《The Wicked One》 Chapter One The golden light slips through the thin, young trees and caresses her cheek. The warmth feels nice against her skin, made cold by the late summer morning. She hears the faint whistle of the wind as it makes its way through the leaves, the branches, the flowers. They all sway in unison, in ritualistic alignment, all one. She breathes in, and immediately her lungs fill with fresh forest air, smelling of heady herbs and earth, and life. An adventurous bumblebee buzzes past her ear, clumsily bobbing up and down the small meadow, looking for its next sweet reward, settling over the wild roses budding by the side of the forest pathway. The pathway, a grassy lane, worn down and made flat by years of weary travelers, forest dwellers and, as of late, herself, looks particularly ethereal today. Particles reflect the sun like gold specks, dancing to their own tune above moss so soft one could lie in it. Green dominates the landscape, but where monotony would be expected, various shades and textures speckled with the smallest white and purple flowers give the woods their magical atmosphere. The birds hop from tree to tree, sending waves of new movement through the scenery, their song in harmony with the whistling breeze. A new and invigorated gust of wind rushes through the path and ruffles her hair, curls flying wildly about. She brushes the loose tendrils away absentmindedly as the peace from the forest settles deep within her bones, resonating with her being. In that moment, with the trees, the birds, and the bees, there is nowhere else she would rather be. She is home. She looks at the small wooden cabin creaking quietly behind her. A thin trail of smoke floats languidly towards the heavens, the stone chimney covered in that same thick moss that now swallows the forest floor. It has also claimed the crevices between the tiles of the old roof, gaps in the logs that made up the walls, and the little stone steps that led one through the makeshift garden and ended at the foot of the cabin''s heavy back door. The old iron chair creaks as she stands, the hem of her skirt damp with dew. Her hand reaches for the delicate teacup, empty for a while now, and her fingers touch the chill, smooth porcelain surface. The design, blood-red poppies against a bone-white background is her particular favorite. She brushes crumbs leftover from her quick breakfast off the simple, white tea table, small ants already claiming the remains. As she makes her way through the garden, her skirt swishes against the moss, catching loose leaves. She grabs a handful of herbs she knows she will need later in the day and steps inside, stomping her boots on the ancient rug. The cabin smells of freshly brewed black tea and old furniture, baked goods, mixed with cinnamon and leather-bound books. The floorboards, wasted from years of use, are covered in equally worn rugs that overlap and merge into one mismatched maze. The maze''s walls are bookshelves filled to the brim and practically overflowing, towers of old, yellowing scrolls, and all sorts of curiosities given as gifts by grateful patrons hanging from walls, displayed over tables, hidden under piles of mayhem. All the many paths lead to the kitchen, where iron skillets and pots hang alongside drying flowers and garlic braids, used pans soaking on the sink basin. With one hand, she grabs the bread left over from this morning''s bake and wraps it in cheesecloth, setting it aside. The rosemary she picked she places next to the bread. She washes her hands quickly, drying them on a discarded apron. She turns around, grabbing her basket full of freshly made goods and heads towards the front door, her morning routine a well-known dance. She checks her reflection quickly on a small, stained mirror perched by the entrance, pinching rosy cheeks and taming loose curls before stepping out. Her boots make hollow sounds against the wooden porch and down the steps, basket swaying next to her hip, swishing against her skirts. She hears the crunching of gravel and the snapping of twigs as she makes her way to the main road, easily falling into place next to the morning dwellers ¨C farmers, with their braying donkeys hauling carts full of newly harvested vegetables, fermented fruits and jellies, and freshly churned butter. She hears the humming of the travelers, carrying their wares with them, bags and crates full of belongings, horses with their heads bowed low, eager for rest. All headed to town, the multicolored shingles of the higher buildings already visible from where she stands. Passerbys greet her with a curt nod and a tip of a hat, some smile in recognition and even venture a ¡®good morning.¡¯ She returns the greetings accordingly, simultaneously listing the many errands she has to complete before the end of the day in her head. Business had been good as of late, so she hoped she had saved just enough to buy a new pair of boots before the snow fell. As she walks through the town entrance, framed by three tall, wooden arches, her senses are immediately assaulted. Merchants from near and far have already erected their stalls and displayed all manner of breakfast foods, perfumes, spices, raw meats, and boiling potions. There is nothing that is not being pushed, bartered, or sold, the streets buzzing with the energy of the first light. She rejects multiple advances nimbly, snaking her way around tempting platters and outstretched palms, promising to return at a later time. A faint glint catches her eye and against her better judgment, her head turns towards a line-up of silver trinkets and gold jewelry, precious gems sparkling delicately. She had promised herself she wouldn¡¯t stop by, not with everything she had planned for the day, but her fingers automatically reach for a single ring of yellow gold, roughly crafted, a single opal at its center. The gold does not shimmer like the other pieces, the black opal glowing silently. She spins the ring slowly, her eyes fixed. ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± She blinks suddenly and her eyes meet those of Bast, the Merchant. He smiles knowingly at her, his peppered beard almost reaching his chest. She stares for a split second before she returns his smile. Shaking her head dejectedly, she places the ring back onto its velvet display. ¡°Not today, Bast.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll give you a discount,¡± he says, pretending to think hard about the matter at hand, a conversation they had had before, many times. ¡°One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year¡¯s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.¡± ¡°A generous offer, indeed. But I¡¯m afraid I cannot afford it,¡± she responds with a polite smile, stepping back. ¡°Even with your boysenberry discount.¡± Bast tsks at her, his hands rising in surrender as he watches her walk away. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.¡± She waves her hand in the air dismissively, her back to the Merchant, knowing full well Bast would sell the ring to whomever was interested, whenever they were interested, safekeeping or not. She could hear his laughter as she strolled down the street, her feet leading her to the Apothecary, her first delivery. As soon as she opens the door to the narrow shop, the rich smell of the spices and fried meats from the street vendors is violently replaced by the sour smell of vinegar and things steeped in it. Her nose wrinkles instinctively as she holds the door for a patron. When she finally steps in, closing the door behind her, her arrival is heralded by a single, silver bell. Standing in front of the large glass counter that runs the length of the room, she peruses the hundreds of brown glass bottles with white labels displayed proudly, promising to cure every ailment, heal all pain. She hears the shuffling of feet behind the swinging doors that lead to the back of the establishment and the low whispers of someone giving instructions. She waits, her eyes traveling to the shelves above the counter where large jars filled with different colored brines full of preserved roots, tissues, and organs sit menacingly. The eyeballs, she found, were particularly disturbing. ¡°Now, how may I¨C.¡± Her own eyes meet those of the Apothecary as he emerges, doors swinging wildly behind him. His usual droll voice reaches her, a hooded gaze hidden behind thin glasses. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± ¡°It¡¯s me.¡± She says, lifting her basket and placing it on the counter. She opens its lid and pulls out three white boxes. As she places them in front of him, she lists their contents, ¡°One meat pasty, no herbs. Another meat pasty, no olives. Two raspberry puffs. And one apple-rhubarb pie.¡± The Apothecary sniffs one of the boxes, narrows his eyes, and says, ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°That¡¯s the pie,¡± she replies casually. With her chin, she points at a different box, ¡°Those are the very olive-free pasties.¡± ¡°Well, it smells like olives.¡± ¡°There were no olives in my apple-rhubarb recipe last week¡± she answers, angling her head slightly, smiling kindly. ¡°And there are no olives in my apple-rhubarb recipe this week.¡± He scoffs quietly, his chest puffing slightly. Not one to admit defeat, he stacks the boxes in neat towers and pushes them aside. ¡°I shall be the judge of that.¡± ¡°As you wish,¡± she says, holding her hand out, ¡°That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± With yet another huff and a lot of pomp, the Apothecary kneels, his bald head disappearing underneath the counter. She hears the turning of keys and the unlocking of safes before the sweet, metallic clinking of gold Krounen fills her ears. The Apothecary makes his way up slowly, knees creaking loudly with the effort. His bunched fist grudgingly deposits five golden coins on her open palm, the rising sun emblem carved on each of them gleaming back at her. Without a second thought, she deposits the Krounen inside her small, leather pouch and grabs hold of the basket. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she says, bowing her head slightly at the Apothecary. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± The Apothecary clicks his tongue as she opens the door to exit. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.¡± ¡°Looking forward to it, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she shouts over her shoulder and she beams as a small blush creeps up his neck and reaches his ears. She hears the silver bell ring once behind her. Her worn boots carry her up the street, the wind tossing her hair about wildly. She feels the resistance of the ground beneath her weaken as she veers towards a muddy alleyway, her next client an Old Maid who lives in a small flat above the town¡¯s largest alehouse, the Alba Custodia. One of the Custodia¡¯s many delivery boys is loitering in front of the entrance. He recognizes her basket and runs up the stairs to fetch the Old Maid. When he reappears, his eyes are fixed on his newly acquired Krounen, paying no mind to his surroundings. She steps to the side quickly, but not quickly enough, and she winces slightly as his sharp shoulder hits her side. The boy tips his large hat in apology but does not slow his pace, disappearing down the alley. ¡°Coming!¡± The Old Maid¡¯s voice echoes as the elderly woman struggles to make her way down the stairs, both hands holding on to the walls of the narrow staircase, her feet sticking to the dirty, wooden steps. ¡°Good morning, Miss Mirah,¡± she says to the Old Maid once she is finally close enough to hear her say the words. The Old Maid beckons her closer. ¡°Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?¡± She clucks once towards the alley¡¯s general direction. Her shoulders shake in silent rage, the many layers of fabric, tassels and lace quivering alongside her. Great, great, granddaughter of one of the town¡¯s founding families, fortune lost by many an incorrigible heir, one could still sense an air of grandeur about her, her nose held quite high, her eyes watery and unforgiving, her world limited to her situation. ¡°These outsiders, I tell you. Never a thought for those around them,¡± she continues, eyeing the set of travelers walking past them, raising her voice. ¡°It¡¯s all take, take, take, I tell you.¡± ¡°You forget, Miss Mirah. I¡¯m a foreigner myself.¡± She gives the Old Maid a chastising look which the Old Maid then waves away with her handkerchief. ¡°Oh, but you¡¯re nothing like them.¡± The Old Maid spits on her handkerchief and swipes at the general air around her shoulder, as if to dust away the collision. Her eyes travel down the alley again, pursing her lips. ¡°Nothing like them ¨C Oh, thank you, pet.¡± The Old Maid¡¯s thoughts are distracted as she receives her order ¨C three blueberry tarts, one meat pasty, and a jar of apple jam. The Old Maid produces seven Krounen pieces and hands them over. They sit for a second on her palm, cold and hard, before they join the others in her leather pouch. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she replies to the Old Maid, curtseying. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± The Old Maid swats at her shoulder playfully once more before turning away, the jar of jam balancing precariously over the rest of the boxes. She hears the Old Maid mutter nothing like them under her breath as she makes her way back up the stairs, floorboards creaking loudly. Without a second to lose, she turns on her heels and, as soon as she steps out of the alley, begins weaving her way through the now growing throng of townsfolk. Everyone seems to have a place to go, and somewhere important to be, not unlike herself. Most are making their way to the center of town, where a vast majority of the tradesmen have set up permanent shop. From carpenters, to tailors, to the well-known bookbinders, they all line the town square, bringing the small town to life. She follows the long row of horses, led by their masters, towards a set of large stables, often let by the innkeepers and tavern owners for a few Krounen, and purposely stationed next to the Blacksmith ¨C her next patron. She hears the loud clash of metal against metal before she sees the white sparks take wing and disappear like fireflies. The deafening sound mixes with the neighing and braying of animals, the rising voices of a busy crowd going about its business, the clopping of hooves against stone. The forge stands out like a sore thumb, made of dark wood that juts out at odd angles, seemingly dark and cool on the inside but for the glowing of the large furnace that sits at its center. Clang! One of the apprentices catches her eye and nods in acknowledgment, a bright, new horseshoe in hand. He is busy with the new arrival, the owner looking worriedly at his mare as the apprentice surveys the state of the old shoes, so he motions for her to walk in. Clang! The forge is neither dark nor cool, and she feels the warmth toast her cheeks and shoo away the last of the morning chill. Clang! The Blacksmith stands at the center of the forge, his hammer at the ready, hot metal glowing before him. His back is broad, his build large and looming like a mountain, his hair black as night. He raises what she believes to be a sword up into the air, the steel glowing bright white, and assesses his work. A master of his craft. Time stops, and it seems to her, surrounded by all the metal and fire, that he is as much a part of this forge as the furnace itself. Clang! The Hammer falls with great might. Another apprentice, a young lad of no more than fifteen, takes notice of her and points at a thick, wooden table. Hammer rises in the air. Clang! She steps forward and begins to unpack box after box of her meatiest pies and pasties. The apprentice counts each box and nods appreciatively, handing over her due. She slips the fourteen pieces onto her leather pouch and loops her arm through the basket, noticing how significantly lighter it feels. Clang! Before she leaves, she produces a small jar, its contents amber honey mixed with thin sprigs of thyme. She hands it to the apprentice who looks at her for direction, his blonde hair flopping dangerously close to his eyes. She points at the Blacksmith with her head and mouths the words burns. His eyebrows rise in understanding and as he moves to pay for the balm, she shakes her head once, already walking towards the entrance Clang! The water hisses as it touches hot steel. From the corner of her eye, she follows the apprentice as he makes his way towards the Blacksmith. He places the small jar next to the Blacksmith¡¯s tools and points in her general direction, but just as the Blacksmith''s head begins to turn, she steps out into the sunlight, instantly grateful for the cool breeze. The same wind carries her down the street and towards her last stop for the day ¨C Qadahl Road. The row of houses, all perched closely together, cast a shadow over one of the few cobbled roads in town. The infamous multicolored shingles stand proudly above all the other buildings, the smoke floating from their chimneys a sign of equally proud owners stirring within. Every house is decorated in the same fashion, with heavy columns of white stone and large, glass windows allowing onlookers a glimpse of intricate chandeliers and grand staircases within. Here, trees and flowers decorate the entrances of the grand homes, and the absence of soot and dun is noticeable. Her boots tapping away at the cobbles, she reaches a thin, black railing located at the side of the tallest house and heads downstairs. She emerges onto a generous kitchen, several stoves already boiling away at today¡¯s lunch. Maids bustle about busily, the last of the late breakfast already sent out, trays being returned half-full. The cook shouts order after order in the general direction of two delivery boys, bringing in crates of fresh food. She places her basket next to the crates and takes out the last of the boxes ¨C a delicate strawberry tart topped with honeyed almonds. A family favorite, particularly the youngest daughter, Alma. The cook eyes the box once with disdain but otherwise does not acknowledge her presence. Instead, she barks another curt order at her helper, who scurries away and back, handing over twelve Krounen, and thanks her quietly so as not to disturb the cook¡¯s delicate pride. Pouring the last of the coins onto her pouch, she bows her head slightly at the cook, who, in turn, shifts her body so that her back is towards the offending tart. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± She resists the urge to roll her eyes, keeping her face as neutral as she possibly can. She does not need to look to know that a tall man was now leaning against the kitchen door, a piece of used cloth resting on his shoulder, his gaunt shoulders angled, his mouth twisted in a signature smirk. Her hands reach down and pull out a single jar, her basket now officially empty. ¡°Oranges. Mint.¡± ¡°You¡¯re no fun.¡± She turns to look at Ketevan and his brown eyes, sharp and penetrating, are already following one of the maids as she makes her way upstairs. When he looks back, he shrugs his shoulders unapologetically at her disapproving stare ¨C perhaps neutrality was escaping her at the moment. ¡°You owe me a Krounen,¡± she states, knowing full well he could not pay her, and would not pay her even if he could. Ketevan was well-liked by the family, and had managed to secure this delivery deal for her. She felt a degree of indebtedness to him. The orange and mint jelly was also relatively inexpensive to make and he knew that as well. Ketevan brushes the comment aside with another shrug, leaning slightly forwards, hands in pockets. ¡°What is a Krounen between friends.¡± ¡°In fact.¡± The sense of obligation did not overpower the need to wipe that smirk off his face so she adds, gesturing to the jar he had already hidden somewhere. ¡°You owe me seven Krounen.¡± ¡°Have I told you,¡± he says solemnly, stepping forward so that he is standing right in front of her, the serious expression not sitting quite right with his bright features. ¡°What an excellent baker you are.