Three days before the Festival of Four Moons, the village transformed into an enthusiastic, semi-organized whirlwind.
Bunting exploded across rooftops in mismatched waves of fabric, bakeries extended their hours (and their waistlines), and someone—likely Orla the tanner—had already installed a mechanical moon-rotation display in the square that made alarming creaking noises every time it spun.
Inside the apothecary, Laurel blinked at a commission list that stretched all the way to her elbow.
"Anti-blister balm, foot-soothe sachets, rapid-digest tinctures, ten vials of 'heart-steadying cordial' for public declarations of affection—gods help me—sleep draughts, awake draughts, and a batch of glitter oil?"
Rowan looked up from where she was folding festival ribbons. "Glitter oil's for the hair."
"I guessed. Why is it on my list?"
"Because everyone thinks you make the best one. Yours smells like starfruit and good decisions."
Laurel pinched the bridge of her nose. "There are no good decisions in glitter."
From the window, Seraphina waved with a pastry in each hand. She entered with the flair of a magician revealing cake, and placed the pastries on the counter.
"Ladies," she said grandly, "the festival is nigh. Are your souls, shops, and stomachs prepared?"
Pippin sniffed one of the tarts. "It's almond. She's buying our affection."
"Obviously," Seraphina said. "I expect a discount."
Laurel grinned. "Then help me label these bottles."
Rowan handed her a brush. "And no more rhyming ingredients this time."
"No promises."
By mid-morning, the apothecary had turned into a miniature production line.
Seraphina manned the label station with dramatic flair, composing poetic taglines for even the most practical products.
"'Aroma of Assurance'—ideal for anxious declarations!"
Laurel passed her a vial. "That's foot balm."
"Oh." She scribbled out the title. "'Sandal Savior' it is."
Rowan mixed tinctures in steady, practiced motions, her measuring spoon tapping like a metronome against each bottle's edge. Her smile came easy, especially when Laurel nodded in quiet approval.
A few villagers popped in and out—Gareth, seeking a salve for what he claimed was 'festival fever,' though Laurel strongly suspected it was an attempt to see Rowan; Brena the librarian requesting a "focus fog" diffuser; and two teenagers who awkwardly asked if Laurel could brew "something that makes you seem more interesting."
"Confidence blend?" Laurel asked.
"Or invisibility," one muttered. "Whichever works faster."
Meanwhile, Pippin perched atop the shelf of glitter oils, tail flicking like a metronome of disdain.
"I hope the moon spins off its axis," he said. "Then we'll see who cares about matching ribbons."
Seraphina leaned over to whisper, "Has he always been like this?"
Rowan didn't look up. "He's festive in his own way."
Laurel added, "He once made himself a crown out of starlily stems."
"It wilted," Pippin muttered.
"You were majestic."
In the late afternoon, Laurel escaped the bustle for a brief moment of calm inside the greenhouse.
The warmth embraced her like a familiar shawl, rich with chlorophyll and old memories. She knelt beside the motherroot, brushing its outer bark with careful fingers.
"It's almost festival time," she whispered. "You'd hate it—far too loud. But the children will bring you ribbons."
The root hummed, soft and even. A sleepy acknowledgment.
Behind her, the door creaked.
Rowan entered with a steaming mug. "Peace tea," she offered. "Lemon balm, lavender, hint of drowsy petal."
Laurel took it gratefully. "You're learning."
"I watched you steep it last week."
"You remembered the ratios?"
Rowan grinned. "Mostly. I may have added a little vanilla."
Laurel took a sip. "Brilliant. This could calm a parade."
Rowan sat beside her, shoulders brushing. For a moment, the only sound was the gentle rustle of leaves.
"Do you ever get nervous before the festival?" Rowan asked.
"Not really. Maybe excited. Nostalgic, sometimes."
"Even with all the chaos?"
Laurel smiled. "Especially with the chaos."
She reached for a nearby blossom, twisted it gently free, and tucked it into Rowan's hair.
"It suits you," she said.
Rowan blinked. "The flower?"
"The moment."
As twilight approached, the village square began to glow with paper lanterns shaped like moons—one for each phase. Volunteers bustled about with streamers and ladders, and someone began rehearsing the annual lute medley far too close to Laurel's doorstep.
