Located in the wooded hills just west of the Connecticut River in Massachusetts, Greymont is a small academic town known for its colonial stonework, unseasonably dense fog, and the slow winding roads that seem to rearrange themselves after dark. The town was founded in 1723 by Puritan dissenters and French Huguenots, and its oldest buildings still bear the marks of both: fleur-de-lis carved into lichen-covered lintels, old hex symbols hidden in barn eaves.
Though modest in size, Greymont has a sharp-toothed kind of charm. There are no chain stores, no fast food joints. Instead: a family-run apothecary that’s older than the post office, a chapel that’s never been deconsecrated, and a town library with more locked cases than public shelves. Locals are polite but private. No one asks why the lilacs bloom in October, or what happens in the forest between the solstices
Additional Locations
Greymont University: A private research institution nestled at the edge of town, Greymont U is known for its highly competitive humanities and natural sciences programs. The campus blends colonial revival architecture with modern brutalist additions that the students either hate or fetishize. The school is particularly known for its Department of Ethnobotany and Pharmacognosy, which operates on a largely independent budget and occupies the historic Winterbourne Hall and its surrounding gardens. Faculty rumor has it that grants go missing, research vanishes into private labs, and students in that department are marked in some way—though no one agrees on how. The university motto, carved above the main archway in Latin, reads: Quae radicantur, manent; “What takes root, endures.”
Dr. Rue’s Cottage & Greenhouses: Hidden behind a rusted wrought-iron gate just past the edge of the university arboretum, Violet’s cottage is a modest Victorian holdover wrapped in ivy and mist. It’s older than it looks. The interior smells of cedarwood, honeycomb, and dried herbs. The main greenhouse is attached by a sunroom corridor and houses a private collection of rare, medicinal, and intoxicating plants. There’s a second greenhouse behind the first—accessible only through a locked archway of climbing nightshade. Few are permitted entry. The tools inside are not standard-issue. Neither are the restraints.
The Prism: A dusky speakeasy-style lounge hidden behind the bookshop on Pomegranate Street. Jazz on wax, absinthe service on Fridays. Violet never goes to be seen—only when she wants to watch. The owner owes her a favor from a long time ago, and there’s a room upstairs with a mirrored ceiling and no windows.
The Vache-Noire Apothecary: An ancient little shop that sells herbs, oils, and oddments. Originally opened by a French widow in the 1800s, it's remained in the family ever since. Violet sources rare tinctures and seed stock here, and the proprietor always calls her “Madam le docteur” with a bow.
