I could not guess at how long I lived in the cottage, for it seemed to last the span of both days and years.

True to her word, Ambrosia joined me in looking for my sister, and used her wisdom and magic to aid in our search. She spoke every language known to the world, including that of animals and trees, and conversed with them often to gain information.

"The badger I met today hasn't seen a girl who matches Credence's description," she told me, "but the trees are whispering about a child with gray eyes who was born from noble blood. She's been seen with a wolf—"

"A wolf?"

"A man like you who shifts between human and animal."

"But Credence doesn't have noble blood."

"Hm. Perhaps it is a metaphor. The trees are fond of them. There were a few of them who were angry with her. Something about striking down their hero. They say her mother—your mother—was a powerful witch, though they can't agree on whether she was kind or wicked."

"Ma wasn't wicked. She was gentle with everything."

"Hm. Do you have magic?"

"I...no."

"Well, at any rate, one thing the trees can agree on is that the girl and the man disappeared into a cloud of purple. And several of the trees' brothers and sisters went with them. And there the trail goes cold, I'm afraid."

It took me a full day to recall an important piece of information.

"Ambrosia!" I exclaimed suddenly, startling the woman from her sweeping. "I just remembered! I've been to a place where the air is purple!"

"You have? Wonderful!"

"No, not wonderful at all. It was an enormous prison built into a white tree."

Ambrosia's excitement drained with the color in her face.

"The Collector?" she asked.

It had been a long time since I heard the name, but it still made me shiver.

"You know of it?" I asked. 

"All who live in the woods are familiar with that monster."

"Then you know the danger Credence is in."

She nodded. "There is good news in this though. A purple area of the woods will be much easier to spot."

Ambrosia never lost hope or suggested our search may be pointless, but joined me in earnest for countless hours wandering through the trees. My wolf helped too, using its keen hearing to listen for whispers and its sharp eyes to spot a hint of purple. On a few occasions, after Ambrosia retired to bed, I would venture into the night to resume looking. Once, I offered her my vial of tears, explaining it had magic that might prove useful, but after sniffing the contents Ambrosia shook her head and told me to keep it, for it had no use beyond protecting its wearer with a thin shield.

"It won't be effective against most things," she told me, "but it will keep smaller threats like foxes and spiders at bay if they mean you harm."

We settled into a peaceful routine, with our mornings dedicated to the search, afternoons dedicated to chores, and evenings dedicated to conversation and leisure. It became common occurrence for me to shift into a wolf after dinner and curl up near Ambrosia by the fire. She would stroke its fur and regale stories from her life, and the wolf would ask questions. It was through these fireside talks that the wolf's language was enhanced, until it was able to communicate in complete sentences. Ambrosia often complimented it for being an eloquent speaker, which made the wolf beam with pride.

I learned much about her during our time together. In all her years, she never married or had children. She found family through others that didn't belong to her by blood, and, in her own words, had hundreds of mothers, fathers, sisters, and brothers. She never spent more than a decade with any of them, and this suited her.

She'd fought in several battles, learning the thrill of victory and the despair of defeat. She'd met goblins and unicorns. She spent an entire spring among a tribe of fish before they led her to a mermaid court. She studied with scholars who believed thunder came from the stomping feet of giants living in clouds. She had lost and gained loved ones all over the world, and every one of them was cherished in her heart.

My favorite of her stories, to my surprise, were the ones of peaceful times.

"Granny Casta got all her recipes from birds," Ambrosia said of a woman she'd lived with in a jungle village. "She'd sit on her porch each morning, puffing on her long pipe, and they would smell the vanilla leaf and flock to her by the dozens. I taught her to write and she put many of their words to paper."

When Ambrosia bid me goodnight and sweet dreams, she would always end with, "Credence is out there. We'll keep looking until we find her."

On our first morning together she reminded me of my price to catch two rabbits. I continued to "pay" her each day, though it was a good-natured joke rather than an actual wage. It wasn't just rabbits, but two of anything the wolf could find, be it fowl or fish or even two sticks that looked alike.

If it was food the wolf brought home, Ambrosia would cook it over the fire before giving it to her companion. She did not consume meat but understood it was necessary for a carnivore.

But taking a life came with a serious responsibility. After the animal had its fill, Ambrosia would gather what was left and the wolf would follow her outside to the garden in front of her cottage. There, she would dig a shallow hole in the soil and bury the remains, and we gave thanks to the souls that nourished the wolf's body.

When Pa prayed over food at home, his focus was on giving thanks for having something to eat, while Ambrosia spoke of the life that had been given to make the food, and how its death was useful to the world.

"Now this body will make the soil fertile, giving the garden a better chance to grow," she explained.

Through this ritual, I learned to have an appreciation for the sacrifice of others, no matter how small it seemed—

"Is that why you cleaned and prayed over the bones after we ate?" Credence asked.

Josiah nodded.

Ambrosia taught me many things, but one of the most important lessons was compassion.