¡± Like a flash of lightning, he ducks as a single piece of dough flies through the air and sticks to the wall behind them, the cook¡¯s glare a powerful thing. He grimaces under the weight of her wrath, anticipating a very scant bowl of soup and very stale bread for supper tonight. ¡°Seven,¡± she repeats, resting the basket against her hip before heading towards the exit. But Ketevan is faster and slithers his way in between her and her escape. ¡°Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,¡± he purrs, the invitation to the well-known tavern dripping with mock seduction. ¡°I¡¯ll make it worth your while. Seven Krounen¡¯s worth¨C¡± With a swift movement, her elbow connects with rib and she is rewarded with a cough, a swear, and an opening. She looks back at Ketevan as he rubs his side, grinning unapologetically, the cook rolling her eyes behind him. She points at him once with her basket. ¡°Seven Krounen.¡± ¡°You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime,¡± he shouts after her as she works her way up the stairs. She does not respond. Returning to her damp, little cabin was all she could think of at the moment. When she surfaces, she is greeted with the slow rolling of wheels and the neighing of horses. The family members seem to be heading out and among them she recognizes Alma, blonde hair shining silver under the sunlight, her green eyes devastating. Their eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and in that pocket of time, Alma¡¯s eyes crinkle in vague recognition. She responds with a slight nod. The coachman cracks his whip and the carriage is pulled forward and away. She watches as it disappears around the corner before she heads that way herself. A sigh of relief escapes her lips, her orders over and done with, her basket weightless. Desperately yearning for home, she produces the list of ingredients she will need to fulfill tomorrow¡¯s orders. Walking past the town square and through the alley, she is soon ducking the town merchants once again, her shoulder brushing against many a late riser. She holds her leather pouch tightly in her hand, knowing light fingers hide well in large crowds. She approaches the fruit stalls with the same studied discernment as the Apothecary would his concoctions, Bast his jewels, and the Blacksmith his steel. The harvest had been good this year, and the array of colors and variety excites her. She could already envision the different recipes she could try in the coming weeks. ¡°What is it you seek, child?¡± Gr¨®dur Un appears at her side, her unique, raspy voice inviting, her presence undetectable. Located at the farthest corner of the market and run for generations by her family, her rickety stall held the greatest diversity in town, a well-kept local secret. Everyone knew there was nothing one could not find at Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s, and nothing she could not acquire for you ¨C at the right price ¡°The usual,¡± she responds, unfazed by the woman¡¯s sudden emergence. ¡°And some bitter currants, if you have them.¡± Gr¨®dur Un ignores her reply and instead takes her hands and stares into her eyes. The wise woman¡¯s hands are riddled with fading tattoos. They feel rugged and warm. ¡°Shall we test fate today?¡± There is an intensity in her voice that is almost tempting, but she feels no immediate need to unfold the future, and no interest in unearthing the past. She was content, just as she was. ¡°Only apples today, m¨¦man.¡± One hand rises, bangles sliding down a wrinkled arm, and pats her cheek affectionately. ¡°My child, always such a hard worker. All business.¡± Gr¨®dur Un steps away and around the stall, producing a satchel already full to the brim with the season¡¯s growths. ¡°I give you a little extra. For yourself, hmm?¡± ¡°Thank you, m¨¦man,¡± she responds, taking the satchel with one hand and hoisting it over her shoulder. ¡°How much?¡± ¡°For you, special price,¡± she raises both palms. ¡°Ten Krounen.¡± She purses her lips at Gr¨®dur Un to stop the smile from fully blooming. She hands over six Krounen. ¡°A little extra, hmm?¡± A cackling laugh escapes from deep within the wise woman as she accepts the currency, her long robes vestiges of a colorful life. ¡°Sharp as ever, this wicked child.¡± She smiles in return and bows slightly. ¡°May you have the best of evenings, mem¨¢n.¡± Gr¨®dur Un responds with a warm grin, waving leisurely and watching as she walks away from her stall. She keeps to the edge of the frail wall that lines the village and quickly reaches the town gates, the great arches towering above. Soon arriving at the main road, she merrily joins the progression traveling away from town, deciding to cut through the forest. She follows a little-known path through the evergreens, breathing in the sweet smell of the changing seasons, the path as familiar to her as herself. Reaching a small meadow perched in between her cabin and the main road, she stops to admire the wildflowers. The purple heads bob with the wind and she is transported to this morning. The sun now heading west, coats the tree tops with its rich, orange hue. She closes her eyes to it and stands there, basking in the pulsations of a space full of living things. Something light and feathery brushes her cheek and when her eyes open, a single black butterfly bats its wings vivaciously, fluttering around her, every flap a kiss. Too stunned to question the appearance of the hovering insect, she raises her hand as if in a trance, the butterfly balancing delicately on her fingertip. And there, in the stillness of the meadow, she hears a soft whisper. ¡°Liven.¡± Suddenly, a flash of brightness. A violent, persistent thing, blinds her and she raises her empty hand high over her eyelids, trying to make out the source of the light. It takes a second for her eyes to adjust to the glare, her senses in disarray. Slowly, at the edge of the meadow, she begins to make out metal greaves attached to sturdy shins, thighs covered in the shiniest of cuisses, the metal engravings on the armor''s tassets so delicate they boast of the highest of craftsmanship. Her gaze continues northward, processing the broad breastplate and the gauntlets, one silver like the rest of his armor, the other pitch black. Her heart beats loudly against her chest, the air stuck in her lungs. When her eyes finally fall upon the gleaming helmet, time seems to hold still. She no longer hears the birds chirp, the wind does not whistle, and the trees do not sway. Under the rays of the setting sun, with the vastness of the forest behind him and the expanse of clear blue sky above, she feels as her soul falters. "What the¨C," her whisper barely leaves her lips when, with a quick, loud metal shriek, fast as lightning, the knight''s neck twists, and his visor now points directly at her. Her knees buckle. Her ears register the far away thump of the satchel landing on the forest floor. Against every instinct, she breaks eye contact with the knight as she reaches for her satchel, struggling to stop the fruits from rolling in every direction, the shriek still reverberating in her ears. She looks back up and freezes. In a field of purple flowers and singing birds, she stood completely alone. Chapter Two Her eyes blink open. The soft, early light emanating from the top of her closed curtains heralds the start of a new day. She lays there for a few minutes, ruminating over what she had seen the day before. Perhaps her eyes saw nothing at all, standing beyond the meadow, staring straight back at her. Liven. Her chest constricts as her memory whispers the name, unknown to her ears. Images of shimmering metal and the echoing shriek that followed flash around her mind until they become unbearable, repetitive. She rolls out of bed, thick blankets bunching around her shoulders and hips, and stretches her arms upwards. Her eyes focus on the wooden floorboards above, some rogue cobwebs shaking precariously underneath the beams. Perhaps the stranger had lost his way in the woods and was seeking their order. Liven. A quick frown settles between her brows before she shakes off the dread that seems all too eager to settle on her shoulders, making her way to the kitchen. Perhaps it saw she wasn¡¯t what they were looking for, and had resumed their search elsewhere. She sighs quietly as she settles down on the same white creaky chair and takes the first sip of her morning tea. The same golden light that slipped through the thin, young trees yesterday, caresses her cheek today. The same pathway stares back at her, particles reflecting, magic undisturbed. But she half expects to hear the laden weight of armored boots and the silvery swish of swaying chainmail. Instinctively, her eyes search the grounds for any sign of a lost stranger, but is instead rewarded with a waking forest, going about its day. Quite tired of the disturbance to her own daily routine, she tells herself decidedly that there was no point in reliving the experience. If there was to be any military presence near the area, she would surely hear about it soon enough. Not willing to spoil her breakfast any further, and consequently her morning, she finishes her toast quickly, downs her tea, and heads over to the cabin. She hears the muted thump as her chair falls backwards and onto the yielding grass, but continues down the herb garden, already behind schedule. She picks up her basket and heads towards the door, taking a brief moment to inspect her reflection. Same chestnut eyes, same brown hair, same rosy cheeks. She allows one single huff to exit her mouth before she heads out, fogging the mirror, her image dampened. Her stroll-like steps become a speedy strut as she makes her way to the main road. The thorny feeling that accompanied her down the empty trail lifts as soon as she hears the low, amalgamated hum of voices, making their way to and from the town. She joins the farmers and travelers naturally, responding to smiles on known faces, grateful for the company and the distraction. The towering white arches at the entrance of the town have never looked so welcoming before, and the sight of the vibrant shingles of Qadahl Road remind her of why she is here ¨C to sell meat pasties and pies to her generous patrons. With a single, stern nod, she perches her basket on her hip and proceeds to weave her way through town, dodging plates, waving away tempting offers. Unknowingly, her eyes scan the crowd for any presence of militia, of silver clad men resting by the side of the church steps, paying the merchants far more than what their wares are worth. But the townsfolk seem average, the usual crowd of onlookers, a mix of locals and pilgrims. Perhaps her stranger had not entered town, and was instead traveling through, on to bigger, better towns. ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± Her train of thought interrupted, she stops suddenly, her eyes searching for Bast among the busy merchants. He is standing behind his stall, his jewelry displayed proudly, a smile spreading underneath his beard. She steps towards his stall to make way for those walking behind her. Her eyes fall upon the opaque beauty of the golden ring, the black opal swirling gently at its center, pink, blue and yellow specks flashing faintly. The same longing warms her chest and she wonders if the ring, rather than new boots, was what she really needed to survive the winter. She dismisses the thought immediately. ¡°I¡¯m afraid not, Bast.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll give you a discount,¡± he says, on queue, hand stroking his long beard. ¡°One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year¡¯s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.¡± She steps away from the velvety stall, with its silver earrings and gem encrusted bangles. ¡°As always, I am grateful for such a considerate offer. But I¡¯m afraid I still can¡¯t afford it.¡± His tsk reaches her ears as she turns to leave, followed by his customary shout, ¡°I¡¯ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.¡± She raises her hand to wave away his half-hearted promise and accompanying laughter but stops mid-air, an idea suddenly crossing her mind. It occurs to her that she could ask Bast for any information on lost knights wandering the nearby woods. If anyone were to have information regarding the comings and goings of a noticeable stranger, it would be the talkative merchant. She turns halfway, her lips parting to shout after him only to find that Bast has stepped away from his stall. In his place stands another vendor, making sure the merchandise is safe. Her eyes search for the bewhiskered man briefly, deciding then that it would be best to ask him tomorrow ¨C his presence at the market a sure thing. Resuming her speedy path to the Apothecary, and already expecting blatant disapproval at her tardiness, she hears the sound of the silver bell as one of the Apothecary¡¯s many customers exits the shop, the door closing behind them. She watches them walk away, a neatly packed parcel under their arm. As she pulls on the handle, the acidic smell of old brine beckons her in. She steps towards the counter and waits, staring at the Apothecary¡¯s well-rounded display. The eyeballs seem to be staring directly at her today, their pupils a milky white, the red tendrils that used to attach them to their human, a diluted pink. She stares back, her face a disgusted grimace. What they were useful for she would never know, and wouldn¡¯t dare ask. ¡°Now, how may I¨C.¡± The wooden doors swing open and the Apothecary¡¯s hunched figure appears, his eyes unrelenting, his spectacles perched dangerously low on his nose. Those same half-hooded eyes look up at her and his slumped shoulders slump even further. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± ¡°Always me.¡± She smiles curtly, her eyebrows rising as she says this, placing her basket atop the counter and proceeding to unload the three white boxes. ¡°One meat pasty, no herbs. Another meat pasty, no olives. Two raspberry puffs. And one apple-rhubarb pie.¡± The Apothecary sniffs once and crosses his arms disapprovingly. ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°Wrong box. Again,¡± she replies before she can stop herself, a dash of impatience seeping into her voice. She pauses briefly before she continues, her tone a degree or two calmer, and points at a different box. ¡°These are your pasties, olive-free.¡± Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. ¡°Well, they smell like olives.¡± Another breath in. Another breath out. ¡°Nope, only cinnamon, nutmeg and now and then a dash of cardamom. Secret recipe,¡± she replies, winking once. ¡°I shall be the judge of that,¡± he replies haughtily, stacking the boxes meticulously, his nose high up in the air, as if smelling something foul and not the welcoming scent of her notorious goods. ¡°And I await your sentence,¡± she responds casually, holding her hand out. ¡°With bated breath.¡± As soon as he hands over the five Krounen, she bows quickly and makes her exit, unable to stomach the sickening smell of ammonia for much longer. Before she forgets, she turns around and shouts, ¡°I thank you for your patronage, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± ¡°Not a single oliv¨C.¡± The door closes behind her, the silver bell singing its parting song. ¡°Looking forward to it, my Lord,¡± she whispers to herself as her feet carry her forward and away from his scrutiny. She finds herself tucking her chin closer to her chest, bunching her shoulders, the air turning oddly chilly. A sharp wind nips at her ankles, bringing loose leaves in its wake. She looks up at the sky, a dull gray settling in between the clouds. It seems autumn will arrive earlier than expected and she wonders how this will affect the harvest, the laboring farmers, and as an aftereffect, her business. As she broods over what ingredients she would have access to throughout the rest of the year, and what ingredients she should buy in bulk now, she continues down her route ¨C the Old Maid clicking her tongue at alleged foreigners who, in fact, had lived in town all their life and owned a shop down the road, the Blacksmith, receiving his dose of honey balm and meat pasties without a single glance shared between them, and the cook, sniffing at her strawberry tart as if it were made of rotten meat. Her pouch twenty-six Krounen heavier, she rolls her eyes as Ketevan serenades her with more of his usual antiques, juggling his jar of orange-mint jelly from one hand to the other, pretending to drop it, only to have it reappear from above his shoulder. The show was as much for her as it was for the rest of the maids and ladies-in-waiting, all of whom understood how useless it would be to ever engage with a man of his nature ¨C but willing to undertake the challenge nonetheless. The same bewitching gaze lands on hers as she places her foot on the first step. She fights the urge to return his smirk, his hand rubbing his ribs after another one of her blows, as she says, ¡°That¡¯s eight Krounen now.¡± He calls out after her but she ignores him yet again, instead counting the steps as she makes her way up Qadahl Road, grateful for an end to a busy morning. She hears the rolling of wooden wheels on cobblestones, followed by the neighing of horses, and a woah from the coachman as he halts the carriage. She brushes her skirt, her mind abstractedly reminding her that it¡¯s about time for the family members to go about their luncheons and fittings. The mother, whom she had never caught a glimpse of till that day, walks out of the house in a striking dress of deep maroon, its tail trailing delicately over the white entry steps. A subtle pang of something settles within her heart as she watches the mother disappear into the carriage, the woman¡¯s profile, gentle and delicate, engraved in her heart. While the feeling is diluted, she cannot help but wonder if she is coming down with a case of homesickness. Her ears perk as the last of them strolls gracefully towards the carriage, her near-white locks falling over her shoulders, her heart-shaped face made perfect by her rosy complexion, her emerald eyes glistening. She watches as the young lady steps onto the carriage, her long dress disappearing within its doors. The coachman cracks his whip and she watches the carriage amble away into town. Alma was not someone she knew personally, outside of her predilection for strawberry tarts. That she was the youngest daughter of one the wealthiest families in town was known by all, her beauty was unmistakable, and, although she had not been witness to the fact, her demeanor was said to be kind and upstanding. She surely looks kind and upstanding, she thinks as she marches steadily towards the market, spotting Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s stall almost immediately. Wasting no time, she strides towards the proud display of both local and foreign produce, the wise woman already hard at work, selling her goods to anyone close enough to listen. As she nears the crates, she can already recognize some of the ingredients she would have to store to make it through the dawning winter season. She ponders over whether she should ask Gr¨®dur Un after fruits known to last and how to better preserve them. ¡°What is it you seek, child?¡± ¡°The usual, mem¨¢n,¡± she replies, watching the elderly woman prepare her satchel, smiling as she slides an extra batch of bitter currants to her order. As the satchel twists under Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s crooked hands, she looks up, mischief in her eye. ¡°Shall we test fate today?¡± ¡°Not today, mem¨¢n,¡± she says, eyeing the ripe pears in front of her, her thoughts returning to a knight standing by the edge of a meadow. She clears her throat. ¡°Although, it would have been of more use to me after we saw each other last.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± Gr¨®dur Un replies and gestures for her to continue. ¡°I saw a knight by the violet meadow, down the forest path,¡± she shares, the words sounding odd even to her own ears. ¡°Or rather, I think I saw a knight.¡± ¡°A knight by the violet meadow,¡± Gr¨®dur Un repeats after her. ¡°How peculiar.¡± ¡°He seemed,¡± she pauses, trying to find the right word to describe the encounter. ¡°Lost. Or seeking something. Someone.¡± ¡°It spoke?¡± ¡°I am not quite sure. He called a name.