various bottles and jars appear on a low table in the center, some containing oils that catch the candlelight like liquid gold, others holding mysterious powders and creams.

When Amari emerges, wrapped in clean clothes Lydia provided, she seems both more relaxed and more guarded. Her full covering and niqab are back in place, but her posture has softened slightly.

Lydia glances out the window at the men in the distance, then turns to Amari with gentle eyes. “They’re well away now, dear. If you’d like to remove your coverings while we do your hair… this is a safe space.”

Amari’s hands drift to her niqab, fingers trembling slightly. “I… I can’t,” she whispers. “Not yet. I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for,” Lydia responds smoothly, but I catch the concern in her eyes. What happened to make someone so kind so afraid of being seen? “We’ll work around it. Your comfort is what matters here.”

I notice Maggie watching this exchange with wide eyes, and for once the usually chatty child seems to understand the need for silence. She quietly hands Amari a cushion, patting her hand in a gesture that’s both childlike and somehow wise.

When it’s my turn to bathe, the hot water feels like mercy on my skin. I can’t remember the last time I had a proper bath – in Coghaven, we made do with buckets of often-murky water. But this… this is different. I scrub away layers of desert dust, watching the water turn brown. The oils floats on the surface, creating swirling patterns that remind me of the way sand moves in the wind.

“Don’t rush,” Lydia calls through the door. “There’s plenty of hot water. We’ll keep heating more.”

I sink deeper into the tub, letting the warmth seep into my bones.

Even though Maggie didn’t need a bath, she insisted on being part of everything. After we had all bathed, Lydia surveys our ragtag group with satisfaction. Despite her coverings, Amari seems more present now, helping Maggie practice braiding with a piece of rope. Her hands move with the same gentle precision she uses for healing.

“Now for these heads of hair,” Lydia says, examining my matted ponytail. “Maggie, bring me the special comb.”

Maggie bounces up and returns with a wooden comb that looks ancient but well-loved. Light catches on its polished surface, revealing intricate patterns carved into the handle. “It was my mama’s mama’s mama’s,” she explains proudly, carefully pronouncing each ‘mama.’

“From before the Shift,” Lydia confirms, working sweet-smelling oil into my tangled hair. “It’s amazing what survives, isn’t it? The things we hold onto, passed down through generations.” Her fingers move with practiced efficiency, working through knots that I thought would never come loose.

As Lydia works on my hair, I watch Amari teaching Maggie increasingly complex braiding patterns. There’s something both beautiful and heartbreaking about how she can give so much to others while keeping herself so carefully hidden.

“Your father talks about Eden sometimes,” Lydia says softly as she works on a particularly stubborn tangle. “About what you both lost there. But looking at you now, I see what you’ve gained too. Strength. Friends.”

“Different kinds of healing,” Amari adds unexpectedly, her voice soft but clear behind her niqab. “Different ways to be strong.”

Lydia’s fingers pause briefly in my hair, and I know she heard what Amari wasn’t saying – that sometimes strength means keeping your wounds private until they’re ready to be shown.

The morning continues in this gentle way, filled with quiet conversations and occasional bursts of laughter. Lydia shows us how to mix oils for our skin, describing each scent and its purpose.

When Lydia finally holds up a polished piece of metal that serves as a mirror, I hardly recognize myself. The girl looking back at me seems softer somehow, less haunted. My hair shines with health, woven into an intricate pattern that makes me look like someone who belongs in this gentle place.

“There,” Lydia says satisfied. “Now you look like proper Graven Pointe women.” She pauses, correcting herself. “No, you already looked like Graven Pointe women. Strong, resilient, survivors. This is just decoration.”

“But pretty decoration,” Maggie insists, reaching up to touch one of my braids with gentle fingers.

Through the window, we can see the men making their way back from the fields, Papa and Isaiah deep in discussion about something while Braam carries an exhausted Cornelius on his shoulders. Their return feels almost too soon – this morning has been like stepping into another world, one where gentleness isn’t a weakness and beauty isn’t a luxury.

“Should we let them back in?” I ask, not quite ready to break the spell of this peaceful morning.

Lydia considers this, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Perhaps we need a few more minutes of peace?”

We’re still laughing when Isaiah knocks on the door, calling out, “Has the Queen’s banishment been lifted?”

Lydia winks at us before answering. “Enter at your own risk, dear. We’re all feeling quite dangerous now.”

And looking at our small group – the Queen of this household, the girl with mechanical legs, the healer whose face remains a mystery, and the child who accepts us all without question – I think we might be. Just not in the way the world expects. Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is accept someone exactly as they are and wait patiently until they’re ready to show you more.