The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis

The bells chimed for morning greetings, just as they always did—soft and sweet and just a little too early for anyone with a soul.

I was already waiting in the outer courtyard, seated beneath the pavilion with a steaming cup of jasmine tea resting beside me. The sky was painted in pale golds and oranges, and the air smelled like dew and honeysuckle. It would have been peaceful, even lovely, if not for the approaching herd of silk and resentment.

The concubines arrived two by two, like women heading toward an execution—except they'd dressed for a coronation.

Layers of gauzy fabric in spring pastels, jade combs nestled in perfectly coiffed buns, jewelry clinking with every calculated step. Rouge brightened their cheeks and widened their eyes, but it couldn't disguise the tension in their shoulders.

I smiled.

"How lovely," I murmured as they bowed one after the other, their voices murmuring greetings in tones that didn't quite reach the eyes. "It looks like everyone's ready for more gardening."

The closest pair froze mid-bow.

Lady Yuan, ever the tactician, recovered first. "It is our duty to accompany the Crown Princess in whatever tasks she deems fit," she said with syrupy calm. "Even if that includes soil."

"Such dedication," I said, eyes drifting down the line of women. "Especially after such a long week. I imagine you're still rattled after having to garden the other day, Lady Bai."

The woman in question paled beneath her painted cheeks.

Her lips twitched upward in something that might have passed for a smile. "It was merely a misunderstanding. I had… nightmares, nothing more."

"Yes, those can be terribly vivid," I replied, letting the words hum with false sweetness. "Particularly when one wakes to find a severed skull nestled in their pillow."

A few of the concubines went stiff. Lady Bai clenched the edge of her sleeve, fingers twitching.

"I must admit," I continued, tilting my head as if studying the vines growing up the trellis behind them, "I was quite concerned. I've heard rumors that security in the manor isn't what it used to be."

There it was—the silence.

Taut. Tangled. Like thread wrapped around a blade.

"I mean," I added, tapping my chin with one finger, "if an assassin can get all the way to the inner chambers, what's stopping someone else? A thief? A drunk servant? A stray dog?"

No one answered.

Lady Yuan cleared her throat, clearly attempting to steer the conversation back into calmer waters. "I'm sure the Crown Prince has already begun an internal investigation."

"I'm sure he has." I let my smile drop just slightly. "But since it was my body the knife nearly reached, I believe I'll be having that conversation with him directly. Perhaps the Shadow Guard could double the rounds… or we might assign new posts entirely. I've noticed quite a few faces lately that don't belong."

Lady Bai flinched.

Lady Yuan masked her sigh behind her sleeve.

"Of course," I continued lightly, "I don't mean to sound paranoid. It's just…" I leaned forward, voice dropping, "...we wouldn't want any more accidents."

One of the younger concubines—Lady Shu, if I remembered correctly—actually dropped her fan.

I stood, slowly.

The hem of my robe whispered over the floor as I descended the steps of the pavilion. I walked past them, and they parted like reeds around a stone.

Each of them bowed again, this time deeper.

I paused at Lady Bai's side, close enough that I could smell the faint perfume clinging to her hair—magnolia and something faintly bitter beneath it.

"Do rest well, Lady Bai," I said, not looking at her. "I find that exhaustion can be dangerous. Sometimes it leads people to make foolish decisions. Like trusting the wrong allies. Or mistaking fear for power."

Her breath caught, but she didn't move.

I kept walking.

A servant appeared at my side with a folded list. I took it without ceremony, scanning the names.

"These are the attendants for this week's garden shift?" I asked. The servant nodded. "Lovely. I'd like to see their hands before we begin."

"Crown Princess?"

"Calluses," I said with a shrug. "No use assigning tasks to those who will faint at the sight of dirt."

A ripple of discomfort passed down the line.

I tapped the scroll against my palm, then looked back at them. "Don't worry. The weeds don't bite. But I do expect progress."

Lady Yuan stepped forward. "We will serve as instructed."

"Oh, I know you will," I said, smiling again. "After all, it's the only way to stay relevant."

She stiffened but nodded.

"Now," I clapped once, "tea is over, and the sun is out. Let's make use of it, shall we?"

The concubines followed, reluctantly, down the path toward the back garden. The silence among them was telling. Whispers would come later, behind closed doors. Or maybe they were finally learning that I heard everything anyway.

I didn't need spies.

I had eyes. Ears. A soul tuned to the sound of betrayal.

Lady Bai would try again. I was sure of it. She wasn't clever enough to hide her ambition, and she wasn't strong enough to kill me herself. But someone in her family would be bolder next time.

Let them come.

Let them all come.

I'd survived a world-ending apocalypse, a decade in exile, and two assassination attempts before breakfast. What were a few jealous women with too much perfume and not enough brains?

The garden gates opened, and I gestured for the women to follow me inside.

Rows of herbs waved lazily in the breeze. Tomatoes and gourds ripened on their vines. Chickens wandered just beyond the low fence, pecking the dirt with calm indifference.

It was nothing like the palace.

And maybe that was the point.

"Today," I said, leading them to the beds near the center, "we'll be focusing on root vegetables. Carrots, turnips, that sort of thing. They're buried deep, but if you tug too hard, they break."

Lady Yuan bent stiffly to kneel beside the soil. "How poetic."

"Nature always is," I replied.

I knelt beside her, scooping up a handful of cool earth. The grit pressed beneath my nails, familiar and grounding. I turned the soil with practiced ease, showing them how to find the bulb, how to pull gently, how not to snap the fragile roots.

"The thing about gardens," I said quietly, "is that they remember."

Lady Bai looked up from her assigned row. "Remember?"

"Everything," I replied, digging deeper. "Which seeds bloomed. Which ones didn't. Which flowers choked out the others when no one was looking. You can try to change it, but it still grows from the same soil."

Silence followed me again.

Good.

I wanted them uncomfortable.

I wanted them wondering whether I was talking about the carrots—or them.

Because I'd let them try.

Once.

But the next time they touched my garden, I'd bury them in it.

Alive.