¡± Her eyes narrow as she fails to remember the name, widening when she finally grasps it. ¡°Liven!¡± ¡°Liv¨C,¡± Gr¨®dur Un moves to respond but halts. Gradually, the wise woman¡¯s expression changes, her features shifting. Her hand reaches forward slowly and her calloused palm wraps around her wrist, her touch gentle. As if a veil has been lifted, Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s eyes widen in realization. They shift at lightning speed, taking her in ¨C the basket, the satchel, her hair, her boots. A yelp escapes her lips as Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s fingernails bite into her skin, pulling her forward. The wind shifts slowly, almost imperceptibly, but she feels it. A cold, shrieking thing that caresses her neck and leaves her shaking. The trees around them rustle violently and the breeze pushes at her skirts. Her hand tightens around her basket. Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s face darkens, her cheekbones deepen, and she can feel the woman¡¯s ragged breath against her cheek. Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s many bracelets jangle violently, her frail frame quivering. Her mouth opens but not words come out, short squalls escaping her throat. ¡°Mem¨¢n?¡± The wind stops. Gr¨®dur Un blinks once, inhaling a large gulp of air. She looks around, her gaze lost. Her frail hand reaches for one of her carts, stroking the wood gently, grounding herself. When she looks up, her eyes brighten and her mischievous smile returns. Gr¨®dur Un gestures at her satchel and repeats, ¡°A little extra for you, hmm?¡± She nods slowly, an unsettling feeling burrowing itself somewhere between her ribs. She opens her mouth to ask if everything is alright but Gr¨®dur Un is already moving towards her next customer. She stays and watches her for a few moments, her eyes searching for any signs of ill health as the woman goes about her business, speaking in riddles and overcharging for last week''s fruit. Hardly convinced that Gr¨®dur Un is well enough, she steps away slowly, concern accompanying her all the way back home, the satchel heavy against her side. She knew Grod¨²r Un was not without her eccentricities but perhaps there was something she could conjure up to help the aging matron. Looking down at her reddening wrist, her boots crunch against the gravel of the main road, the same frown that she had purposely kept at bay all day returning. She walks by the entrance to the small path, with its meadows and its evergreens, and decides to take the long way home. She had experienced enough unconventionality today and the last thing she needed was another unscheduled meeting with an iron stranger. With thoughts of knights, gales, and a cackling, old witch, she returns to her cabin to prepare one powerful brew. Chapter Three She wakes. A single groan escapes her throat as she stretches her arms upwards, her hands touching the cool, stone wall above her head. Her fingers follow the uneven surface, her palms and wrist resisting against its stability, tips instantly covered in the ash-like dust of the old rock. She inhales once and uses the momentum to bring herself up, legs swinging to the side before she can think twice about it. Her feet touch the rug beneath and she spreads her toes, welcoming the warmth of the woven fabric. Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she walks towards the kitchen. With eyes half-closed, she toasts a slice of bread, and boils water for her tea. As she makes her way to the back door, she spots her brown boots, calves flopping to the side. With plate in hand and a teacup dangling from the other, she inserts a foot into each shoe, wiggling her ankles to facilitate the process. When she finally steps out, her cheeks take the brunt of the chill and she can already feel them flushing at the change in temperature. She ambles through the garden slowly, watching for any new growth, any shrubs ready for the picking. The sprigs of thyme look particularly lush today so she makes a mental note to grab some on the way back. She catches the fluttering of tiny, white wings beneath some of the leaves and sighs in frustration, having already dealt with this particular pest before. She would have to ask Gr¨®dur Un for whatever remedy she used for her own garden. The brew she prepared for Gr¨®dur Un lays expectantly by her basket ¨C a prune, mulberry and beetroot cure known to help with the relieving of fatigue. While the woman had seemed oblivious to her outburst yesterday, she hoped she would convince her to accept the remedy. She thinks throwing in a small tart might help sweeten the deal, so she adds one to her basket. Drops of scalding tea land on her thumb and her mind returns to the present. She moves to take a big bite of her toast, lathered with leftover apple jam and fresh butter but stops, teeth sinking but not chewing. Her eyes are fixed on a white, frail garden chair. A white, frail garden chair she remembered falling behind her when she left for town the day before. A white, frail garden chair which now stood perfectly placed next to its matching table. Her lips part, the sweetness from the jam and the saltiness from the butter muted in her confusion. She looks around, towards the forest path, towards the garden, and sees nothing ¨C sees no one. She approaches the chair slowly, placing the teacup on the table, toast still at hand. She sits down carefully, and when the piece of old furniture releases its customary precarious creak she rolls her eyes at her foolishness, the thought of her garden furniture being arranged by a metal man being about the most ridiculous thing she could imagine. But the feeling of mild apprehension never quite leaves her, and while she does not allow herself to rush through her meal, she stands up as soon as the last bit of toast has disappeared from her plate and heads inside. Once again, the sight of travelers and farmers eases her heart somewhat and as she joins the morning caravan she wonders if they too have had odd encounters with armored men but the conversations do not travel beyond this year¡¯s harvest, the need for new carts, and the exorbitant price of dried goods. The absence of knights in their stories brings comfort to her and, in the spirit of getting on with her day, she downgrades the morning incident to no incident at all. By the time she reaches Bast¡¯s stall, all thoughts of fallen furnishings have left her mind and are replaced by the hushed glow of a golden ring and its gorgeous black opal. Her hand waves away the empty promises and offers of the persistent Merchant as she continues her route. Desire for unattainable jewelry is soon replaced by the acrid smell of the Apothecary¡¯s shop and his uncanny ability to smell olives where there are none. Under the gaze of the many eyes perched above his head, she thinks perhaps she should slip an olive into his pie. She could already imagine his weak chin shaking with indignation, his long fingers removing his eyeglasses ceremoniously. She could hear his condescending tone rising, never yelling, asking her to leave his shop and never to return again. She would never do it, of course. He was a regular patron, a paying customer, and gods knew she needed the Krounen. Instead she smiles and quips and pockets the five golden coins before taking her leave, the sound of the silver bell releasing her from the sour grasp of the bitter man. She takes in the fresh, morning air and the sweetness of it relaxes her, the same cold that warns of a brutal winter nipping at her heels. The chilled breeze pushes her to walk faster, the exercise warming her chest and her feet, the small jars in her basket tinkling with every step. Once she turns towards the Old Maid¡¯s alley, she slows down her pace, unwilling to lose her day¡¯s earning to the wet mud. She steps aside as large men roll barrels of ale up the alley and towards the tavern, the name Alba Custodia stamped atop each of them. As she watches the men go about their work, the delivery boy has already spotted her and she catches the end of his coat as he disappears up the steps to fetch her next patron. She waits for him to come back down, Krounen concealed in his tight little fist. He tips his hat once as he sprints past her and heads for the market. She watches him disappear, wondering whether she should also tip him, given that he spares her a trip up a flight of perilous stairs every day. ¡°Coming!¡± Miss Mirah shouts as she makes her way down those same steps, each footfall a warning. Her body is once again covered in overlapping fabrics of varying patterns and textures, the many crystals sewn on her bandana swaying, a few tendrils of thin, strawberry blonde hair escaping its hold. Her hands, which wisely hold onto the walls, are bedecked in old rings. ¡°Good morning, Miss Mirah,¡± she greets the Old Maid with a smile. ¡°Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?¡± She spares a worried glance towards the alley as she tightens her grip on the bright, periwinkle stole wrapped about her shoulders. ¡°These outsiders, I tell you. Never a thought for those around them.¡± The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°I am perfectly fine, Miss Mirah,¡± she responds amicably, already searching the contents of her basket for the Old Maid¡¯s tarts and jar of jam. ¡°He missed this time around.¡± ¡°It¡¯s all take, take, take I tell you.¡± She pauses, starting at the Old Maid for a fraction of a second before fishing out the remaining meat pasty. The woman¡¯s disdain for all things foreign was no surprise to her, but she wondered why, then, was the Old Maid generous enough to tip the boy a whole Krounen every morning. Perhaps it had been a habit of her wealthy family ¨C or perhaps she wasn¡¯t apprehensive of foreigners themselves, as much as she was frightened of the change they seemed to bring about with them. ¡°Oh, but you¡¯re nothing like them,¡± Miss Mirah continues, interpreting her silence as annoyance, her tone slightly apologetic. The Old Maid proceeds to complete her now daily ritual of spitting onto her handkerchief and swatting around her head. She then hands over the seven Krounen, the air around her smelling of dead roses and dampness. ¡°As always, I thank you for your patronage, Miss Mirah,¡± she replies, followed by her customary deep curtsy. Turning around, basket thumping against her side, she heads towards the town square. Clang! She feels the warmth of the hearth almost immediately, the deafening blow of a falling hammer reminding her of her next stop. The knight would have to wait, the intimidating Forge as busy as always. She walks up to the apprentice, who is working on the same brown mare she had seen before. The owner stands next to her, speaking to the animal in hushed tones. Clang! She waits for the apprentice to acknowledge her with a curt nod before she makes her way inside. The Blacksmith¡¯s imposing figure is illuminated by the blazing fire in front of him, the rest of the forge darkening in comparison. The flames crackle and spit at him but he remains unperturbed. Clang! She begins to lay down the contents of her basket, including her little jar of honey and thyme mixed with a bit of aloe plant, on one of the tables. Looking around for the other apprentice, she spots him making his way to her, his apron tied around his waist, removing gloves from calloused hands. Clang! She receives her fourteen Krounen and watches the young man walk towards the Blacksmith to notify him of her arrival but she turns around, bringing her purse forward and watching the coins slide from her fingers to join the others. Clang! Her ears pick up the sound of hot metal being submerged in ice cold water as she moves towards the exit. Basket in hand, her eyes fall upon some discarded scraps of metal on a nearby table and her eyebrows rise. She remembers then that she meant to ask Bast about knight related sightings but had forgotten completely. But, who better to ask about an armor-clad individual, than the makers of armors themselves, she thinks. Once she leaves the heat of the Forge behind, she walks past the worried owner, the mare at his side swishing her tail about. She waits for the apprentice to notice her, his attention still engrossed on the task at hand. When he finally turns to search for a stool, she steps forward slowly, inching closer to the horse. ¡°Excuse me,¡± she calls to him. The apprentice looks up at her but seems confused. ¡°May I ask you a question? I promise I won¡¯t be long.¡± The apprentice says nothing as she nods back at his customer apologetically. ¡°Has the Forge, by any chance, been of service to a knight recently?¡± The apprentice continues to stare at her, his large gray eyes unmoving. ¡°I saw one by the main road, you see. By the meadow¡¯s path, ¡° she says, pointing at the general direction of the woods with her basket. ¡°He seemed lost and I wondered if by chance you knew anything about the ma¨C¡±. The apprentice stands up suddenly, the stool clattering loudly behind him. She watches, dumbfounded, as he walks off and away from sight, sidestepping a large figure as he enters the forge. She can¡¯t see a face but she knows the tall build unmistakably belongs to the Blacksmith. She moves to apologize for disturbing his apprentice but the Blacksmith ambles away and into the blazing darkness of the Forge without uttering a single word. Her cheeks color a bright pink as she steps back, flustered. When she looks at the customer for reassurance, he is brushing the mare¡¯s mane, seemingly unaware. She stands there, unsure of whether she should head inside and make amends or if she should simply walk away. She decides for the latter, vowing to add extra meat to their next order and doubling the honey-thyme salve as an apology for her apparent rudeness ¨C fourteen guaranteed Krounen not being something she could easily find elsewhere. Still shaken, and pondering other ways she could have insulted the poor lad, she makes it to Qadahl Road, feeling a sense of relief, knowing she was nearing an end to her day. Her mind craves the simplicity of her cabin, the smell of cinnamon, and the enduring peace that came with her quaint life, rude customers and hovering giants notably scarce. With thoughts of herb buns and hot mint cocoa, she delivers her strawberry tart, keeping her interaction with the cook adequately civil and swerving Ketevan¡¯s antics listlessly, climbing the stairs two at a time. She hears the family¡¯s carriage but does not stop to gape at them today, marching determinedly down the street instead. She stops at the corner, waiting for a gap between carriages, looking at both sides of the road before deciding to cross. Just when she¡¯s about to do so, she catches sight of the family¡¯s carriage as it turns the corner, the coachman swerving into traffic proficiently. The carriage¡¯s velvet curtain seems to rustle and open momentarily before the horses drag it away. She stares at the carriage for a while longer before crossing. Having one final stop before she can depart, she carves a path through the market crowd, lifting her basket above her head to avoid hitting any of the townsfolk. Other merchants are less considerate, and an umph escapes her lips when an elbow slams against her rib cage. She hears an apology said far away but she does not stop, her objective already in sight. Except her boots do come to a halt, the swaying of her basket ceasing, her lips slightly parting. In all her years living in the town, she had never seen it closed, crates empty, hangers bare of garlic braids and onions. The windows behind the stall are tightly shut, a lock in place, and she hears no noise coming from inside. She steps forward slowly, expecting Gr¨®dur Un to jump from behind the wooden slabs to surprise her. When nothing happens, she gazes back at the crowd to see if any of the locals were as confused by the old woman¡¯s absence as she was but they all seem to be going about their day as they usually would. She moves to head home but turns back, taking another look at the stall¡¯s surroundings, and decides to leave the balm behind the stall, hiding five Krounen beneath the small tart. With exhaustion weighing on her temples, and Gr¨®dur Un weighing on her heart, she heads home. Chapter Four Rays of blue light stretch and travel over the thick logs that make up her roof. Her eyes take a second to adjust to the morning, her lashes fluttering drowsily. Her blanket feels warm and safe around her feet and she digs into its folds, wondering what would happen if she took a day off, stayed in and did nothing but eat and read and not exist. The world would have to make do without meat pasties and apple butter for today¨Cfind its breakfast elsewhere. The thought is enough to scare her straight, the thirty-eight Krounen she earned every day her most effective motivator. She kicks the blanket away decisively, static clinging to her skin, popping silently as she separates herself from the all-too comfortable bed. She ambles slowly towards the kitchen, seizing a loaf of bread, carving two thick slices and laying them directly over the stove. She turns, grabbing the tea pot that hangs over her head, filling it with ice cold water and placing it next to the slices. As the bread warms and the water boils, she heads back to her room, pulling her nightdress over her head and throwing it onto the bed. She stands naked for a second, her eyes scanning for a skirt, a blouse, and some socks. Once she finds them, she grabs a corset and wraps it around her torso, tying the laces before heading back to the kitchen to add some tea to the boiling water. When she returns to her room, she moves towards the wooden basin located at the corner and uses the cold water to splash her face, combing her long locks afterward. She finishes dressing up quickly and walks over to the kitchen once more, pulling a plate and a teacup from the cupboard above her stove and lathering the toast with butter and jam. She sweetens her tea with honey and cream. Her feet carry her outside, plate and teacup in hand, boots in place. As she strolls past her garden, delicate drops of dew slip down the laden leaves, shimmering like diamonds. When she sits down on her rogue chair, it creaks and sinks as usual, and she feels silly when relief floods her chest. She sets down her cup and her plate, pushing her chair forward slightly. She looks around and watches the bees and the birds and the flowers continue their early ritual, her presence unnoticed. The forest pathway looks as ethereal as ever, with its bright green moss and its swaying trees. She breathes in, thankful for a peaceful morning. She finishes her breakfast and heads inside, dumping her plate and teacup on the sink and heading for her closet to look for something to wrap around her shoulders in case the frigid gusts that haunted her the day before return today. She finds a shawl of rich, dark evergreen and lays it over her basket, its contents ready for delivery. She pauses by the mirror before stepping out of her cabin. She nods her head once and hears her boots march over the porch and down the crunching gravel. She walks in relative silence, the woods never one to be quiet and in the stillness she allows her thoughts to mingle and come forth. Her arms feel the added weight of the stuffed game pies she has included to the Blacksmith¡¯s order, hoping they will make up for her slight yesterday. What she could have possibly said that aggrieved the poor apprentice so, she wonders. A low groan rumbles down her throat as her brain flashes the mortifying scene over and over again, wishing she had done things differently, wishing she had asked someone else about that wretched knight, wishing she had never asked at all. And a wretched knight it was, if it even existed, she thinks with a heavy sigh. She decides then and there that it would no longer present a problem for her, this knight. In fact, she would henceforth consider it as an atypical occurrence in an otherwise perfectly typical life. A passing stranger, not unlike the travelers that walked down the main road with her now, going about their life in a path that ran next to but never overlapped her own. Such was the way of life, she thinks philosophically. The three white arches loom over her head as she exits the main road and enters the wakening market. The haggling and the hanging produce remind her of Gr¨®dur Un and she wonders if her small gift still lay atop the makeshift counter. The tart probably sat covered in ants and she held no hopes for the Krounen left under it, but a faint wish lingered regarding the brew she had designed especially for the wise woman. ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± She smiles at the well-known greeting, her attention shifting immediately to Bast and his gorgeous ring. She steps forward and exchanges the usual pleasantries with him, pretending to think over his once in a lifetime offer and waving it away nonetheless. The thought of asking Bast regarding the sighting of a knight crosses her mind but the words do not form, resolute on not wasting any more mental space on the intruder. She continues her path towards the Apothecary, holding the door for an exiting patron, a regular so it seemed, as they always seemed to run into each other at the same time of day, their parcel neatly tucked under their arm. Placing her basket over the counter, she waits for Mr. Tarpeius to finish his sniffing, and his peeking, and his whining before collecting her five Krounen. ¡°I thank you for your patronage,¡± she says, her smile straining against her cheeks. He clicks his tongue once as she opens the door to leave. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.¡± ¡°Do not threaten me with a good time, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she says before the silver bell rings. Unwrapping the shall from her basket, she ties it around her torso in anticipation of the ruthless wind. One day, she thinks, one day he would choke on a blasted olive and she would have put it there. Restraining a dark grin at such morbid thoughts, she turns left and walks carefully up the sodden alley, her boots two-inches deep in a mix of mud, ale and gods knew what else. She nods her head once at the boy and he jumps off a barrel of ale, muck flying everywhere, and runs to fetch the Old Maid. She hears his tiny steps as he makes his way back down and side stepping his hasty retreat, she snaps her fingers once and a single Krounen flies across the air. The boy catches the golden coin dexterously and stares up at her, mouth agape, his feet never pausing. His eyes remain fixed on her when he turns the corner, disappearing behind the large men rolling up barrels of ale to the Alba Custodia. When she turns around, Miss Mirah is already standing by the doorstep, puffing her chest and eyeing everything and everyone that passes by. ¡°All they do¨C¡± ¡°Is take, take, take,¡± she repeats after the Old Maid, as Miss Mirah resumes her daily monologue, handing over the seven Krounen owed and handling the parcels with her bony fingers. The jar of apple jam rests dangerously against her cheek as she bestows upon her the customary handkerchief blessings. Miss Mirah retires up the stairs and she stays to make sure the Old Maid drops nothing before letting out the air in her lungs. The twelve Krounen jingle in her pouch as she forges ahead, onto the cobbled street that leads to the town square, making sure not to get in the way of any carriages or well-meaning coachmen. Her eyes do not shift at glinting silver nor do her feet falter, instead she walks purposely towards the Forge, already practicing the speech she had prepared the night before. It had been difficult imagining the Blacksmith¡¯s response, given that she had never heard his voice before, but she hoped he would at least accept the peace offering. She ignores the faint voice in her head that demands the apology be reciprocated, seeing as she was left standing there, eyes wide open and blushing like a schoolgirl. In fact, now that she thought about it, she had simply asked wh¨C no, she stopped herself. An apology would be given, and her relationship with the hard working men would be preserved. And fourteen Krounen consequently pocketed. As she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, she marches towards the Blacksmith¡¯s Forge, ready to make amends. But, as she walks past the stables, something seems to be amiss. While the number of horses and men walking about has not lessened, the cacophony of noise that usually accompanies her stroll through the town square is made noticeable for its absence. She looks around to see if perhaps some form of entertainment or assembly is being held by the locals but everyone seems to be going about their business. The question of the quiet town square is promptly answered when she finally makes it to the Forge, her eyebrows rising in realization. The Forge is closed. There is no heat coming from a hungry hearth, no chattering from demanding customers, no clanging of a mighty hammer against white hot metal. No apprentices. No Blacksmith. She stares at the tightly shut, black doors, no sign notifying of a quick return or a seasonal recess. For a second, the ludicrous thought that her query had somehow caused the closing of the Forge crosses her mind, the apprentice so shocked by her approach that the business had been rendered inoperable. She brushes it off with a roll of her eyes, finding it unbelievable that the heart of the town square would meet its match with a baker. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. She glances to both sides, seeking any other patrons who find themselves in need of the service of a new smithy but the e town life continues around her, the same way the bees and the birds and the flowers buzzed around her only this morning. Turning to look at the Forge once more, and deciding against leaving the meat pasties for them to find tomorrow, she tightens her grip on her shawl and hoists a heavier basket than usual onto her hip. As she walks up to the infamous Qadahl Road, she watches fine carriages roll past, and wonders if she could perhaps find her next patron in one of these grand houses. Most already employed highly skilled chefs with experience running large kitchens for hotels and, if one could afford it, nobility. She knew she was no match, but perhaps she could cater to the help, meat pasties and bread for breakfast an affordable dream. And while asking Ketevan for another favor was not something she particularly cared to do, she mulls over ways to approach the matter tactfully. One of those same highly skilled chefs ignores her presence as she delivers her strawberry tart and collects her twelve Krounen from the same apologetic maid. She fishes around the basket, searching for the raspberry-orange jam meant for Ketevan and pauses, the Blacksmith¡¯s order taking up considerable space in her basket. She looks around at the maids, the servants, and delivery men rushing about with purpose and makes a quick decision. Placing the basket back on the kitchen table, she unloads the meat pasties two at a time, the smell of buttery pastry and seasoned meat filling the kitchen. Sensing the cook is just about ready to kick her out, she raises her hands defensively and then gestures at the moving mass of people around them. ¡°Free. For everyone.¡± Before she shrivels under the glare of the mighty cook, she retrieves her basket and nods curtly, taking the lack of shouting as a sign that the meaty gift would be accepted. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± Ketevan¡¯s voice slithers and finds her where she stands, clear over the constant clattering and bustling of the kitchen. She sighs in annoyance before turning around to face him, masking her relief at having an ally in an otherwise openly hostile environment. ¡°Good morning, Ketevan,¡± she responds once she is close enough to hand him his due, her arm extending forward. Ketevan¡¯s smirk widens as his hand wraps around the glass jar. He pulls the jar towards him and her with it, leaning forward slightly. ¡°You¡¯re no fun.¡± She looks up at his looming face, her face impassive as she extracts her hand from his grasp. ¡°And you now owe me ten Krounen.¡± ¡°Ah,¡± he responds. ¡°But what is a Krounen between friends.¡± ¡°Ten Krounen,¡± she repeats as she walks away, hoisting her basket against her hip and rewrapping her shawl around her torso. She feels Ketevan¡¯s gaze on her and she rises to meet it, gesturing at the pile of pastries to her left. ¡°Help yourself.¡± ¡°Have I ever told you,¡± he begins as he saunters his way towards the kitchen table, winking at the cook for good measure. ¡°Watch it,¡± she interrupts him, her voice rising slightly as she glances momentarily at the cook who is giving anyone who approaches the pastries her nastiest glare. She looks back at Ketevan who is enjoying her discomfort tremendously. ¡°Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,¡± he repeats his daily invitation to the tavern, but his attention is otherwise engaged with the meat pasties, his hands searching for his late breakfast. ¡°I¡¯ll make it¨C¡± ¡°Worth my while? I doubt it.¡± she finishes, cutting him off once again. ¡°I¡¯m already operating at a loss. The Forge was closed today.¡± Ketevan''s hand freezes for a second, barely perceptible, before he places his selected parcel back on the table. When he looks up at her, his expression is indecipherable. His gaze travels around the kitchen, following the help as they rush from one place to the next before returning to her. ¡°You don¡¯t say,¡± he finally responds, his smile intact. ¡°Do you know anything about the matter?¡± He shakes his head slowly, stepping away from the table and stuffing his hands, and the jam jar, in his pockets. She expects him to ask her about it but when he does not, she takes the hint. ¡°Right.¡± Her eyes do not leave him as she nods, not entirely convinced. Ketevan knew everything that happened in that little town of theirs, and the closing of the Forge was something that would have received some notice. But she decides not to push, unsure if she is overstepping a line. She shrugs her shoulders once, basket bobbing next to her. She forces her lips to stretch into a parting smile and makes her way up the first few steps. She turns around and points at him. ¡°Ten Krounen!¡± Ketevan remains unmoved. His own smile sparks but never quite catches, some warmth returning to his chocolate brown eyes. His head angles slightly. ¡°You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime.¡± Thunder rolls overhead. Her back straightens instinctively, her senses on high alert, and she is suddenly glad to be already halfway towards exit. It takes all her concentration to relax the muscles around her neck, to convince herself that she was in no danger. This is Ketevan after all. And Ketevan is a friend. She clears her throat and bows slightly. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± She does not wait for his response, turning quickly and making her way up the stairs two at a time. When she resurfaces, the sky above is blue and white clouds drift quietly, a truly beautiful day. She opens the black gate swiftly and dashes down the sidewalk, not looking back at the house ¨C or the family carriage for that matter. Putting one boot in front of the other, she marches down the cobbled street and heads to the square, walking past all the merchants and peddlers. She pauses briefly to look at the Forge for any sign of life but it remains as closed as it was earlier this morning. You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime. She chews on her lip as she continues on, wondering if she has somehow managed to annoy Ketevan as well, her foot appearing to be a habitual fixture in her mouth these last couple of days. She knew she couldn¡¯t afford to lose any more patrons, and a bad reputation in a small town spread like wildfire. And as an outsider, her fire would burn quicker than most. She enters the market once again and, out of habit, her feet carry her towards Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s stall. The wooden window panes remain tightly shut, no noise emanating from the old, timber house. Glancing around first to make sure that no one is watching, she walks behind the stall and notices the tart, brew, and Krounen are gone. Their absence gives her some hope, the thought of her brew making it to the hands of the old woman lifting the dark clouds around her somewhat. As she steps away from the stall, she realizes that she should have asked Ketevan about Gr¨®dur Un as well, but remembering their exchange only moments before, she thinks perhaps it would be best to seek her information elsewhere. Before she can think twice about it, she dives back into the market, immediately spotting the bearded merchants'' brightly colored table in between the thick noon crowd. Bast stands proudly behind his wares, luring passersby with promises of pure gold at the best of prices. When she steps forward, the merchant¡¯s smile widens. ¡°Ah,¡± he welcomes her. ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± She smiles back at his established greeting and shakes her head. ¡°No, I¡¯m afraid not, Bast. I¡¯m here to ask after Gr¨®dur Un.¡± The merchant looks at her quizzically, his brow furrowing slightly. ¡°Gr¨®dur Un?¡± ¡°Yes. You know,¡± she says, pointing in the general direction of her stall. ¡°Gr¨®dur Un.¡± Bast¡¯s gaze follows her gesture before returning to her. He seems to think hard about it, his frown deepening before shaking his head. ¡°I do not know such a person.¡± ¡°Oh,¡± she answers, clearly confused. Perhaps Bast had never wandered far enough to meet her, or had arrived little before her, and knew as little of the town as she did. She tries one more time, thinking the name might not be a known one. ¡°She is an older woman. She sells fruits and vegetables by the arches. Surely you¡¯ve seen her.¡± The merchant shakes his head and shrugs apologetically, eager to return to his enticing of the masses, the ?hances of this exchange being profitable making her less of a priority. ¡°Her family has lived here for years.¡± ¡°And so has mine,¡± he responds, his attention returning momentarily to her. ¡°And I tell you, I have never heard such a name be used around these parts.¡± She opens her mouth to press further but stops herself, unwilling and unable to anger yet another native. Besides, it had been her mistake to assume that the old woman¡¯s presence was a known thing around town. Her investigation would have to continue elsewhere. She bows, knowing she has wasted enough of the merchant¡¯s valuable consideration before quickly moving out of the way. ¡°I thank you for your time, Bast. May you have a pleasant afternoon.¡± ¡°And you as well, Venandi.¡± She takes a few steps away from the table before she stops, her body finally catching up to her mind. The basket, which sat comfortably over her shoulder, slides down her arm and she closes her hand around the handle before it falls to the ground. She turns around slowly, busy bodies moving around her, the boisterous market suddenly feeling empty. ¡°What did you call me?¡± ¡°Hmm?¡± Bast replies distractedly without looking up at her, his eyes already preoccupied with a perusing customer. ¡°Who is Venandi?¡± He spares her a sideways glance and smiles innocently. ¡°How would I know?¡± Chapter Five She wakes but her eyes remain closed. The morning chirps merrily outside her bedroom window, the light bleeding through her eyelids, enlivening her room, slowly forcing a perpetual beginning. A deep sigh escapes her chest, her lungs filling with air, gradually transforming into a low, rumbling groan. She can sense the start of a headache, poised at the ready near her temples and she fears any sudden movements may provoke it. The palms of her hands rise and press against her eyes, her skin cool. She simultaneously stretches her legs outwards, enjoying the feeling of her muscles unraveling, toes just about touching the edge of her wooden bed. Elbows sink against the bed as she pushes herself upwards, her body feeling oddly heavy. She touches her forehead and her cheeks but feels no alarming warmth, so she dismisses the possibility of a fever. She stares at nothing in particular as her feet dangle beneath her. The lilac-patterned curtain breathes in and out and goosebumps rise as the chill air brushes against her bare arms. Her mouth opens wide as a yawn escapes and her eyes water. Drowsiness follows her to the kitchen where she prepares her simple breakfast, barely mustering enough energy to toast her bread thoroughly. Annoyance settles comfortably on her shoulders as she washes her face, the frigid water bringing forth a wave of misplaced resentment that deepens within her as she ties her corset around her chest. Her mood does not lift until the first sip of the blackest tea she could brew hits her tongue, almost scalding her mouth, and she surrenders against her rickety, white lawn chair. She feels the dampness of dawn seep through her blouse but she does not mind it. In fact, the biting metal helps lift the fog that has since obscured her thoughts and her mind takes the opportunity to race hectically, poring over yesterday¡¯s events. While the idea that she caused the closing of the mighty Forge still rang untrue to her ears, an opportunity to reconcile with her patron had been missed, and fourteen Krounen¡¯s worth of meat pies lost to the staff at the Big House as a consequence. Perhaps some elusive rule of conduct had been breached when she asked Ketevan about the Blacksmith¡¯s whereabouts ¨C the same rule that had baffled Bast when she sought after the well-being of the old grocer. It gradually dawns on her that she might not know the local customs as well as she thought. And Bast had called her an odd sounding thing, confused her with someone else. Her eyebrows knit together as she struggles to bring forth the name, the word standing at the tip of her tongue but not quite revealing itself, letters rising and falling within the folds of her memory. But the same headache that threatened her earlier rears its head now and she desists, hoping the word will come back to her at some point in the day. A day she was suddenly reluctant to begin. As she exits her cabin, basket in hand, shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, and head held as high as her spirit will allow, she readies herself for yet another round of atonement. The sound of her steady march soon joins that of the early morning crowd, carting the same wares day after day, the sounds of muffled voices mixing with the sporadic neighing of their horses. A donkey brays and she starts, bringing her basket closer as she looks up, returning the nods of the farmers who walk beside her. The colorful shingles and the great arches greet her from afar and she calls forth all the good humor stored within her as she closes the distance to the market. It was unlike her to stay groggy for this long and she did not want to sour the mood of her patrons. She makes a point of raising her eyebrows slightly in admiration when the merchants boast their goods and comment on the quality of their newly sewn shoes, the enticing smell of their breakfast foods, the shine on their newly molded pans. Lips stretch into a soft grin and chin lifts firmly as she graciously declines their offers, promising to return later, swinging her basket away so as not to obstruct their path. Her way to the Apothecary is a straight one and she adds an extra jump to her step as she walks down the street, Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s sign swinging delicately at a distance. She can just about make out a figure moving within the establishment before she falters, something not being quite right. She looks over her shoulder, her eyes searching for any clue of what could possibly be missing, and then she realizes. Bast had not called after her today. She takes a few steps towards the empty spot where his table should be but finds no indication that the man had been there at all this morning. Her gaze travels up and down the street to see if perhaps the bearded merchant had decided to set up shop elsewhere, someplace more strategic, but her search is futile. ¡°Fuck.