The ritual, Malakai judged, had been a success—so far.

First, there had been the requisite opening of a large old book, written by hand and marked by many decades of service. Mal was very familiar with such tomes—although the ones he usually handled tended to be stained by blood and unspeakable filth and not by … he leaned over the page, squinting dubiously at a half-translucent spot. Butter, probably. No, not a single ancient rite had ever called for such a thing. Maybe demons were just not fond of the stuff. Gods knew why. Mal had rather a liking for it these days.

Today's endeavour required other sacrificial items, however. Half a dozen eggs were, for the moment, breathing their last in boiling water, bobbing a staccato rhythm against the metal of their pot. Mal had set a small heap of potatoes nearby so they could watch and dread what was coming for them. A large bowl sat on the counter, containing nearly all that the worn pages had demanded: curd seasoned liberally with mustard, salt, and pepper and splattered with oil and vinegar. Easy—you weren’t even required to sprinkle the salt in a specific pattern. Apparently, one just dashed it in there. Very strange, to Mal’s deeply ingrained habits. There weren’t even any votive candles, though maybe the flames of the gas stove counted as a substitute.

He switched off said stove when a little bell chimed the time and, sweeping his dark locks out of his face, bent over the recipe again. Straightforward as it was, the sorcerer studied the cookery-marked paper one final time, ensuring that no flaw marred the final creation. No, he judged: All that was left for him was to get the final—the most vital—chopped ingredient.

Malakai turned and strode across the living room to the solid front door, flinging it open.

First, you set the scene, draw the protective circles, read the incantations …

The garden, already wondrously alive in the balm of a spring day, stuttered to a halt as he stepped past the threshold; birds fell silent, wild bees ceased their buzzing, even the wind stilled and the first gentle leaves forgot to rustle. A multitude of just-blooming, just-budding hedges, shrubs, perennials, and trees—none of which Mal could name, even if he could appreciate them—stiffened more than anything green and verdant had any right to do. A supple pressure formed in the air and pushed against Mal’s skin. He stopped on the gravel path, feeling scores of tiny eyes and multitudes of little wills, bristling as one awareness. When everyone eventually resumed their work, it was with the slow watchfulness of a pack of vendors at their market stalls, daring a petty thief to try their patience.

And then … you negotiate.

“Alright. I know you don’t like me. But I know you are ridiculously fond of Bas and protective of Rhian, and who could blame you. Fact is, we need to get this done before they return home. Cooperate.”

Silence, if the din of a rural morning could be called that.

“Please.”

Nothing, not even a hair of concession.

Malakai folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “Look, I am not going to murder or sacrifice—” A rising hiss of wings and shoots. “—anyone. All I need is some herbs. You can afford to give me some of those because I distinctly remember Bas saying they grow back. But since he knows who you are and is fool enough to trust you not to poison him, there are no labels. So, I need your help. We’ll start easy: Tell me where you keep the parsley.” After a few more beats of a try-me type quiet, he huffed, “You are being very judgemental for all that I am only slightly morally challenged and have never tried to move against you.”

A fist-sized bird chose this moment to swoop from a tree, shooting straight past Malakai’s head with an angry squawk and diving into the safety of a flower-spangled bush. The sorcerer glared after it, then at the assortment of uncooperative greenery, and threw his arms wide. “Really? Really?”

Again, only the silence of weary industriousness answered him. He turned in a slow circle, directing his questions outward.

“Cress? Chives? Chervil? No?”

Stubborn, stubborn silence. “Salad burnet. Borage.” A breath. “Sorrel.” Silence should not feel like failure. Not in a garden this beautiful, this cared for, this loved.

Time for his last bargaining chip, then. “Not even for them?”

Maybe, just maybe, there was a hesitation among the vendors now, an indecisive pause, an exchange of looks.

Malakai Hayden, former Grand Voice of one of the most notorious sorcerous societies of this century and the last, a man who had tricked beasts from the Deep Abyss into bargains that everyone involved had considered a success for them and a loss for all the others … lowered his thin, rangy body, knelt down on the gravel and bare earth of the garden path, and started begging.

