Sunlight warmed the late-autumn clover patch at the edge of the wheelwright’s yard. There, a few tardy bees still droned among the white blossoms beside Sister Merrow’s herb frames. The air smelled of crushed thyme, warm honey water, and dry willow osiers. Pella Rook knelt on the grass before the oak practice bench. She held the small willow basket open on her palm with complete body stillness so her shadow wouldn’t fall across the pale, furry creature resting on the rim.
Her breathing was slow and shallow, her fingers steady despite the tension coiled in her shoulders. Perched on the peeled willow twig was a common Lowbank garden moth spirit. An entity no larger than a child’s thumb, with powdery cream-colored wings and feathery antennae that twitched at the scent of the clover-honey droplet Pella had placed on the wooden doorstep of the baked-clay test arch.
Unlike the grand elemental constructs bound in the college tiered halls with silver chains and blood-ink threat formulas, a garden moth spirit possessed barely an ounce of astral mass. But its body autonomy was matching to any living traveler. Pella opened her pocket stopwatch in her left palm and tapped the tiny bronze striker plate on the baked-clay arch twice, offering a two-minute voluntary transit contract with zero load and full right of refusal.