Back in the apothecary, the trio reorganized the front display. Seraphina insisted on sparkle-forward aesthetics, Rowan arranged the jars by mood, and Laurel simply tried to make sure nothing was leaking.
"You can't put the sleep tinctures next to the energy ones," Laurel said. "They'll argue."
"They're not alive," Seraphina replied, posing a bottle of moon-glow serum in dramatic lighting.
"Says who?" muttered Laurel.
They paused to admire the finished result: soft-glass jars catching lantern light, labels hand-drawn, shelf lined with starry muslin.
Pippin leapt up beside the setup and promptly knocked over a vial.
"Sabotage," Rowan sighed.
"I fixed your symmetry," he declared.
Outside, laughter and music carried on the breeze. The scent of cinnamon pies and roasted pears drifted in, making everyone simultaneously hungry and nostalgic.
"Tomorrow's going to be loud," Seraphina said.
"And bright," Rowan added.
"And chaotic," Laurel finished.
They exchanged smiles.
"Perfect," said all three.
Later that night, after the apothecary had quieted and Seraphina departed with promises of festival pastries at dawn, Laurel stood at her window with a mug of rosehip tea.
The moon—just past full—cast soft shadows on the shelves, turning bottles to silhouettes and glass to gleam.
Rowan entered silently, draped in a shawl that trailed lavender bits behind her.
"Couldn't sleep?"
Laurel shook her head. "Too many thoughts. Not all bad."
Rowan joined her at the window. "Excited?"
"A little. Grateful, mostly."
"For what?"
Laurel sipped her tea. "This. You. All of it. I used to dread this time of year. Too much noise, too many people. Now it feels like... tradition."
Rowan smiled. "That's because you made it yours."
They stood in companionable quiet. Pippin snored from his basket, curled into a crescent shape, tail twitching occasionally.
After a while, Rowan said, "You never told me what you wished for last festival."
Laurel laughed softly. "I wished the glitter wouldn't stick to everything."
"Did it come true?"
"No. But I also wished for company."
She looked at Rowan. "That one did."
Rowan looked away, but her smile didn't fade.
The next morning, the village pulsed with energy.
Laurel opened the apothecary doors to find a procession already underway: children with moon masks, dogs in poorly-fitted cloaks, and a quartet of elderly men attempting choreography with surprising commitment.
Rowan had woven garlands from fresh herbs and draped them over the display tables. She wore one in her hair too, a braid of rosemary and tiny clover flowers.
"You're luminous," Laurel said.
Rowan flushed. "You made the clover grow early."
"I bribed it with compliments."
They laughed, and Pippin meowed pointedly from atop the counter where he'd nested in the starry muslin cloth.
The shop filled quickly—guests seeking calming tea, love-luck sachets, hangover preventatives, and of course, the infamous glitter oil.
Seraphina swept in midmorning, wearing a cloak stitched with moons and holding a pastry box big enough to hide a cat.
"I have arrived," she declared, "and I come bearing gifts and gossip."
"You're late," Pippin said. "I've already judged ten outfits and three declarations of love."
Laurel handed her a tart. "We're just getting started."
Outside, the festival bloomed with color and sound. Bells jingled, drums beat in soft spirals, laughter echoed from rooftop to stall.
And inside the little apothecary, joy settled like golden dust.
As evening approached, lanterns bloomed like stars across the square. Laurel stepped out briefly, arms wrapped around herself, taking in the shimmering canopy.
The crowd moved in waves—families, friends, pairs in hesitant orbit. Everywhere, joy vibrated like music.
She spotted a familiar form by the cider stand. Rowan, laughing with a garland vendor, a cup of something steaming in her hands.
Seraphina appeared beside Laurel. "Go," she said, nudging gently.
"What?"
"You've spent all week steeped in potions and quiet. Tonight, steep in the crowd."
Laurel hesitated. "I don't do crowds."
"Then walk next to one."
Laurel did.
She wandered past stalls of sweetbread and ribbon charms, children tossing starlit petals, a fiddle player whose tune seemed designed for mischief. She found Rowan again near the linden tree, a garland now in her hands.
"I saved you one," Rowan said.
"For what?"
"For dancing."
Laurel blinked. "We don't dance."
"Exactly why we should."
They joined the ring of festival-goers moving gently around the lantern-lit square. Nothing formal—just steps and laughter and warmth.
