It's Writer's Month again!
Cadfael's herbarium smelt different every time Hugh stepped into it. Sometimes it smelt bitter, pungent fumes biting at the back of his throat. Other times had a softer scent, of flowers and hay meadows, of something from his childhood that he could no longer recall. Sometimes the smell came from something bubbling away on the brazier, or from open pot and jars, or the freshly cut herbs hung up to dry in the rafters. Hugh thought he could probably tell the time of year just by the smells of whatever had just been harvested.
Throughout it all though there was something continuous, as if all the scents of Cadfael's concoctions had permeated the building and become a perfume unique to its own. It wasn't an unpleasant smell: not floral, not earthy, not sharp, yet contained everything and nothing, ephemeral and unable to be named, like a tapestry so tightly woven that a single strand could not be pulled from it.
Cadfael carried that scent around with him, whether in the cloister, around the town or travelling the Shropshire countryside. It was so familiar to Hugh that he couldn't help but relax when he smelt it, knowing that his friend couldn't be very far away. Somehow it smelt safe, of home, of brisk winter mornings and warm summer nights.
Cadfael had his own little piece of paradise in his herbarium and its perfume lingered with him wherever he went.