When Bessa woke the next morning, the first thing she noticed was the noise. The usual quiet of the countryside was gone, replaced by a low, industrious hum of activity that did not belong to the wind or the creak of her cottage settling.
She pulled on her coat and stepped outside, still blinking sleep from her eyes, and stopped dead.
Her land had been professionally raided.
These people clearly had no business being so efficient at what looked like large-scale botanical theft. But at the same time this looked like a small army of gardeners and laborers moved through her garden like ants, their hands gentle but relentless.
They were uprooting everything. Every winter herb, every cold weather resistant vegetable, every stubborn flower that had survived her years of care.
Every single one. Even the soil itself was being packed into large, labeled containers as though it were the most precious cargo in the world.