“Please. Please. I know I haven’t exactly tried very hard or spoken very nicely to you in the past. Horticultural etiquette was simply never a very pressing concern in my old life, seeing as I was rather occupied with not ending up dragged to any dark dimensions or stabbed in the back. And yes, I did step on that one daisy of yours, but it was an accident. I’m simply not very good at identifying … wildflowers.” His mind kept a studious distance from the word ‘weeds’. He’d uttered it once before. The stings had itched for days.

Putting both hands on the soil like he’d seen Bas do on numerous occasions, he let go of his teasing and sneering, the armour falling back and leaving just his earnest hopes exposed. “Spring is coming, and times of new and good and plentiful things, and I …” Hard, hard to say after a lifetime of keeping secrets and bracing for hurt. “I want to do something for them. Something caring. Not that that’s one of my strengths—you see me full well, and you’re right.” A harsh little laugh. “I’m not warm or kind and mostly I’m a bastard who’s done many things that deserve your suspicion. But that doesn’t mean that I don’t care. For them. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to learn how.”

He breathed the fresh, clean air of this place full of life, feeling the echo of the druid who tended to it with a devotion that still took Mal’s heart every time he saw it in Bas’s eyes; this place that sung a melody for Rhian’s magic-filled fingertips and danced with joyful magic whenever the arcanist came strolling through the gate after another exhausting case—came home to them. Some people connected so easily; all Mal had was his stubborn tendency to see a plan through at any cost, by any means necessary, and this time he’d use it for something worthwhile. Even if that meant saying the truth.

“I’m not very good at many things but I am lethally good at following instructions in a book to the letter, and those say I need herbs to make this meal. And I’d be really, truly obliged if you might do me the great favour of helping me with this. Because I know you love them … just as much as I.” A sagging of Mal’s shoulders as he lifted his hands from the ground and wiped off a few stray pieces of grit. “There. That’s my case. That’s as good and fluffy as it gets. Now might you not please give me those herbs, because I’d really rather say ‘Sauce Francfort, fresh from this land at the very heart of Europe’ instead of ‘Eggy beige goo with plain potatoes, and a happy Equinox to you, my darlings!’ What a mouth-watering prospect.”

The gravel beneath him was biting into his skin by now, even through the cloth of his jeans; and still the garden said nothing.

Fine. Fine. Store-bought it was, then, little as the final offering would seem worthy of the name. Malakai, resigned and scoffing and feeling rather a fool, jerked to his feet—and noticed that the subtle pressure that had been keeping him on the path had relented.  To his left, a short, frilly plant shook. As he looked, the bird that had nearly taken his eye out earlier hopped around the herb bouquet, did a little bob, picked something off a twig, bobbed its tail again, and flew off with a chirp.

Mal squinted at the small sprouting of frills as they rustled again, bird or no. Could be a taunt. Could be a truce.

Could be parsley.

It seemed, at any rate, that he had been released from the negotiations with his hide—if not his pride—intact; and that was a price he was more than willing to pay, for this.

 * * *

 Author’s note: Sauce Francfort, Green Sauce, or Grie Soß in the local dialect, is a speciality from Hesse, central Germany. In particular, ‘the’ Frankfurter Grüne Sauce has carried a PGI (Protected Geographical Indication) label since 2016, but there are many variations on the recipe. The dish itself symbolises new beginnings and jolly times to come after winter has passed and nature is ‘resurrected’. The ‘official season’ for this dish starts on the Christian holiday Maundy Thursday—which, in German, is called Gründonnerstag: Green Thursday. My three pagans celebrate their own version of this festivity, of course.

Jeannie Marschall is a garden hag from the green centre of Germany who also writes colourful, queer SFF stories & poems, enjoys hikes, foraging, and crawling critters. Longer works are in the cauldron (ETA July 2025). BlueSky: @JeannieMarschall.bsky.social