Well, that, and to remove my clothing before changing into a wolf.

The wolf took her wisdom to heart, too, and began to hunt only what it needed.

In Ambrosia I found a kindred spirit who detested harming anything, even with a purpose. The lowest pest that plagued her garden was removed with a gentle hand and treated with the same civility that a guest would be offered. I would have assumed that, given how much she'd seen of the world, she would have become bitter by the hate and brutality that infected every corner, but she continued to view life, both the good and bad of it, with an innocent, loving gaze.

Her garden was a sacred place. It grew herbs and vegetables for meals and flowers for beauty. When she harvested them she would point to their roots and say, "See how it is connected in the ground? All things in this world share that same connection, even if the roots cannot be seen."

Her generosity had no end. My dreams were still plagued with monsters from time to time, and I woke from each one to find Ambrosia at my side, dabbing a cloth on my brow and whispering soothing words. One such night, she even pulled her cloak of stars around me, the first time I'd seen it, and its warmth and weight relaxed my racing heart. It was a dazzling creation, black and midnight blue dotted with specks that twinkled when they caught the fire's light.

When I tried to return it, Ambrosia shook her head.

"It's yours, Josiah. Wear it and think of me."

She had her quirks, as I suppose everyone does. She often proclaimed herself a "kitchen witch" because she loved growing and cooking food—

But she was clumsy, and there was rarely a meal prepared where something wasn't spilled or burned. She followed her heart when she created dishes, and as she stirred and cut she would often muse to herself out loud, saying things like, "This radish hates broccoli, and I will not stand a tantrum today," or, "I believe it's a hopeful sign that we notice rainbows or think anything at all of the smell of rain," or, "Ms. Cabbage here has no rhyme or reason. And she is beautiful because of that."

Once, as a jest, she tossed a piece of soft carrot at me during dinner, and I returned it with a lump of potato. Soon we were hurling food at each other and howling with laughter.

Most of our days were like this, full of joy and play.

But life was not always serene.

It only happened twice, but both times were devastating. Humans had stumbled upon Ambrosia's home and made their presence known by stealing from her garden before destroying it. They threw paint on her door and with their fingers they drew the word, "Witch".

Ambrosia silently cleaned the mess before salvaging what was left of her plants.

"We should set a trap in case they return," I told her.

"They do what they please with their violence," she said, "but I will not answer in kind."

"You're not afraid they'll return and be more vicious?"

"The only thing I fear is being kept from my destiny."

That was her way, to never judge evil but allow it to have its place in the world.

That night we spoke at length about cruelty. I had mentioned my time at the circus, but it was here I shared the gruesome details of each fight, and how the deaths horrified me until their number grew too many and there remained no outrage left. I admitted that I had been ashamed of the wolf at first, thought it a monster and a curse, and was still sometimes troubled by its brutality. I knew the wolf heard me and inside I felt a swell of regret. I hated to say it, but I hated keeping things from Ambrosia more.

She comforted us both.

"Wickedness can be a path to wisdom, if it teaches one to be better. Those humans who ruined the garden, for instance. Their actions will either lead them to further barbarity or make them sit back and consider what they've done. If they choose the latter, they will become wise."

"Why is life that way? Why must we have suffering to understand peace?"

"So we know that we are capable of both, and in choosing peace we become better."

"I knew peace was better before hurting anyone."

"Ah, but now that you've actually felt the cost of hurting another, you truly understand it."

Ambrosia smiled and my heart skipped. She looked lovely under the glow of fire, like every inch the divine being she claimed to be.

I would give my life for her, I thought.

In that moment, I realized I'd never adored someone so passionately.

Romantically.

"I love you," I blurted before I could stop my tongue from moving.

Ambrosia blinked, caught off guard by my declaration. "I love you, too."

The cottage was my home, and I was as comfortable there as I was in the house I shared with my real family. Peace returned to my soul, something I hadn't felt since before Pa died. 

After marveling at the work, Ambrosia hung the tapestry finished by Interra and Amatha on the wall, as a symbol that I had become a permanent member of the household. She placed her scroll of prophecy beside it, and the two images sat like peculiar siblings.

I studied them each night as I lay in bed waiting for sleep. The more I looked at Ambrosia's scroll, the more convinced I became that the story it depicted was a fable. We hadn't spoken of Ambrosia's impending demise since my first night, but it weighed on my mind every day.

She was my family, and when we found my sister we would be complete and spend the rest of our lives in quiet harmony. I was not the Herald of Ambrosia's death. I would never hurt her. I decided to push my fears aside and continue in the belief that she was mistaken, or, if there was any truth to her foretold end, it would not come for many, many lifetimes. As long as I was with her there would be no fire she danced in or a great battle in the sky. 

The woman I loved was not hiding or trapped in my world. She was simply Ambrosia, the most wonderful person I had ever met. I was certain one day she would understand that was enough.

But perhaps the most vital lesson I learned from Ambrosia is that all things, wicked or wonderful, must eventually come to an end.