The house where Herminia Zanetti was born and raised had a particularly distinct smell of pine resin. No matter how many years had passed, the scent never quite faded from the heavy, dark pine logs that made up the walls of the dwelling.
Woven into that resin were the bundles of dried lavender, yarrow, and wild mint hanging from the rafters. Hermi's mother, Ruminia Zanetti, cherished these herbs. She often spoke of how the wind carried these scents deep into the house when the air grew heavier during the mornings and late afternoons. It was the combination of those very scents that pulled Hermi back from a very dark place, and toward the sense of reality.
She stirred awake on her bed. The next thing she felt was the weight of the blankets, a comfort she knew so well. But instead of calming her, the familiar scents and the softness of the bed sent her jolting upright in a panic.
