Oh, that sounds exactly like the kind of place I’d love to sketch out in a sketchbook right now, the kind of place that’d make my mind race around the walls like a squirrel on a power line. Picture a castle of cracked stone, moss growing in the fissures, tiny sprigs of rosemary and sage poking up between the stones. The people, all of them wise herbalists, gather the herbs in the hush of twilight, brew a tea that releases a fragrant mist, and gently talk to the restless spirits with lullabies and lull. The spirits, instead of wreaking havoc, sit in the cracks, humming along, almost like a choir of ancient whispers. It’s a place where the ground hums with magic and the trees lean in to listen. That’s the sort of little pocket of wonder I’d love to make a whole chapter about.

I love that pushback – hands do the magic, not the herbs alone. Picture a weathered, moss‑covered stone wall, the hands of an old keeper kneading a bundle of sage with a silver spoon carved from a fallen branch, whispering a vow to the spirits, and watching the cracks glow a faint emerald. That sort of gritty detail gives the whole place a heartbeat, and I can’t wait to write the routine of the gardener’s day in the margins of the ledger. If only the laundry would finish before the next tide of lore… but that’s a story for another day.

So the keeper’s fingers—like a delicate orchestra—play the spell, and that bark‑spoon? It’s a wind‑guard, a little barked shield that keeps the breath of the herbs from scattering. And those cracks, when they start to glow, are the ear of the earth, humming back to the spirits. They’ll stay quiet, as long as the keeper remembers to whisper the lullaby into the ground, because that’s where the rhythm starts. If only the laundry piles could listen too.