Mystic Reads smelled of beeswax and old paper, the scent curling through the air as Sylvia unwrapped the wooden carving with great ceremony. The paper rustled and fell away, and there he was—The Green Man, staring out from the knotwork of leaves, his face caught in a moment between laughter and silence.

“Isn’t he magnificent?” Sylvia breathed, her fingers brushing over the intricate tendrils of ivy that wove through his wild, timeworn features. “Carved from Cornish oak, a tree older than this town itself.”

Lillian, arms folded, studied the piece. “Magnificent is one word for it.”

Sylvia turned sharply. “You don’t like it?”

Lillian adjusted her glasses. “It’s not about liking it. It’s about understanding what it does.”

Sylvia huffed, returning her gaze to the carving. “He’s life-affirming, Lillian. He’s the wild force that ensures the wheel of the year keeps turning. He is birth, death, and rebirth—the green heart of the land itself.” She smiled softly. “I had him carved with oak leaves and hawthorn berries—sacred plants, both. And look here—” she traced a pattern near the forehead, “spirals, symbols of endless return. I wanted him to feel alive.”

Lillian sighed, pulling a chair forward. “And what, precisely, do you think he’s doing here?”

Sylvia frowned. “What do you mean?”

Lillian leaned forward. “Art isn’t decoration, Sylvia. It acts.”

Sylvia narrowed her eyes. “Oh, you’re going to be insufferable about this, aren’t you?”

Lillian ignored her, gesturing toward the carving. “Have you read Alfred Gell?”

“Of course.”

“Then you know he argues that art is an agent—it has power, it does something.” She tapped the desk. “Think about **sacred icons, war banners, masks used in ritual—do you think those are just images? No. They are *forces*. They *act upon those who see them.*”

Sylvia pursed her lips, glancing at the Green Man. “So you’re saying he’s more than a carving.”

“I’m saying that artists who don’t know what they’re playing with are dangerous.” Lillian pushed her glasses up. “A good artist? Aware of their power. A bad artist? They invoke forces they don’t understand.”

Sylvia exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Fine. But how does this apply to my Green Man?”

Lillian gestured broadly. “Well, let’s think. You wanted him to feel alive, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Then he’s not just a representation of the Green Man. He is the Green Man. The moment you hang him up, he starts acting.”

Sylvia frowned. “Acting how?”

Lillian leaned back, thoughtful. “What does a Green Man do? He grows. He decays. He shapes the space around him and brings in cycles of life and death. The land changes under his gaze. You haven’t just hung up a bit of wood, Sylvia. You’ve given something room to take root.”

Sylvia’s expression wavered between delight and something more cautious. “So you think he’s going to… change the shop?”

Lillian shrugged. “That depends. What does he want?”

Sylvia turned back to the carving, searching his leafy face as if waiting for an answer. The shadows shifted across the room. The smell of wood, of something green and living, seemed stronger now.

After a long silence, Sylvia muttered, “I liked this a lot better before you started talking.”

Lillian smirked. “That’s because you thought you were in charge.”

Sylvia shook her head, though her lips twitched. “I’m keeping him anyway.”

Lillian stood, brushing off her coat. “Of course you are. But don’t be surprised if the ivy starts creeping in.”

Sylvia glanced again at the carving. Just for a moment, it seemed as if the wood had shifted—just a fraction, just enough to make her wonder.

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