The amber core pulsed against Lempi’s palm, humming with heat like fresh tea left on a sill. Kerttu, a silhouette against the chamber's dimness, placed a hand on Lempi’s arm. The touch was surprisingly gentle, a rare gesture from the usually formidable woman. “No time for tears, child. The manor groans around us,” Kerttu’s voice was low, urgent. “We must get this… this heart… to where it can truly bloom.” Lempi dragged her sleeve across her cheek. The soot smelled of dry lime and burnt wick. If Salonen took this house, Eino’s medicine would vanish with it. They scrambled out of the hidden passage, the air thick with dust and the metallic scent of crumbling rock. The grand hall, which had been a maze of shifting stones during their frantic search, was now worse. Massive fissures split the ancient walls, glowing with the same eerie, grey-blue light that marked Valo’s curse. A section of the ceiling groaned, then collapsed with a deafening roar, sending a shower of debris across their path. Lempi hauled Kerttu back by the wool of her apron, stones rattling against their boots. “The glasshouse!” Lempi yelled over the crack of falling mortar. “The central vaults are reinforced. His father's journals are still in the potting desk.” They raced through the unstable corridors, their footsteps crunching on stone shards. Mortar groaned in the rafters as granite seams sealed off the side galleries, mimicking the duke's stiffening ribs. The conservatory smelled of damp loam and steeped mint, sheltered beneath iron ribs. Lush, verdant foliage thrived under the controlled light, a stark contrast to the destruction outside. Lempi rushed to the hidden compartment where Valo’s father’s research journals were stored. Her thumbs turned foxed vellum, hunting every margin sketch of the solar blossom. “‘The Heart of Sun… demands the breath of the cultivator,’” she read, squinting at the iron-gall script. She reread the words, tracing the faded ink. “It’s not just a poetic name, Kerttu. It means… it means *my* Sydänvirta. My life force.” Kerttu stiffened, her gaze locking onto Lempi. “Your… your essence? What are you saying, child?” “To quicken its growth, to force it to bloom in winter,” Lempi explained, the meaning dawning on her with horrifying clarity. “The notes describe a profound symbiotic transfer. The grower feeds her own reservoir into the core. It forces the bud open overnight, but it bleeds the cultivator dry.” Her lifelong instinct to lounge until noon recoiled at the sheer, terrifying cost. This was not an afternoon weeding; it meant burning her marrow. Before Kerttu could answer, an oily shimmer bent the light above the potting bench. It was Maisteri Salonen, his face marred by a fresh bruise above his eye, a faint trickle of blood from his temple, but his expression was one of smug triumph. Behind him, the long banquet floor was visible, choked in split flagstones. And there, chained to one of the massive, now partially stone support columns, was Valo. He was almost entirely transformed. His legs, torso, and one arm were rigid, grey rock, the internal fissures glowing with a sickly blue light. His head was bowed, hair matted, and the stone had crept up his neck, across his jawline, leaving only a small, terrified patch of skin around his eyes and mouth. He was motionless, a statue of despair. Lempi gripped the edge of the workbench until cedar splinters bit into her palms. Salonen’s voice rasping through the phantasm echoed against the high glass. “A touching tableau, wouldn’t you agree, my dear Lempi?” Salonen’s lip curled. “A rare blossom takes weeks of warmth your lord simply lacks. Hand over the seed, and your brother walks away.” “Eino?” Her voice dropped. “He is in the archipelago clinics.” “My agents have him. A charming boy, so trusting. I merely had to mention you wished for his safe passage to Virela. He arrived this morning, quite eager to see his sister’s new home.” Salonen chuckled, a chilling, guttural sound. “He’s quite safe, for now. But his continued well-being depends entirely on your cooperation. Bring me the seed. Now. Or watch your brother join my cabinet of curiosities.” Lempi curled both hands over the warm rock. Eino’s cough had barely cleared before she took the coach north. If she handed Salonen the remedy, Valo would sit mute and granite forever, his marrow harvested for an archivist's cabinet. Kerttu stepped between the workbench and the light. “You talk like a man who never checked the courier ledgers, Salonen.” Salonen’s projected face twitched, a flicker of irritation crossing his triumphant features. “What nonsense are you prattling about, old woman?” Through the high glass panes came a faint, rising blare. A long, mournful blast of a horn, then another, and another, echoing from beyond the confines of the manor. The unmistakable call of the Vesimaa Island Guard. Kerttu’s eyes glinted with a fierce satisfaction. “Hours ago, while you were busy playing with your toxic concoctions and petty sabotage, I used the hidden passages. I sent a message to the Saimaa Watchtower. They are coming, Salonen.” Salonen’s phantom figure flared scarlet. “Fools. The sound carries five leagues across frozen water! They will arrive to an empty crypt!” The light snapped shut like an extinguished lamp. Lempi stared where the phantom had hovered. Five leagues across sea ice meant hours; Valo’s throat had perhaps minutes before the stone reached his palate. She raised the warm mineral to her breast, closed her eyes, and opened the floodgates of her Sydänvirta.

To Bloom in Winter