Whitewater Gorge we have no evidence it wasn't

Bloodroot.

He had half a mind to ask what had been bloodwort then but the memory of her look over a sharp shoulder suggested he not quip. Not for now, at least. Kalganov acknowledged that she was kind enough to not shove him into the waters that rushed by their side for all of his selfish inquiries.

Next came the stonecrop, flowered succulent that it was. He had half a mind to pluck it for himself but there was no use. Kalganov was not ill nor did he have some sort of herb cache to stow away the things she showed him. So everything would be stored into his mind until the time came for the knowledge. If the time came.

Finally was the ironweed with its purpling fronds. There wasn't much time for him to admire it before they cut across and moved to safer paths. It eased some of the worries that had unexpectedly built up in the pit of his stomach. She left him with the final knowledge of where to find her. An invitation of sorts should he desire further lessons.

Newsflash, he likely would.

WHO DO I ASK FOR. . .? A brow raised softly as he waited. “OR DO I MERELY ASK FOR BITTER DOVE?”