Lempi stared at the poisoned *Sylväne* moss and the weeping *Kuurankukka* fern, tasting bile on the back of her tongue. This wasn't just neglect; it was malice, a deliberate act of botanical sabotage. The crystalline film clinging to the fronds, the way it choked the foliage's internal energy flow—it spoke of someone who understood both vascular structure and the deeper currents of Sydänvirta. And only one other person at Virela possessed such layered knowledge. Salonen. His words from earlier, dismissing the Sunpetal as a folly, now echoed with a chilling, premeditated intent. She dropped to her knees on the damp gravel. This was a deliberate strike against her brother’s safety. Her fingers, usually so careful to avoid calluses, now moved with a fierce, almost desperate speed. The Sunpetal required these exact specimens, thriving and intact, as living soil anchors for its cultivation. Hours blurred into a single, focused stream. She scraped away the corrupted tissue with a silver-tipped blade, shaving clean margins along every stalk. Then, she began the arduous process of mending. Her hands hovered over the ailing specimens, a faint, cool luminescence emanating from her fingertips. This was Sydänvirta, the life current of the world, channeled and directed through her will. She murmured rhythmic Vesimaa phrases, syllables of knit and knot, drawing the foreign venom out of the taproots. It was like untangling a thousand invisible threads, each one resistant, each one vibrating with a faint, corrupted energy. The effort drew deeply from her, a subtle drain on her own vitality, leaving her muscles trembling and her mind humming with exhaustion. She prepared specialized poultices from crushed *Marjakärki* berries and *Tunturipilvi* lichen, known for their restorative properties. The air under the glass grew thick with the loam-scent of damp peat and crushed rinds. Her brow furrowed, a streak of potting soil smudged across her cheek, her hair escaping its neat braid. Slowly, painstakingly, the sickly yellow-brown receded, replaced by tentative new green shoots. The *Kuurankukka* fern, though still weak, ceased its viscous weeping. The contagion was halted, though the fronds hung limply, their recovery still uncertain. Kerttu, making her rounds with an oil lantern, paused at the glasshouse threshold. The lamp she carried cast long, dancing shadows. She had expected to find the young duchess gone, perhaps retreating to her lavish rooms, abandoning a task she had clearly undertaken on a whim. Instead, she saw Lempi, slumped over a workbench, her head resting on a thick botanical tome, a faint shimmer of Sydänvirta still clinging to her outstretched fingers. The air was heavy with the rich, living scent of potent remedies, not the sour tang of alchemical rot. The stoic housekeeper’s lips thinned, a familiar cynicism warring with something new, something almost akin to wonder. The girl wasn't just pretending. She was *working*. Harder than Kerttu had seen anyone labor under this glass in years. Kerttu watched for a long moment, then, without a sound, placed a heavy woolen shawl on a nearby stool, its simple weave a stark contrast to the opulent fabrics Lempi usually favored. Then she slipped away, her boot soles muffled against the packed dirt. Lempi didn't stir, lost in the deep, dreamless sleep of utter exhaustion. Much later, the iron latch of the conservatory door gave a small click. Valo stepped inside, his form casting a long, wavering shadow in the dim light. He had come to walk among the damp benches, seeking reprieve from the drafty halls. But tonight, his gaze fell upon Lempi. She was utterly still, her face softened by sleep, the lamplight catching the faint smudge on her cheek. His cloak, which he had thrown over a nearby propagation rack earlier in the day, was still there. He saw the shawl Kerttu had left, lying folded on the stool. A strange, aching tenderness bloomed in his chest, warring with a familiar spike of guilt. She was here, exhausted, trying to save him. Trying to save *this*. He had begged her not to. Had warned her. Yet here she was, pouring her formidable talent, her very essence, into a hopeless cause. It was a burden he wouldn't wish on anyone, least of all a woman he was forcing into this life. He moved closer, his boots muffled against the moist gravel. He picked up his heavy wool cloak, the fabric thick and warm. Hesitantly, he draped it gently over her shoulders, covering her slight form. The scent of her—pine needles, rich soil, and something subtly floral—rose to meet him, a pocket of heat against the chilly glass walls. As he turned to leave, a soft sigh escaped Lempi’s lips. Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then sharpening to his retreating back. He froze, rooted in place against the shadows. Her gaze swept over his figure, taking in the elegant curve of his neck, the way his dark hair brushed the collar of his tunic. Then, her eyes dropped lower. His skin, usually smooth, now had a faint, gritty texture at the base of his neck, just above the collar. Tiny, almost imperceptible grey lines spiderwebbed upwards, a creeping frost that stole the warmth from his flesh. It was subtle, but undeniable. The petrification was reaching his face, his throat. A harsh knot tightened in her throat. He paused, his head slightly turned, as if sensing her gaze, but he didn't look back. With a soft latch-click, the door shut, leaving Lempi alone with the herbal steam and the memory of that gray, calcified skin. Two days later, a letter arrived from home. Lempi, still tending the recovering stems, recognized Eino's looped, uneven hand on the parchment. She tore it open, a brief smile touching her lips at the thought of her brother, His words tumbled onto the page, full of the bright, unwavering optimism that was uniquely Eino. *My dearest Lempi,* the letter began, *I hope your grand new life is everything you dreamed of! Kerttu wrote to me, saying you are finally putting your hands in the soil again. Imagine! A proper duchess, playing with dirt! But I know you, and I know your heart. Things are well here. Cook has been making those berry tarts you love, and the autumn colours are truly spectacular. Guess what? Maisteri Salonen visited! He was so kind. He even told me how proud he was of you, and said you were going to do great things. And the most wonderful news: he’s arranged for a new tutor for me, a scholar from the Lyyravi Academy! He said I needed a better mind to guide me now that you’re gone. Isn't that generous of him? I start next week. I miss you, but I’m so excited for everything, for you and your fairy-tale marriage, and for my new lessons…* The ink seemed to sharpen into iron barbs. A tutor from the Lyyravi Academy, hand-picked by Salonen. Her blood chilled. She could almost hear Salonen’s silky voice, see his knowing smirk. The archivist had not simply poisoned her seedlings; he had reached across the water to touch her brother. Eino, frail and trusting, was now under his direct influence, an unwitting pawn. Salonen didn’t just want to stop her; he was holding her hostage. Her family, her beloved Eino, were now his leverage. And there was nothing she could do to stop him, to fight back, without risking everything.

Heartflow and Heartbreak