¡± The curse word escapes her lips before she can stop it and she covers her mouth immediately, the idea that she may upset the locals further crawling back up her throat. But the market life carries on as usual and she is grateful, for once, for its boisterous nature. Not being one to swear, she acknowledges that Bast¡¯s sudden disappearance has made her anxious. While he had seemed earnestly confused by her questions, and perhaps inconvenienced by her interrupting his business, their exchange had not struck her as being an unpleasant one. She refused to believe that Bast had chosen to forfeit a day¡¯s worth of wages over a simple conversation. From far away, her ears pick up the eerie ring of a singular, silver bell and her gaze snaps towards the opposite direction. The sound travels to where she stands and she hears it blend with the hollow whistle of the wind. When her eyes adjust, she manages to catch a glimpse of the Apothecary¡¯s morning patron, his black figure disappearing into the mist. Mr. Tarpeius would be waiting for her and while he was the one patron who she could not disappoint, his personality set to permanently disappointed, it would not do to displease another client. Taking a moment to gather her thoughts, she leaves the merchant¡¯s absence behind and walks towards the Apothecary''s shop, basket in tow. Mr. Tarpeius receives her good mornings with a tepid raise of an eyebrow and proceeds to pay her the five Krounen owed, the sound of the clinking gold bringing a sense of security to her chest. A sudden appreciation for the mean spirited man rises within her and, after assuring him on several occasions that none of the pastries possessed even the slightest trace of anything remotely related to an olive, she thanks him for his patronage and is surprised by the sincerity that laces her words. The Apothecary¡¯s eyes widen underneath his spectacles, his ears reddening slightly and he dismisses her with his usual cry. She watches his hand wave her away as the door swings behind her and her lips quirk into a small smirk. She spares one last look at the market but is once again met with disappointment, Bast¡¯s presence remaining undetectable. She delivers the three blueberry tarts, one meat pasty, and a jar of apple jam to Miss Mirah, her parcels wavering dangerously against her shaky hands. The seven Krounen slip effortlessly into her pouch and she courtesies deeply after the Old Maid imparts her spit-ridden blessing upon her shoulders. She worried that the messenger boy would be awaiting a reward for his services, her funds not being as generous as they were the day before, but he simply alerted the Old Maid and continued on his merry way down the alley. The same alley which she now exits as she heads to her next patron, the Blacksmith. Crossing the town square, she finds herself praying to the gods that the Forge will be open but her prayers appear to land on deaf ears ¨C the Forge¡¯s doors remaining as shut as they had been yesterday. The weight of several meat pasties pulls her down and she lays the basket on the ground, out of the way of the crowd. She places her hands on her hips before sparing a sideways glance at her surroundings. Once she is satisfied that there are no onlookers, she steps towards one of the windows, cupping her hands against the muddled glass. There seems to be no sign of life, the large space empty of its fire, the only light coming from the reflection of the scraps of metal that lay every which way over the wooden tables. When she finally steps back, she can see the imprints of her fingers against the glass and her reflection between them. The thought of leaving a note crosses her mind but she dismisses the idea, the lack of paper and ink being the main deterrent. She would prepare one at home and bring it with her tomorrow, just in case the Blacksmith decided to close the Forge again. Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Retrieving her basket, she moves up and away from the town square, her next destination the place under the multicolored shingles. Hesitation slows her gait down somewhat, the last interaction with Ketevan having had a heavy seriousness to it that was so unlike their usual exchanges. She readied herself for a cold reception, but was instead greeted with Ketevan¡¯s usual slyness. He now leaned against the entrance, watching her unpack the undelivered meat pasties originally meant for the Blacksmith. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± She smiles, genuinely glad to know their dynamic has not been much changed, all questions of the smithy seemingly forgotten. On queue, she hands over his daily dose of jam, his fingers spinning the jar around, the glass staining his fingers a delicate shade of orange. He returns her smile, diverting all mentions of a certain debt effortlessly, sparing glances at the eavesdropping chef. They can tell that the cook is not happy about the extra deliveries, and while she would never admit it to the grumbling woman in front of her, she secretly understood. She enjoyed sharing her goods with others, and was well aware of the benefits of a good word shared between strangers, but the Blacksmith¡¯s absence signified a considerable loss to her business. She feels Ketevan¡¯s hand cup her shoulder and her eyes snap towards his copper-colored ones which now observe her quietly. His frame shades them from the rest of the staff, mainly bored maids and a very angry chef. ¡°Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,¡± he pleads in a low whisper and she stares at him for a second longer than she means to, searching for any lingering resentment from his boyish expression. She shakes her head. ¡°I cannot,¡± she says, gesturing at her basket. ¡°I need to get my affairs in order.¡± His head drops in mock disappointment, her negative answer unwavering. Before he can say his parting remark, she walks towards the exit. As she climbs up the stairs she adds, ¡°Next time, perhaps.¡± There is no response from Ketevan but she does not wait for one either, opening the black gate that circles the grand house. Hearing the door creak quietly behind her, she stops to watch the family carriage stationed by the entrance. She hears the tapping of shoes against steps and watches as the mother, ever so gracefully, saunters her way to the carriage, not sparing a glance at the world around her. Behind her follows Alma, her delicate features made fragile by the pale sunlight. Her pink eyelids lift and their eyes meet, that same crinkling at the sides signaling that she has recognized her. She notices that tufts of the whitest fur peek from the folds of her gentle embrace. When Alma¡¯s gaze follows her own, she angles her arms so that she can see the dormant being ¨C a rabbit. A small smile plays on their lips as the bunny wrinkles its pink nose and shuffles its long ears drowsily. Someone calls from within the carriage and Alma¡¯s attention is diverted momentarily. When she looks back they both smile in understanding. Not waiting for the coachman¡¯s whip to whisk Alma away, she turns and walks down the pristine sidewalk. Marching past the empty Forge, the Old Maid¡¯s apartments, and the Apothecary¡¯s shop, she is once again deep within the buzzing crowd of vendors, the late morning renewing its strength. Bast¡¯s table is still nowhere to be seen and while she remains curious, she refrains from asking any questions to unsuspecting locals. Instead, she heads towards the three arches, glad for an early end to the day¡¯s chores. The different grocer¡¯s selling vegetables and fruits catch her eye and she makes a mental note to, eventually, choose a new supplier. And as her gaze travels from face to face, from storefront to storefront, she finally sees it. Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s stall is open. All thoughts of departing leave her mind as her feet carry her towards the crates full of fresh produce, the bright windows wide open, the sound of clattering and voices bringing new hope to her watchful heart. The thought of seeing a familiar face livens her step and when she reaches the stall she can barely contain herself. ¡°M¨¦man?¡± The clattering halts. ¡°Be right there with you,¡± someone answers from within, the voice not sounding quite like that of an older woman. A stranger steps out hauling a box overfilled with beets, the dark green leaves spilling over the wooden crate. The woman¡¯s eyes open in acknowledgement and her smile widens. ¡°Why, I¡¯ll say. I haven¡¯t seen you around these parts in ages.¡± Her mind scrambles to remember the person before her. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°I was wondering where you¡¯d been,¡± the stranger continues, placing the crate over the counter and proceeding to wash the beets on a small basin full to the brim with fresh water. She watches as the water spills over the side. ¡°What can I get for you today? The usual?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry,¡± she says, lifting her gaze and raising her hands apologetically, her basket dangling from one of her fingers. ¡°I believe you are confusing me with someone else.¡± ¡°Sure.¡± The stranger responds sarcastically, her smile widening amicably. ¡°Here. A little extra, as always.¡± The woman hands over a satchel full to the brim, which she accepts clumsily, holding the bag as if it were a child. When she manages to make out its contents, she finds it to be the exact same order she would typically purchase from Gr¨®dur Un. She stares back in confusion, the stranger watching her expectantly. ¡°That will be four Krounen.¡± ¡°Four,¡± she repeats slowly, her words not quite catching up with her thoughts. ¡°I¨C Of course, here.¡± She hands over six golden coins and she watches as the fingers of the stranger curl around them, her hands missing the wrinkles that line Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s own, her palms free of calluses and deep scars. ¡°Where is Gr¨®dur Un?¡± The question pours out of her, her voice higher than she intended it to, but it does not seem to startle the stranger, who smiles back, her eyebrows knitting apologetically as she shakes her head. ¡°Who?¡± ¡°The owner. She was he¨C,¡± she stops as the woman¡¯s face grows more perplexed with every word, her smile still in place. It was clear to her then that the stranger did not know who she was talking about and the conversation felt like an exact reenactment of her exchange with Bast. ¡°Uh, no one. Never mind.¡± ¡°Is everything alright, child?¡± The word sounds foreign coming from the stranger¡¯s mouth, the woman being no more than ten years her senior. She stares at her for a moment before returning the smile. ¡°Everything is perfect,¡± she says finally, ignoring the cloud of suspicion that looms over her mind, and she winces as the headache arrives in full force. She loops the satchel over her arm and picks up her basket, bowing her head curtly. ¡°May you have the best of evenings.¡± ¡°And you as well,¡± the woman responds, resuming the washing of the pink vegetables. ¡°I shall see you tomorrow, yes?¡± Her eyes narrow slightly, but once again the stranger does not seem to notice her awkward mood, and continues with the task at hand. ¡°Right,¡± she manages to say as she walks away, readjusting the satchel and the basket. She does not look back, placing one weathered boot in front of the other, barely registering that she has passed the arches, her temples throbbing. She struggles to respond to the greetings and partings of those traveling the main road, just about managing a quick nod at nondescript faces. The trees around her blur and the crunching of the gravel beneath her feet sounds like the gnashing of teeth. When her cabin finally comes into view, she sighs in relief. Her shoulders, which had remained tense from the moment the stranger exited Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s stall, relax and as she removes her boots at the entrance and places her belongings on the kitchen table, she feels the headache recede marginally. She moves to grab a glass of water and while she watches the water rise, she tries to organize her thoughts. She did not know the woman. The woman seems to know her. Perhaps she mistook her for someone else. But the satchel contains her exact order, down to the last apple. A bushel of apples is not an uncommon item to purchase, she counters to herself. The woman did not know who Gr¨®dur Un was, nor did Bast, and she had definitely spoken to the elder less than a week ago. She gulps down the cold water, pushing down the wave of doubt that rises with every incoming possibility. The faint smell reaches her nose first and it wrinkles instinctively, recognizing the stench as that of rotting fruit, sweet and briny. She places the glass down and sniffs at the air, pushing her worries aside for a second. She surveys her surroundings, but does not find the source of the scent, the only food in sight being the loaf of bread she left there this morning. The dry surface springs back with the press of her finger, and as she turns the loaf around she finds no sign of decay. The thought crosses her mind as fast as lightning, her eyes landing on the satchel. She just bought them, there was no possibility of them rotting on the way back to the cabin. Nevertheless, she moves towards it and unwraps it slowly, wondering if she would now have to return to town and exchange the bad fruit. When she finally peers inside, the words she told the stranger return to her as she stares down at a bunch of spotless apples. Everything is perfect. Chapter Six Her feet land on the thick rug with a dull thud. Her curls, long and unkempt, pull and spill over her shoulders, dangling lazily just above her knees. She extends her legs forward, immediately regretting it as the cramp sprawls and spreads up her leg. She bends forward to alleviate the pain but it only makes matters worse, her body fully awake now. Her teeth grind together as she suppresses a yelp, a low hiss escaping her lips instead. Hitting her thigh lightly with her closed fist, she risks standing up, and while her leg spasms still, she manages to limp about the room and towards the kitchen. By the time the tea¡¯s whistle signals the start of breakfast, she is fully dressed and washed, her toes flexing away the last of the irritating strain. As she gives her leg one last good shake, she remembers vaguely that it was said that cramps heralded the beginning of a harrowing journey, but she dismisses it now as the result of over exerting herself yesterday while sprinting back to her cabin. Back and away from the stranger manning the wise woman¡¯s stall. She takes the time to savor her breakfast, breathing in the heady smell of the wilderness. Enjoying the symphony of the bungling bees and the fluttering butterflies, she welcomes the early rays as they kiss her face delicately. The thin porcelain touching her lips, she takes a long sip of her tea. When she sets the teacup back on the table, a wandering bee lands on its edge, wings bursting with flurries of movement. As she watches the little creature fly away, a profound serenity settles deep within her, and she struggles to remember why the last few mornings had become uncommonly hectic for her. Bones humming with renewed energy, she returns to the cabin, wiping her damp boots against the floorboards before stepping in. She resumes her quotidian dance, going from basket to shawl, from shawl to mirror, and from mirror to door. She sneaks one last glance at her reflection, rosy cheeks beneath warm eyes, and she allows an encouraging smile to bow her lips. A grimace slowly transforms her face, her nose wrinkling. There it is again, the rot and decay. Her head swivels, hand on door handle, sniffing as she searches once again for the source of the offending smell but finds nothing. She looks under her boots and into her basket and when she opens the door she stares at the garden in front of her, with its perfect mess of flowers, and wonders if perhaps the earth is far too rich. However, when she walks by their beds, brimming over with bobbing colors, all that her nose can identify is the smell of sweet grass and blooming roses. She continues to examine the pathway for any signs of discarded waste before she reaches the main road with its farmers and travelers. Her search fruitless, she remembers to nod and swerve and salute her way all the way past the three arches and through the busy market, her mood not quite as affected as it had been the day before. She slows down when she nears Bast¡¯s usual location and while she exhales in mild frustration, there is no real sense of surprise when faced with a vacant space where the Merchant¡¯s table usually stood, its surface fraught with precious jewels ¨C including her coveted ring. Nonetheless, she reasons, it was not unusual for merchants to move stations or leave for months at a time, selling their wares elsewhere or scouting for new merchandise to woo the locals. So she does not linger, her feet carrying her decidedly up the road and away from yet another probable misunderstanding. Bast would surely return. Mist curling at a distance, she reaches the Apothecary¡¯s shop, the silver bell ringing as soon as she swings the door open. ¡°Good morning, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she calls, trying her best to breathe and speak and keep the overpowering smell of brine at bay. Unimpressed by her greeting, the Apothecary spares not even a sideways glare at her, instead resuming the wrapping of his current customer¡¯s package whom she recognizes as the shop¡¯s apparent regular. She positions herself behind him, studying his heavily cloaked figure as he places the packet beneath his arms and tips his cap at Mr. Tarpeius. He quickly exits the shop, her gaze in tow, his figure disappearing into the mist. When she looks back at the Apothecary, she is met with a set of swinging doors, the moody man nowhere to be seen. With no one to witness her act of insolence, she rolls her eyes as she places the basket on the counter. She proceeds to unpack her first order of the day, the four parcels stacked in a neat tower before her. As she waits for the Apothecary¡¯s return, she steps away from the counter and finds herself perusing the many odd remedies lined neatly behind the glass. Ground coriander for the treating of high temperatures, wormwood balms for upset stomachs, concentrated liquorice for breathlessness. Oil of mint for the treating of open wounds, she reads silently as she tiptoes slowly down the length of the counter, stopping at the tall bottles of vinegar and clear witch-hazel. Her gaze travels upwards, to the many organs and innards morbidly displayed above, their tissue having turned a pale white with time. The jar of eyes, her least favorite of the Apothecary¡¯s many exhibits, stands proudly between them, the milky orbs stuck together like frog eggs. She makes a disgusted face as she imagines being touched by their slimy surface. Looking away momentarily, her concentration broken by loud stomping somewhere within the shop, she looks back to continue her repulsive study and her breath catches in her throat. She steps back abruptly, ignoring the rattling of Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s sign outside, her mind barely registering the persistent noise, her gaze fixed on the jar of eyes above ¨C its contents slithering about, rubbing and sliding against one another. She rubs her own eyes to discard any trick of the light. When she looks again, the movement has stopped. A frightened laugh bubbles up inside her as the wooden doors that lead to the back of the shop swing open and in walks the Apothecary. ¡°Now, how may I¨C.¡± She meets his apathetic gaze as if in a trance, not quite registering his presence. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± She does not respond immediately and he follows her stare to the top of his display, raising one eyebrow in exasperation. Not interested enough to inquire further, he steps forwards and shuffles the boxes around with his boney fingers, shaking one of the boxes against his ears. ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°No,¡± she manages to say, blinking several times and walking forward promptly, her eyes shifting from the jar to the Apothecary and back. ¡°No olives.¡± ¡°Well, it smells like olives.