4345.86 · March 27, 2025 AD
The Leaves She Draws From Nowhere
Two days at Olivia's ended with words Maeve can't stop hearing: too personal, too emotional. As if feeling things deeply is a flaw. But the drive home brings different concerns—Gran's hands tight on the wheel, Grandpa's unlit pipe in his pocket, glances exchanged in a language Maeve isn't meant to understand. She always understands. And lately, her sketchbook keeps filling with botanical forms that don't exist in any gardening book she's ever found.
The Land Rover's engine rumbles like distant thunder as Gran navigates the Edinburgh streets.
Maeve sits in the back with her sketchbook pressed against her chest, still raw from a collaboration that became a critique. Olivia hadn't meant to wound—she never did—but the words landed anyway. Too personal. Too emotional. As if art that comes from somewhere real is somehow less than art that doesn't.
But something else is wrong this morning. Gran and Grandpa keep exchanging glances in that silent language of long marriage, communicating things Maeve isn't meant to notice. She always notices.
The estate unfolds around her—honey-coloured stone, leaded windows, the greenhouse gleaming in the distance. In the kitchen, Dad tests recipes for the festival. The coffee is good. The booth designs are taking shape beneath her pencil.
And her pencil keeps drawing leaves she's never consciously seen. Distinctive patterns. Lobed forms. Plants that don't appear in any book but feel familiar in ways she can't explain.
She's been patient with Campbell secrets her whole life. She's starting to think patience might be overrated.
