Without a doubt, Neht loved autumn best of all: the longer nights, the hint of chill in the air, the candy apples, the blaze of red and orange foliage all around. It reminded her of Vampiru: at least, the good parts of it, what little good could be found there. Other vampires continually mourned all of the lost futures they could have had on their homeworld, but as for Neht, it was hard to muster up any nostalgia for a past spent primarily as a well-trained piece of scenery, something fun with a pretty voice to show off at parties and then discard once he became inconvenient. In the end, he couldnât even tell you how much of his rebellion back in those days was of his own free will, even less so once they sent him to infiltrate the Daughters of Egregori. Of course, others had it much worse in those days. Neht didnât have any illusions about that.
At any rate, autumn? Beautiful.
Of course, fall meant that the arrival of winter and its frigid cold was just around the corner, and that meant no end of work getting ready for it. Others stayed snug and cozy in their heated apartments in the city where they could control the temperature with just a press of a button but Neht chopped wood to feed to the stove when she needed to stay warm, a bit suspicious of things like central heating and air conditioning. The grapes wouldnât turn into jam by themselves, the apples needed to be turned into applesauce, the blood into sausage, and so many things canned. The garden fences would need to be mended before the ground grew too hard to drive posts into. The chicken coop could use some work. If you want spring flowers, you have to plant the bulbs.
Right now, Neht -a bit muddy but then again, when wasnât he a bit muddy?- was in the herb garden harvesting plants with her little pair of garden shears. She couldnât even taste most of them beyond the barest hint of flavor, the enhanced Egregori sense of taste only extending so far, but the commune could certainly use them; at very least, Jodie complained terribly when she didnât have her catnip. Once he was done, theyâd need to be rinsed and hung up to dry from the rafters of the cottage where the little cats (or greedy daughters who liked to crunch leaves) couldnât get at them. Some of this would go into aromatic satchels and some of this would go to the nice, if scatterbrained, young witch who lived a few miles down the way and most of this would go into someoneâs dinner.
An approach. Neht knew exactly who this was and smiled.
âHello, Jesseth,â she said. âWatch your step, my dear. The moles have been at it again.â