¡± ¡°Uh,¡± she vocalizes, her hand wrapping slowly around the handle, its checkered cloth neatly tucked. Shaking her head slightly, she wills herself to be present, adding more strength to her voice. ¡°No olives here, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences. If the Apothecary has taken notice of her disgruntled state, he plays the part of not caring about the matter beautifully. He scoffs in her general direction. ¡°I shall be the judge of that.¡± ¡°The five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± She watches the man kneel before her, unlocking the safe and producing the golden coins. Once she is out of his line of vision, she looks up once more and nothing. She breathes in through her nose and exhales through her mouth, releasing the feeling of apprehension from her shoulders. It had been her tired mind playing tricks on her, that is all. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she says as she takes her leave, sliding the coin purse back to her side, eager to leave the foul smelling shop. Not planning to stay for his usual parting statement, she opens the door, the bell singing loudly above her. Against her better judgment, she spares one last glance at the eyes behind her and her heart stops. There, amongst the murky eyeballs congealed together, were two eyes staring directly at her. She gasps. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me,¡± she hears the Apothecary¡¯s voice as if through a tunnel, the pupils of her spectator dilating until the white flesh turns pitch black and she gets the unshakable feeling that she is truly being watched. When she blinks, the jar has returned to its usual, grotesque self and she is left standing there, staring at nothing. She knows Mr. Tarpeius is glaring at her, but she has no explanation for her behavior. At least, not one that would make any sense to him. She steps out of the shop and hears the bell ring again. She walks a few blocks towards the alley before her feet come to a halt. ¡°The stomping,¡± she whispers to herself finally, referring to the pounding she heard while she was waiting for Mr. Tarpeius. The vibrations must have loosened the viscous contents within, causing them to move around and swirl every which way. And somewhere inside lay two eyeballs of a raven black hue that turned and looked at her. ¡°Not at me,¡± she says under her breath as she walks past the Alba Custodia and steps onto the street, having delivered the Old Maid her goods. ¡°In my general direction.¡± She can¡¯t help but feel ridiculous, and admittedly a tad annoyed, as her mind continues to produce different theories while she enters the town square, going over the incident again and again, every reiteration losing its detail until her memory transforms the matter into a peculiar event, and nothing more. Of course the eyes had not looked at her, she reasons as she pauses by the closed Forge ¨C the eyes belonged to the dead. A shiver courses down her spine at the thought. She produces a note she had scribbled hastily before heading out and wedges it in between the Forge¡¯s massive doors, the great structure silent, hoping to hear from her patron soon. The thought of detached eyeballs follows her as she carries the many meat pasties all the way to Qadahl Road, heaving the basket onto the kitchen table and unloading its heavy burden. She greets Ketevan and ignores the cook when she scowls at her generous delivery as if the contents were actual poison. Handing over the lemon-orange rind jam and walking away with a considerably lighter load, she ducks Ketevan¡¯s advances, pretending to think about accompanying him to the Alba Custodia as she works her way up the stairs and through the gate. She pauses for a second to watch as the family makes its daily procession down the pearly steps and onto their splendid carriage. Alma¡¯s arms are cradling the same white rabbit tenderly, the creature sleeping safely in their owner¡¯s soft embrace. They exchange their customary glance and nod as they part ways, the heiress heading to the tailors and the jewelers, while she goes on to haggle her way through the market. The strange woman greets her when she arrives at Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s stall. ¡°The usual?¡± She asks with a knowing smile, already producing the well-stocked satchel from behind the crates. Remembering the smell of rotting fruit from this morning, she peeks inside but finds only fruits in perfect state, glistening against the high noon sun. She grabs the satchel with one hand and produces the golden coins with the other, paying the stranger six Krounen¡¯s worth. ¡°Thank you for your patronage.¡± The stranger¡¯s words fall on deaf ears as she surveys the stall quietly, searching for any indication of the old woman¡¯s presence. ¡°May I help you with anything else?¡± When she looks back at the stranger, her lips part, several questions rush through her mind but she does not allow them to spill out recklessly. If she had learned anything from these past few days, it was that she had to be mindful of how she phrased her queries when speaking to the people of the town. She proceeds carefully. ¡°Yes,¡± she finally responds, mirroring the stranger¡¯s smile. ¡°A few days ago, I happened to leave a small jar of brew here. Has it perhaps been found?¡± ¡°Oh, I¡¯m afraid not,¡± the woman replies casually, pretending to look around the stall, as one does when asked about a missing object. ¡°What did it look like?¡± ¡°Small,¡± she opens her fingers to show the stranger the size of the vial. ¡°Of a deep, reddish blue color. And on the side there was a label.¡± ¡°I shall keep an eye out for it,¡± the stranger says helpfully. ¡°What did the label say?¡± ¡°It said ¨C.¡± And she feels the name suddenly slip from her memory, dissolving like sugar in warm water. She frowns in frustration, having thought of it only a few minutes ago. She points vaguely at the stall. Dread makes its steady climb up her neck. ¡°The ¨C The wise woman, the old woman.¡± The stranger shakes her head, looking at her curiously. ¡°I¡¯m afraid I do not understand.¡± ¡°All of this,¡± She says with some difficulty, gesturing at everything around them. ¡°It all belonged to her.¡± ¡°I should think not,¡± the stranger says chuckling amicably, mistaking her outburst for a jest. ¡°But I do not know w¨C.¡± ¡°Yes, you do,¡± she cuts the stranger off before she can help herself, her tone taking on an edge that even she was unfamiliar with. ¡°Oh,¡± the woman exclaims, concern lacing her every word. ¡°I seem to have upset you. It was not my inten¨C.¡± ¡°Gr¨®dur Un!¡± She says triumphantly with a snap of her fingers. She repeats it for good measure. ¡°The name I wrote on the label. It was Gr¨®dur Un.¡± The stranger stares at her for a second before replying, speaking in a careful manner that vexes her to her core. ¡°As I have said before, child, I do not know this person. But rest assured, were I to find the brew, I shall find a way to return it to you.¡± She studies the stranger, her bright disposition making her feel almost remorseful for her rudeness. Almost. ¡°Please do,¡± she replies finally, readjusting her hold on the satchel and strengthening her grip on her basket. She bows her head slightly. ¡°May you have the best of evenings.¡± She turns, the stranger waving her goodbyes, and marches decidedly away from the stall and straight to her cabin, driven by a sudden sense of self-preservation that pushes her forward, whispering a name underneath her breath. She bypasses all strangers in her way, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and past her neck, the threat of a headache looming. When she opens the door to her cabin, she tosses her belongings to one side and grabs a loose piece of paper and a quill from one of her many overcrowded desks. She licks the blunt tip hurriedly, procuring a small jar of ink and dipping the end into the container, her lips moving silently like a prayer. She slams the piece of paper onto the kitchen table and scribbles the name several times. But even as she looks down at her spidery handwriting, she can already feel it slipping through her fingers like sand. Gr¨®dur Un. Gr¨®dur Un. Gr¨®dur Un. Gr¨®dur Un. Gr¨®dur Un. Chapter Seven Steam rises, flowing and whirling up and away from her. Her toast, buttered and jammed, sits untouched on the simple porcelain plate, in stark contrast to the intricate metal design of the table top beneath. She runs an ink-stained finger along the edge of the sliced bread before bringing it to her lips, tasting the sweet saltiness on her tongue. She follows by picking up the delicate teacup, feeling the porcelain warm her lips, its liquid contents hot and fragrant. She swirls it around slightly, watching the tea darken as it twirls, and then proceeds to drink it in three, steady gulps. Setting the teacup on the table, she grabs the handle haphazardly with her index finger, tipping the cup in her direction. She waits for the black leaves to trickle down the edge and settle at the bottom before studying them. When her eyes pore over every possible arrangement of the leftovers, her inquiry is met with disappointment ¨C the leaves in disarray, no recognizable omen making itself known. She sighs, unsure of what she expected to find. An answer to how odd she had been feeling these last few days, perhaps. A reason for why events that appeared to be seemingly normal to others rang strange to her ears, like she was singing along to a lively tavern song but her tune never quite matched that of those around her. Something is off, and she fears it is her. She stands, dumping the leaves onto the grass nearby and taking her fresh slice of bread with her. When she enters the kitchen, she leaves the plate next to the basin in the hopes that her appetite will return later. Her eye catches the thin note paper she stuffed underneath the jar of sugar the day before, finding reassurance in knowing that at least the name of the wise woman was still within her grasp. As she steps outside, basket in one hand and shawl neatly wrapped around her shoulders, she is once again accosted by the pungent smell that now circles her house like miasma. She walks the length of her wooden porch, searching beneath its steps for any trace of animal remains but finds nothing. She figures the cabin might be due for a good cleaning, the stench being caused by general untidiness, rather than a specific blight. She promises herself that she will freshen up the place soon and hopefully clear up the issue of the foul odor. She begins her routine anew, marching onto the main road and mingling immediately with the usual crowd. Her gaze travels the length of the caravan, searching for Bast but can¡¯t make him out amongst the carts and the horses. She figures that the bearded man had only been away for two days, which wouldn¡¯t be considered much of a journey by any standard. No self-respecting merchant would leave a comfortable station with regular customers to return empty handed. So, while she did not lay aside the possibility that she would hear him call after her today, she held no expectation that he would, in fact, be present at the market. Thus, she is no victim of disappointment when she walks by the empty lot, no shining jewelry or heavy, velvet mantel to be seen. Too soon for other merchants to step in and claim the coveted spot for themselves, it remained unmanned. It would only be a matter of time before they did, however, and it all depended on how long Bast intended to stay away. And how much they were willing to pay him for it, she thinks as she strolls past, knowing the Merchant would surely drive a hard bargain. The ring of the bell signals her arrival as she steps inside the Apothecary¡¯s domain, with its strong smells and even stronger disdain ¨C for her, it would seem. She watches as he attends his morning regular with the utmost politeness, folding their parcel with care, no scowl anywhere near his thin lips. Although there were no words exchanged between the two, they got along with their business effortlessly, the patron taking hold of his package and the Apothecary pocketing his shiny Krounen. ¡°Good morning,¡± she nods quietly at the customer as he turns to leave but receives no response as he exits the shop, the door closing with a resounding thud. She stares at his figure as it walks away, hearing as Mr. Tarpeius leaves the counter to become busy elsewhere. It should not surprise her that someone who seemed to have at least a cordial relationship with the Apothecary would be equally acerbic. Placing her basket on the thick glass and taking out the baked goods, she counts the four parcels under her breath, trying her best to ignore the looming jar of eyes above her. Time seems to slow down mercilessly as she waits for the Apothecary to return, never having yearned to see him until that exact moment. But annoyed by her own uneasiness and not one to dwell in discomfort, she takes a deep breath, and stares back, expecting to find an unwelcome presence gaping at her. Instead, she is met with its usual contents, the pale eyeballs stacked neatly in place and, most importantly of all, unmoving. She breathes out in relief and scoffs quietly at her childishness, knowing her distraction and tiredness had led to her feeling disoriented yesterday. Squashing the memory of the pitch black pupils from her mind, she greets Mr. Tarpeius with a little more enthusiasm than usual and her good wishes are once again received with icy detachment. She follows the old man as he sniffs and prods and pokes about her parcels and she is curious as to whether they would ever move past this ritual of distrust. She pockets the five Krounen all the same and expresses her gratitude. As he clicks his tongue at her, she glances at the jar one last time and finds its contents exactly as they were before, finally laying all her fears to rest. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.¡± ¡°No need for excuses, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she replies to his remark with a smirk as she steps out, silver bell dangling above. ¡°You know where to find me.¡± She stops to peer at the Apothecary through the window display, his neck a bright pink. Her smirk transforms into a smile, her mood much improved. Pushed forward by the cold wind, turned icier with the passing of the days, she hurries up the Old Maid¡¯s alley, immediately grateful to be out of the gale¡¯s path. Dodging the messenger boy as he runs past her, she watches the men roll the barrels of ale against the mud, the Alba Custodia their final destination. The old tavern stood solidly amongst the other buildings, its design old and plain, the only indication of it being a regular meeting place for locals after a long day at work being the hand painted lettering displayed proudly on both faces of the tavern. The yellow glass windows, made murky from years of burnt tallow candles, hid its many patrons from view. For those who wished to drink outside, planks and barrels had been roughly put together to resemble chairs and tables. The smell of stale malt and pork hung in the air like the small, makeshift flags placed all around the establishment. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. In all the years she had lived in the outskirts of the village, she had never once entered the place, and she found herself curious as to why. The tavern was not particularly inviting to her, but it was a rite of passage of sorts and she wonders if perhaps it was time to take up Ketevan¡¯s offer. The thought of his smug grin at knowing he had finally convinced her to join is enough to put her off the idea entirely. ¡°Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?¡± She starts, her head swiveling to find Miss Mirah standing directly in front of her. ¡°Oh, excuse me, Miss Mirah,¡± she struggles to blurt out, taking a step back, her tone apologetic. ¡°I was distracted by the, uhm¨C¡± Pointing vaguely at the tavern besides them, she cuts her sentence short, realizing that the Old Maid was otherwise engaged, glaring at the usual passerbys. ¡°These outsiders, I tell you,¡± the Old Maid begins, her eyes following the strangers heading towards the market place, more to herself than anyone. Allowing Miss Mirah to continue her daily tirade, she pulls her second order out of her basket, handing it over. She obediently accepts her handkerchief blessing under the whispering of nothing like them, nothing like them and receives her payment. ¡°May you have the best of mornings, Miss Mirah,¡± she bids the Old Maid goodbye with a deep courtesy, thanking her for her patronage. She stays for a while longer to make sure the gentlewoman completes her journey up the stairs safely before she moves along. Entering the town square, she knows straight away the Forge is closed, the absence of the booming, metallic clang of the Blacksmith deafening. When she finally stands before the imposing structure, she finds the door shut and locked, windows closed tight, and no signs of life coming from within. She searches for the note she had left the day before but finds it gone. A wave of exasperation washes over her. Peeking down at the heavy basket perched on the crook of her elbow, she decides then and there. She would not continue to waste money and time making what was her largest batch of pasties for a patron who had chosen to close up shop without even deigning to sever their agreement in person. She would not bake for the Blacksmith again until she knew for sure that he, and his apparently ever hungry staff, would be present and willing to pay for it. Nodding her head decidedly and resting the basket on her hip with determination, she forges ahead towards shiny Qadahl Road. She unloads her meat pasties and one strawberry tart onto a grumbling chef, Ketevan watching the interaction with amusement, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Once she puts away the twelve Krounen owed, she hands over her due ¨C a raspberry and rosemary mix. He twirls the jar around playfully and follows her out, dispensing his usual invitation and sage advice regarding her social life. She can feel his gaze on her as she climbs up the stairs and closes the black gate behind her. Once she concludes her silent conversation with Alma, the pet rabbit sleeping blissfully in her arms, she watches the carriage whisk her and her family away and into town, its slim wheels bobbing over the perfectly laid cobblestones. She stands there for a moment, staring at the houses in the famously affluent neighborhood and wonders what it would be like to be born into a life of comfort and ease. Even the sun seemed to shine differently for the wealthy, lighting everything just right, never glaring. Plants bloomed when they had to and how they needed to, the smell of dung notably absent. But as her gaze washes over the trimmed hedges and the immaculate flower beds, she finds herself preferring the messiness of her wild garden. There was a freedom in her chaos that she craved and knew she would not find it here. However, a few extra Krounen would not hurt, she muses as she finally makes her way back to the morning market, on to her last stop. The crowds part as she places the basket between her and them, apologizing to anyone who would listen but not slowing down all the same. As soon as she exits the thick of it, she walks towards the wise woman¡¯s stall and catches the stranger already hard at work, smiling and conversing with an interested villager. She seems to be convincing him to purchase some of the rarer finds, listing their qualities, when she catches her eye. The woman¡¯s smile widens as she beckons her forward, walking towards the other side of the stall to fetch what she assumes is her satchel. The customer before her moves to one side, allowing her to step forward and take hold of the bag. ¡°I gave you a little extra,¡± she says conspiratorially, lowering her voice so the customer next to them cannot overhear. ¡°For such a hard worker.¡± ¡°I thank you,¡± she replies gradually, trying and failing to keep the suspicion from lacing her voice. ¡°How much would it all be?¡± ¡°The usual.¡± The strange woman looks at her curiously and angles her head slightly in that way she loathes. ¡°Ten Krounen.