And as the music climbed, Laurel spun, and the night did too, and she let go for once.
Above them, the four moons climbed together. Bright, bold, and entirely too much.
Perfect.
The final notes of the festival song drifted into the night air as villagers began to gather blankets and extinguish lanterns. The mood settled into something soft and glowing, like embers at the edge of a celebration.
Laurel and Rowan wandered back to the apothecary beneath garlanded arches, shoes dusted with petals.
Inside, Pippin was asleep in a box labeled "NOT FOR NAPPING."
Laurel lit a candle. Rowan handed her a pear tart she'd swiped from the dessert table.
They sat together on the counter.
"Favorite moment?" Laurel asked.
Rowan thought. "The dancing."
"You always say the dancing."
"It's always true."
Laurel smiled. "Mine was the child who asked if our potions could make you fly."
Rowan snorted. "What did you say?"
"I told them only sideways."
They laughed, soft and tired.
Outside, the four moons hung full and luminous. A breeze stirred the wind chimes. Laurel leaned her head on Rowan's shoulder.
"Thanks for today," she said.
Rowan leaned back. "Thanks for the year."
A quiet moment bloomed.
Then Pippin mumbled from his box, "Wake me when the glitter wears off."
They both burst out laughing.
The festival was over. The joy lingered.
The day after the festival dawned slow and golden.
Laurel padded into the apothecary still wearing one earring shaped like a crescent and a vague smear of moon-glitter across her cheek. The shop was quiet, save for Pippin's gentle snores and the clink of drying vials in the sink.
She began sorting the leftover stock: two bottles of joy draught, one mislabeled "Enthusiasm Extract," three jars of mood-mint, and half a packet of glow-dust that sparkled every time she breathed near it.
Rowan wandered in, hair braided with festival ribbons she'd forgotten to remove.
"You look festive," Laurel said.
"I look hungover on happiness," Rowan replied.
They shared sleepy tea in silence.
Laurel finally said, "Do you think we'll do it again next year?"
Rowan nodded. "Definitely."
Pippin stirred. "Only if I get a booth."
"For what?" Laurel asked.
"Judging. Obviously."
She chuckled, then looked around the cozy mess—the bundles of spent garlands, the scent of cinnamon still lingering in the air, the half-written thank-you notes.
"Yes," she said. "Definitely."
That evening, Laurel sat by the greenhouse door with her journal balanced on one knee. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows through the vines. She wrote slowly, as if bottling the warmth of the festival into words.
This year, the festival felt like breath. Like gathering and letting go. We gave, we laughed, we remembered.
She paused, stared at the sky painted in soft dusk colors.
Rowan joined her, carrying two mugs of mulled nectar. "Still writing?"
"Trying to capture the feel of it."
Rowan handed over a mug. "You can't bottle everything."
"No. But I can name it."
She sipped. "This one I'll call 'Evening Restorative.' Good for post-celebration reflections."
They sat in companionable quiet, the kind built from shared work and small glories.
"I'm glad we did it together," Laurel said.
"We always do," Rowan replied.
And though no moon glittered in the sky yet, the greenhouse shimmered faintly in the corner of Laurel's eye. As if the plants remembered, too.
Late that night, long after the village had gone quiet, Laurel lit a single lantern and stepped into the greenhouse one last time.
The plants stood still, basking in the warmth of leftover celebration. A ribbon someone had tied to a lemongrass stalk fluttered gently in the breeze from the cracked window.
She crouched beside the motherroot, brushing her fingers along the soil's surface. "Thank you," she whispered.
A soft warmth pulsed through her fingertips—subtle, grounding.
She left a single starlily bloom at its base, a silent promise of care and continuation.
Behind her, Rowan appeared, arms folded in a shawl, eyes drowsy. "Couldn't sleep?"
Laurel shook her head. "Too full. Not in a bad way."
They stood together in the stillness.
Then Rowan said, "Next year, we make moon pies."
Laurel blinked. "Moon... pies?"
"Cookies shaped like phases. Lemon for waxing, vanilla for waning. Chocolate for new moon, of course."
Laurel smiled. "You already have recipes, don't you?"
Rowan nodded. "I might have tested a few."
They laughed.
The greenhouse creaked softly, as if agreeing.
And in that quiet, Laurel felt the fullness of the festival settle into her bones—not loud or bright, but gentle and lasting.