¡± It takes everything within her to not narrow her eyes, instead smiling understandingly and handing over the ten Krounen. It hurt her to part with such a large sum but she was suddenly unwilling to humor the unknown person before her. ¡°Oh,¡± the stranger says amicably, ¡°You have overpaid, child. Here.¡± Doing her best to not grind her teeth, she stretches her palm but stops halfway, noticing that the stranger¡¯s hands are now lined with faint tattoos. Impulsively, she leans forward to take a closer look. Her memory attempts to recreate their previous interaction, but cannot for the life of her remember the stranger having had these markings etched on her hands. The tattoos were similar to those of the wise woman, their blue ink already fading, branching every which way, written in a language she could not understand and ending just below the wrists. But even now, as the stranger drops the golden coins onto her extended hand, the design seems foreign on her skin ¨C similar, but not the same. She looks down at her open palm and stares at the four rising suns for a few seconds longer than she intended. When she looks up, the strange woman is already redirecting her attention back to her initial customer. ¡°May you have the best of evenings,¡± she whispers under her breath, the engraved gold biting against her palms as her fingers close around them. The stranger smiles back at her in parting and she is caught off guard, sure that her voice had not traveled far enough for the woman to hear. She pours the money into her coin purse quickly and walks away from the wise woman¡¯s stall, the whole encounter already bringing about a throbbing pain above her temples. Immersed in a flurry of thoughts, she barely acknowledges the satchel slamming against her side with every stomp. As she exits the village, a sudden call resonates around her and she stops, the bag swinging forward and landing with a thump against her knees. Pushing the satchel to the side, she moves to continue her path home when she hears it again, this time clearly, somewhere over her head. When she gazes upward, she realizes that she is standing just below the three arches, their towering presence in contrast with the homely architecture of the village, their white hue standing out against the greenery surrounding them. The wispy fluttering of wings echoes above, followed by three, distinct croaks. Her eyes struggle to make out the animal perched expectantly atop the first arch, the black figure hard to distinguish against the darkness of the tall trees beyond. When her eyes finally adjust, that now familiar feeling of being watched overwhelms her, constricting her chest in warning. Head cocked. Long, prismatic feathers neatly tucked. Beady eyes staring openly down at her. A black raven. Chapter Eight The echo of the black bird¡¯s haunting call rings in her ears as her eyes snap open. She blinks once, twice, chest rising and falling, staring at the wooden boards above. The ashes of a violent dream linger still but she struggles to recollect any of it, memories scattering in the wind, far from her reach. A hollow feeling settles gently somewhere deep within her left rib cage. Tears pool in the corners of her eyes but do not fall. Little by little, the sensation lifts and her hand rises from beneath the covers, moisture dampening the tips of her fingertips. She takes in the glimmering surface of the single teardrop, her brows furrowing slightly at the odd occurrence. Reality gradually solidifying around her, she rises slowly, the droplet tracing a path down her finger and pooling on her palm. Her attention is momentarily distracted by the rustling of the curtain to her left, and the birds beyond, and she knows, like clockwork, that it is time to rise. Rise once more. She tips her hand and what remains of her morning haze lands on the blanket, the fabric dampening instantaneously. Without a second thought, she pushes the covers to one side and jumps out of bed. By the time tea has steeped long enough and her toast has browned to perfection, she is dressed, fresh-faced, and ready to step out. She enjoys her meal quietly by the forest path, allowing the leaves to slide and settle at the bottom of her teacup and finding nothing worth noting in their arrangement. Casting the ineffective porcelain to one side of the kitchen counter and placing the thin plate next to it for washing later, she throws the shawl over the basket and moves towards the entrance. The smell of decay still hovers over her cabin like a curse but she marches past it, having already decided on giving the place a complete fall cleaning once the end of the week arrives. She merges into the main road soon enough, joining the morning crowd with ease. The quiet buzz of the early horde brings with it a sense of companionship, a fitting transition between the solitude of her woods and the hectic energy of the town marketplace. She listens along as the farmers exchange stories and wisdoms with each other, listing the merchants who could and could not be trusted and who would give you the fairest deal for your wares. No one mentions Bast¡¯s name. She walks past the three arches, their presence looming above her. Her eyes search their curved structure swiftly for any sign of a winged visitor but find nothing, the smooth surface of the first arch distinctly raven-free. The memory of the bird¡¯s bottomless eyes following her well into the main road, not a single croak escaping its sharp beak, unnerves her more than she cares to admit. She figures her discomfort must be a consequence of the strangeness that seemed to shadow her days lately, making her exceedingly aware of her surroundings. The absurdity of experiencing relief at the absence of a raven hangs over her as she continues her way into town and through the already pulsating marketplace. It would be far more outlandish if nothing ever changed, she muses, passing by Bast¡¯s empty spot. Touching the surface of the table with the tips of her fingers briefly, she wastes no time, marching to the Apothecary¡¯s shop. She holds the door for Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s faithful patron as he exits, her greetings once again landing on deaf ears, before stepping in and conducting her business with the ever moody Apothecary. Once she receives her due payment, and her undue chastisement, she exits the establishment with the ring of a bell, the presence of sentient eyes notably, and fortunately, absent from her visit. With Mr. Tarpeius left blushing and fuming, she heads towards the alley, pushed forward by that same wintry wind. Turning left and up the alley, she dodges the scampering boy effortlessly, his wet footsteps echoing against the tall, brick walls of the old apartment building. Burly men roll ale behind her, the mud sliding every which way around the heavy barrels, as she exchanges pleasantries with the Old Maid, assuring her that yes, she is quite alright and that no, it was not because of the foreigners and that yes, she was grateful for her patronage and wished her the best of mornings. She stays to make sure Miss Mirah is able to climb the stairs successfully, handkerchief blessing already dispensed. Swinging her basket to one side, she reaches the end of the alley and moves to the right and into the busy street leading to the town square. The different haberdashers display their goods proudly, taking up half of the street to do so, risking the anger of the scant coachmen who dare venture through the commercial sector of the town. Menders of shoes and boots advertise their craft loudly, outdone only by the loud sawing of the master wood craftsmen. On the other hand, the embroideries and the seamstresses have a quiet dignity to them, catering mostly to the women of the town and showcasing their delicate handiwork from behind polished glass. One of those same dresses attracts her attention and she pauses, worn boots peeking from beneath her plain skirt as it swishes forward. While there are more colorful ensembles surrounding it, her eyes are inexplicably drawn to the midnight hued gown before her. The sleeves, so long they reach the floor and pool around its hem, are lined with a single white-gold seam. The trim around the neck, a thick ribbon boasting a pattern of blood red roses, falls just beneath the collarbone and is held together by a gem encrusted pendant. A sudden sense of ownership floods her and she wonders how she never noticed the dress before. She takes a step closer but her breath fogs the glass and she is unable to make out the pendant¡¯s symbol. Just as she is about to raise her sleeve to rub away at the obstruction, she freezes, her head turning marginally as her ears barely make out a familiar blow, a noise so integral to the life of the town square she had forgotten what it sounded like. Clang! Her eyes widen. She pulls away from the glass window unhesitatingly, tightening her grip on the basket. Her steady gait quickens with every metallic boom of hammer landing with great force on a weathered anvil. Once she enters the town square, she does not slow down until she is standing right in front of the imposing structure, with its near black wood hammered together at odd angles, resembling a cave. Clang! She could hear the roar of the hearth within, lighting the inside with its brutal fire, the warmth reaching her where she stood. She gapes at the open Forge a second longer than she intends to, before she remembers that she was actually quite inconvenienced by their absence, having had to give away several meat pasties to the hungry maids of Qadahl Road. She straightens her back with determination once she catches sight of one of the young apprentices tending busily to a customer and his horse and marches forward. Clang! Walking up to the apprentice, she sidesteps the restless animal awaiting a shoe replacement, the owner patting its gray speckled mane lovingly. She nods at the customer once and redirects her attention to the apprentice. Ready to apologize for making him uncomfortable the other day and ask him whether they wished to continue their patronage, the boy turns around. ¡°Oh,¡± she mutters intelligently. Clang! Standing in front of her is a young man, yes, but not the apprentice she had spoken with when she was here last. The stranger nods at her and gestures at the door and she follows his gaze before looking back at him. His dark brown eyes stare back at her expectantly, horseshoe in hand. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. She opens her mouth to say something but stops, pondering whether or not she should interact with him. Seeing as it seemed to upset all those involved last time, she decides to have a word with the Blacksmith instead before exchanging any sort of information with his workers. She nods back reluctantly, stepping aside to allow him to walk past her and approach the horse behind them. Sparing a last glance at the boy, she enters the Forge and is immediately hit by a wave of hot air, her face blushing from the warmth. Clang! Her eyes gravitate to the man before her, the fire outlining his large frame, his presence the life of the Forge. His back to her, she watches as his arms rise and fall with the force of a hundred men, his wide back undulating from the exertion. Her breath catches in her throat. Clang! She flinches as sparks of white fire fly in every direction, like magic. It takes her a moment to notice the presence of another human being, the apprentice approaching her with familiarity, a polite smile in place. Mirroring his smile, she nods her head at him to mask her own confusion ¨C for she does not recognize him either. Clang! The new apprentice gestures at the wooden table next to them. She follows his pointing hand towards the flat surface, unsure of what it is that he is asking for until her eyebrows finally rise in understanding. ¡°Oh,¡± she starts, raising her voice above the noise of the fire. ¡°I do not have them today. I did not prepare your order.¡± The apprentice looks at her but does not react to her words, instead he gestures at the table again. She shakes her head and tries once more. ¡°The Forge was closed,¡± she says as a way of explanation, gesturing at the space around them. ¡°I did not know you would be here, so I did not prepare your order.¡± Clang! There is no response from the apprentice, leading her to believe that he was having as much trouble hearing her as she had speaking to him over the din of the Forge. When the boy points at the wooden table yet again, she sighs in frustration, placing the basket over the table. ¡°I do not have your meat pasties,¡± she repeats, exaggerating her words while she moves to remove the dark green shawl. She opens the basket to show him its near empty insides. ¡°The Forge was closed, and I was not sure when you would be¨C¡± Her words trail off and die at the tip of her tongue. Clang! There, neatly stacked and awaiting distribution, she finds the Blacksmith¡¯s order down to the last parcel. The smell of baked crust and perfectly seasoned meat hits her nose first and her brows crease in confusion. Baffled, she proceeds to take out each of the boxes one by one, mouth agape. When she stares back at the apprentice, he is already producing the fourteen Krounen owed to her. ¡°N-no. I, I ¨C¡± she starts, her eyes fixed on the gold coins sitting on his open palms. Clang! She flinches again and, as she attempts to remember whether she had or had not included the Blacksmith¡¯s order this morning, a new headache rears its ugly face. Placing the coins atop the table, the apprentice bows his head in appreciation and moves to leave. Her hand moves to touch the Krounen, pushing the basket to one side and she hears something rattle within. She finds it to be the honey-thyme salve bumping against Ketevan¡¯s lemon-lime jam. Grabbing the small jar carefully, the fire reflecting bright orange against its glass surface, she shifts her wavering attention back to the Blacksmith. Clang! The jar slams against the wooden table as her temples explode with pain. Barely able to regain her composure, she sees as a concerned apprentice calls after the Blacksmith but she cannot wait. Instead she snatches her possessions haphazardly, turning around and exiting the Forge as fast as humanly possible. The moment she reaches the town square, she breathes in the cold air, her forehead covered in beads of sweat. She sets the basket down on the floor and crouches before it, impervious to the glares of those around her. She proceeds to open it and counts a strawberry tart and a jar of jam. Rubbing her eyes first, her hands then travel to the sides of her head, her mind racing to make sense of the situation. She takes in one large breath and then exhales through her mouth, a small hiss escaping her lips. She closes the lid and stands. The Krounen in her coin purse clink together and she grabs hold of one. She finds a sense of security as she runs her thumb over the rough surface, proof that an exchange had, in fact, taken place. She must have prepared the goods habitually, she reasons, having done it all at once for so long that she had simply packed it this morning along with the rest of the orders. She nods, struggling to convince herself to accept the oversight. Looking back at the Forge, headache subsiding slightly, nothing seems to be out of the ordinary. The apprentice is still working on the customer¡¯s request, sitting down on his stool and cleaning out the horse''s hoof. Her eyes narrow instinctively, finding it odd that the Blacksmith happened to replace both apprentices after a few days break. She had never seen either of them around town before, but she knew these positions were notoriously temporary. And at the end of the day, it was none of her concern how the Blacksmith chose to manage his affairs. A part of her was simply thankful that the fourteen Krounen were secured and that their relationship seemed to not be affected by her apparent carelessness. Taking another deep breath, and feeling frustrated at how shaken she felt, she rearranges her hair and her skirt. Having calmed down enough to proceed with her day, she takes hold of her basket once more and walks towards Qadahl Road. Notably exhausted after the incident at the Forge, she steps into the kitchen. The business of it all overwhelms her and she unloads her strawberry tart quickly, tossing the jar over to Ketevan. The lack of meat pastries is met with indifference by the kitchen staff and near glee from the cook, who hides her smile behind the steam of her boiling potatoes. Heading to the exit, and eager to finally be by herself, a long, sinewy arm blocks her escape. ¡°Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,¡± Ketevan suggests incessantly, his face inches above her own. ¡°I¡¯ll make it worth your while.¡± She looks back at him. With hypnotizing eyes hooded by long dark lashes, his nose long and high cheekbones, and dark hair flopping to one side, she acknowledges that he is a handsome man. His lips spread into a blinding smile. ¡°Some day,¡± is her curt response, before she ducks under his arm, reaching for the stairs. His parting words follow her as she climbs up, exiting the grand house through the signature black gates. She hears the horses neigh before she sees the carriage, just about sighting the end of the mother¡¯s train before she disappears inside. Alma steps out and looks at her, stunning as always, smiling and petting her rabbit. She stays long enough to nod back at the young heiress but turns quickly, aching for the walk back home to help straighten her thoughts. The stranger awaits her by the wise woman¡¯s stall, parcel ready, smiling from ear to ear. She grabs the satchel and hands over the coins, keeping their interaction limited, unwilling to engage in any further misunderstandings with the town¡¯s folk. ¡°May you have the best of evenings,¡± she says, already halfway to the three arches. ¡°Come by whenever, child,¡± the strange woman shouts after her and the word still grates on her every nerve. She waves her hand in the air halfheartedly. Eventually reaching the entrance of the town, a long sigh escapes her lips, shoulders slouching. Grateful for an empty basket and a full purse, she attempts to focus on the good happenings of yet another bizarre day but fails, choosing to focus instead on the soothing sound of crumbling leaves beneath her feet. A resounding cry comes from somewhere above and she moves to look, her neck turning slowly, head following. She sees the imposing figure of the wretched black raven. Or rather, ravens. Perched on the first arch sat the lone black raven, fluttering its wings in agitation, its eyes as disconcerting as they were the day before. And on the second arch, a new raven of blue-black plumage follows suit, croaking and hopping about frantically, its eye seemingly poised on her. And with the sound of their alarming screeching behind her, her heart beating loudly against her chest, and her belongings swinging hectically about, she rushes back home. Chapter Nine Wings flash above her, whispers through the trees, and her eyes follow the movement. The branches, laden with turning leaves, build bridges from one tall giant to the next. Something stirs to her left and where she expects to see black and blue, a delicate brown and pale gold underbelly greets her. A thrush. The bird carries its sweet, simple melody and is answered by both his kind and his neighbors. She observes them as they hop around, disappearing into makeshift nests of dry moss and pine needles. The rays of sunlight illuminate their world disproportionately, some receiving more warmth than others. She wonders, as the morning air turns from crisp to biting, if they will soon leave the forest for the pleasant climate of the Southern Provinces. Her attention returns to her teacup and she grabs its handle loosely with one finger, the flat surface rippling. She takes one last, long sip and sets the cup down, leaving nothing to be read, no questions to answer. Tracing the elaborate pattern of bright red absentmindedly with her index finger, the porcelain grinds silently against its saucer. A silly superstition, she knew, learned a long time ago by someone close to her. She found comfort in the ritual. Soundlessly, she watches as a black butterfly lands deftly on the edge of the teacup. Out of place in the colorful scenery that was her backyard, the creature dons its inky body proudly, silver veins like spiderwebs lacing large wings. It bob''s about, tongue uncurling to sip at the leftover tea drops. As the butterfly flaps its wings, an attempt at a memory finds her where she sits. Imagery involving vast fields and tall grass, the buzzing of the insects, and the smell of freshly plowed dirt beneath her feet. And beneath it all, she finds an emotion. One she could not quite place, one of the good ones ¨C relief, belonging, hope. Love. She draws breath sharply and the butterfly takes flight, all recollection and feeling flying away with it. She stares at the retreating insect, pitch dark against pure light, and as it grows smaller her overwhelmed senses simmer back down to the comfortable sense of peace that she had learned to associate with her forest. Whatever had awakened within her regresses to its dormant state as quickly as it rose, and while she is aware of a growing need within, she does not allow it to fester, instead quickly busying herself with her daily duties. She grabs the teacup and her plate and turns without a second look. Grabbing her basket and shawl, she exits her cabin, marching through the door, past the smell of rotting fruit and away from the foreignness that seemed to be steeping, slowly and surely, into her everyday life. But foreign her life was not, she reasons with herself, as she greets her first farmer, someone who recognizes her as a fellow tradesperson. She understands that she is as much part of town life as those walking beside her, perhaps not as indispensable as the Apothecary or the Blacksmith, but involved all the same. And it is that same town life welcomes her as she reaches the morning market, basket full to the brim, her work day having just begun. Readjusting her wares on her shoulder, she embraces the smell of brine and sterility as she walks into the Apothecary¡¯s shop, dodging the nameless patron. She places Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s order on the counter as she waits for the man to grace her with his presence. She avoids eye contact with the offending jar of eyes as much as possible, sneaking a glance here and there to ensure that no strangeness is afoot. ¡°It¡¯s me,¡± she responds to his fixed greeting, simultaneously pushing the herbless and olive-less meat pasties in his direction, followed by the raspberry puffs and one small apple-rhubarb pie. She waits for his sniff, followed by the narrowing of the eyes. She narrows hers as well. ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°Impossible,¡± she replies, shaking her head once. ¡°Well, it smells like olives.¡± ¡°A physician should see to that,¡± she says, mock concern lacing words lightly. She stretches her palm pertly, her best smile plastered across her face. ¡°Five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius. The Apothecary grumbles all the way down as he kneels to retrieve her payment, balding head bobbing up and down due to the trembling of his weak ankles. She waits for him as he struggles back up, wondering whether or not she should offer her assistance, knowing that he would abhor the idea entirely. He hands over the money begrudgingly, sliding the parcels to one side and rolls his eyes when he hears the Krounen slide from her palm onto her pouch with five distinct clinks. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she bows ceremoniously. ¡°As always, I thank you for your patronage.¡± The bell ring is followed by the sound of his clicking tongue. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.¡± ¡°As is only right, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she says ceremoniously over her shoulder as she unwraps the shawl from her basket and wraps it around her torso, the soft fabric providing much needed warmth against the cold. Her feet stomp and slide towards the alleyway, the threadbare soles of her boots wrangling to find footing in unsteady terrain. She swings the basket out of the way of the young boy as he scampers off and away from her. ¡°Coming!¡± Miss Mirah¡¯s frail body works its way down the stairs and she finds her heart stopping every time the Old Maid¡¯s shoes step on one of her long, expensive scarves, made filthy by years of unkempt floors and wandering feet. ¡°How are you this fine morning, Miss Mirah?¡± she chirps at the Old Maid, stepping nearer so as to stop her from slipping over the muck-ridden entrance. ¡°Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?¡± She searches for the boy but he is long gone. ¡°Yes, Miss Mirah, we only ever collided that one time.¡± ¡°These outsiders, I tell you.¡± She begins her sermon, the passing townsfolk unaware that they are the constant target of her misplaced distrust. ¡°Never a thought for those around them.¡± ¡°And yet, here I am, procuring after your well-being, Miss Mirah,¡± she responds, engaging halfheartedly in the conversation. ¡°And I am still very much a foreigner.¡± The Old Maid stops, glassy eyes meeting hers with uncommon fierceness. When she speaks, her voice is determined, final. ¡°You are not like them.¡± She then spits on her handkerchief and touches both shoulders, lace scratching against cheek. Opening her mouth to say more, she is quickly silenced by the receiving of blueberry tarts and meat pasties. The Old Maid leans the jar of apple jam against her chest, the golden contents begging to be spread over freshly baked bread. With her unoccupied hand, she takes out the seven golden coins and places them one by one on the open palm before her. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she says, deeply curtseying to hide her annoyance at Miss Mirah¡¯s words. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± She remains vigilant as the former noblewoman wobbles her way to her apartment, parcels always one missed step away from landing gloriously on the ground below, before resuming her path towards the town square. As soon as steps onto the cobbled road, she releases a breath of air, which she notices begins as a sigh and ends as a scoff. Mulling over ways she could either address, or more favorably, avoid conversations with Miss Mirah altogether, she walks past the shoemakers and the stoolmenders, and past the seamstresses, including that gorgeous black dress still standing imposingly amongst its peers. She spares a quick glance at the enchanting gown, wondering at the cost and dismissing the impracticality of owning a dress like that in the first place, when her life was devoid of all occasions demanding that level of pomp. Clang! She nods at the new apprentice before entering the Forge, the young man tending to the same dappled horse as the day before. She spares a small smile at the owner but he does not look up at her, continuing to brush the horse''s mane instead. Clang! The shawl feels too warm now that she is in the midst of the hearth¡¯s heat but she does not remove it, avoiding the hassle of having to rewrap it once she steps out. Glowing metal brightening the place with its orange light, she feels the wetness of the ever flowing towers of steam that dampen the space around them, making her feel both parched and muggy at the same time. She locks eyes with the second apprentice, who swiftly leaves a heavy looking pair of tongs over a large wooden table and begins to approach her. Clang! The looming presence of the Blacksmith to her right, she sets her goods between herself and the apprentice, opening the lid and taking out their massive order. After each box has been accounted for, honey balm dispensed, and the fourteen Krounen planted noisily into her coin purse, she moves to leave. She stops, watching as the apprentice''s lean frame steps away from her to deliver the balm to the Blacksmith. Clang! Driven by an impulse that had risen in her the day before but she had since ignored, she steps forward and grabs his arm, her lips already smiling apologetically. ¡°Excuse me, I do not mean to disturb you¡± she begins, picking her words carefully. ¡°Were the pastries satisfactory?¡± Clang! She spares a nervous glance at the Blacksmith before returning her attention to the apprentice, who is looking at her with curiosity. He gazes down at her hand, still wrapped around his arm and she releases it quickly followed by a string of muffled apologies. ¡°Yes,¡± he responds amicably, eyes fixed on hers. ¡°We enjoyed your pastries, miss. We always do.¡± Thank the gods, she thinks to herself as a nervous smile of genuine relief widens her lips. The fact that she did not remember baking the pasties, much less packing them and placing them in her basket had weighed heavily on her. She pauses, considering asking a question regarding their noted absence but holds her tongue, hoping to build enough rapport with the apprentice to venture the question on a later date. Clang! She settles for her customary parting. ¡°I¡¯m glad to hear that,¡± she responds, raising her voice to speak over the cacophony around them. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± The apprentice nods once and turns around, continuing his route towards the Blacksmith. She grabs the basket with one hand and waves at their backs with the other, the Blacksmith holding the miniscule looking balm in his oversized hand. She walks away from the Forge with a new spring in her step, grateful for an empty basket and a heavy coin purse. Certain now that she had not, in fact, insulted the Blacksmith in some way, and had, less certainly, delivered high quality pastries the day before, provided her with a respite she did not know she needed. Not even the contentious mood of the chef could rid her of her peace as she handed over a delicious strawberry tart to a jittery maid, receiving her twelve Krounen. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± She looks at Ketevan and she finds a smile comes easily to her lips. His eyebrows rise questioningly as he steps forward to retrieve daily gifts of preserved fruit. Dexterously disappearing the small jar somewhere within the folds of his uniform, he leans on the table next to her. ¡°Good day?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± she responds smugly, looping her arm around the basket¡¯s handle and dragging it towards herself. ¡°Oh?¡± She opens the lid and shows Ketevan its empty insides. ¡°The Blacksmith is back.¡± Ketevan blinks. ¡°Was he gone?¡± ¡°The Forge closed, I told you,¡± she begins and stops when Ketevan shakes his head. ¡°I thought I told you.¡± ¡°This is the first I hear of it,¡± he replies, shrugging his shoulders afterwards. ¡°Come to the Alba Custodia tonight and you can tell me all about¨C¡± ¡°I told you, Ketevan,¡± she repeats, somehow finding herself unwilling to move on, watching as his brown eyes widen slightly at the edges. ¡°I recall you saying you had not heard of it.¡± ¡°I never said that.¡± ¡°You did¨C,¡± she starts but closes her mouth when she notices the atmosphere around them seems to have grown surprisingly tense, not that any of the staff notice, going about their tasks obediently. There is a sharpness in Ketevan¡¯s eyes she had not seen there before and she somehow feels that his courteous smile is exactly that ¨C a courtesy. Taking a breath in, she steps back. ¡°I could have sworn I mentioned it.¡± Ketevan¡¯s head cocks to one side. ¡°It must have been someone else.¡± ¡°Someone else?¡± ¡°You told someone else.¡± ¡°There is no one else.¡± ¡°Have I told you,¡± he says, moving away from her and towards the entrance of the kitchen, hand in pockets. ¡°What an excellent baker you are.¡± Her mouth opens but she closes it soon after, aware that he was clearly adjourning their everyday conversation. She stares at him for a quick second before she responds, attempting to break the awkwardness between them with a short laugh. ¡°Every day.¡± She walks by him and he moves to the side so as to avoid her basket. As she is about to leave, climbing up a couple of steps, she turns around and meets his gaze, ears burning. ¡°Thank you for your patronage.¡± She expects no response, overstaying her welcome, and instead surfaces onto Qadahl Road, closing the black gate behind her. Marching off, she does not wait for Alma to amble onto her carriage with her pet rabbit. Instead, she scurries towards the market, arriving at the strange woman¡¯s stall, breathless from the exertion. She exchanges the necessary pleasantries with her before snatching a produce laden bag and paying her six Krounen. Cheeks flushed with quiet indignation, she stops abruptly right beneath the three arches and stares upwards. A new friend seems to have joined the visiting ravens, this time one of rare, white plumage. She rolls her eyes at his red ones and he croaks in response, flapping his wings three times. ¡°No, thank you for your patronage,¡± she says in their general direction, gaining strange looks from the townsfolk and travelers entering and exiting the market. Her cheeks flush further in embarrassment. Flustered, she joins the main road, walking rapidly past caravans and carts and horses and all manner of people. Her eyes catch the entrance to the narrow path to her cabin and she immediately takes a right into the evergreens. Her lungs take in the freshness of the pine sap and the honeysuckle, the snapping of branches and the crunching of leaves slowing down as her stomping gradually transforms into a stroll. Soon, the trees part as she reaches the meadow, wildflowers in full bloom. She stares at the expanse of it, momentarily distracted. Something ruffles close by and she turns, only to face a young doe as she makes her way through the pathway towards deeper forest. She steps aside and gazes as its graceful figure disappears into the foliage. Taking one small step forward, and then another, she returns to the present. Her mind repeats the interaction with Ketevan over and over again, with each reiteration confirming her overreaction. She places her cold hand at the base of her neck, wishing the pestering indignation away as she carries on, offhandedly wondering why she ever stopped traveling the hidden pathway. Chapter Ten The cup and the saucer rattle against the solid surface of the kitchen counter. She outstretches her hand and her fingers wrap absentmindedly around the handle of the sated basket, the grasp worn and made smooth from years of use. Making sure the sides are secured, she flings the shawl over it and wraps a loose knot with its frayed ends. Her hands flatten the fabric, her fingers feeling the bumpy contours of the lid¡¯s woven pattern. As she breathes in, the smell of the neatly tucked pastries rises and she sighs with satisfaction, ignoring the underlying presence of putrefaction that lingers around the house now. The weight of the basket pulls her shoulder down but she quickly straightens her frame, widening her stance to better carry its burden. The floorboards underneath her feet creak as she steps over the old rugs to reach the entrance and her eyes find themselves beyond the stains of the small mirror, perched at an odd angle by the door. In the darkness of the cabin, her eyes appear to her the darkest of browns, almost black. Shadows underneath her cheekbones give her face a cruel demeanor, her skin opaque. Raising a hand to touch the wild tendrils that fall past her neck and down her back, her hair feels rough and frail, her fingernails thin and malnourished. Fear creeps up her throat as that same hand glides towards the iron handle, seeking clarity and escape. The sliver of yellow light widens as she pulls it open slowly, the sun flooding into the space around her. The sense of sudden angst dissipates with the shadows as they are replaced by a lovely complexion tinted slightly pink in all the right places. The radiant shine returns to her curls, which bounce with her every slight movement. And when her eyes catch a wandering beam, they light up in glorious gold. Her lips quiver involuntarily and her fingers rise to stop them. Like a book slammed shut, she closes the door behind her with a determined thud, leaving the darkness behind. She takes unsteady breath after unsteady breath until she reaches the end of her garden path, and looking back at the stone cabin, with its single trail of chimney smoke, vibrant moss, and beautiful array of flowers, her stomach drops in a way she has no time to understand. She walks away, the sharp rocks from the stony path to the main road made evident underneath the thin leather of her boots. Using her vigorous morning trek to force and leave all heaviness to be dealt with at a later time, she makes it all the way to the three arches and they are free of flying vermin. She does not stay long, mindful of any villagers who might have seen her sudden outburst yesterday and thought it strange. Instead, she advances through the burgeoning multitude comfortably, already tracing a straight path to the Apothecary¡¯s shop. Her mind barely registers the absence of the merchant as she walks by his vacant spot. She slows down her march after she realizes the black-donning patron is moving about inside, his gestures in tune with those of Mr. Tarpeius, their early exchange unperturbed. The bell rings, signaling his parting, and she steps into the Apothecary¡¯s domain, the man already hidden somewhere behind swinging doors. They do eventually open, and she is once again in the throes of his irrational whim, evading and rebutting all accusations related to misplaced olives. ¡°Well, it smells like olives.¡± ¡°I shall slice one open for you, then.¡± The Apothecary rolls his eyes at this as he pushes the parcels away from her grasp. She stretches out her palm to receive her precious golden coins triumphantly. ¡°That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± She watches as he disappears beneath the counter and reappears with her money, his sullen expression still neatly in place. Paying it no mind, she quickly grabs her belongings, throwing the shall over the basket and moving to leave the shop. ¡°I, once again, thank you for your patron¡ª.¡± Hard and fast, something smashes against the door outside, causing the frame to rattle violently. The force of it startles them, and both Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s glasses and her coins land on the ground, adding to the commotion. Their eyes wide as saucers, they look at each other for a brief moment before returning their attention to the street outside. She moves quickly towards the display window, hoping to spot whomever is responsible, and she catches the tail end of a massive black bird of blue-black plumage. ¡°It seems to have been a bird,¡± she finally says, her voice surprisingly steady. Looking back at the Apothecary, she realizes that he remains rattled. Quickly, she returns to pick up his glasses, placing them next to his closed fist. She then bends and collects her coins, scattered all over the impeccable floor, and returns them to her pouch. ¡°Here,¡± she continues as she stands up. Mr. Tarpeius looks at her but his eyes remain unfocused. When he finally opens his palm, she delivers the bell¡¯s clapper, which had detached and rolled her way after the impact. ¡°The bell is broken.¡± She moves towards the entrance again, opening the door several times, the bell thumping against its frame with a dull, metallic clump. Opening it wide, she examines the glass, running a hand over it, but finds nothing shattered or splintered. She looks around for a dead animal, but her search is futile. There are no feathers. There is no blood. Once she is satisfied, she steps back inside to retrieve her belongings. ¡°Just the bell,¡± she tells him reassuringly and watches as the Apothecary places his glasses back atop his nose with shaky hands. ¡°No damage to the door itself.¡± Unsure if he has understood her meaning, she stares at him and she sees as his eyes lift to the clouds outside and, for a fraction of a second, a look of deep confusion tortures his face. ¡°Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she says, instinctively grabbing his hand, his skin leathery and thin. Their eyes lock and she grins worriedly. ¡°It was but a raven.¡± His attention suddenly snaps back to her and, just as quickly, he removes his hand from underneath hers. She steps back, basket hitting her side. ¡°Not a single olive,¡± he demands abruptly, but his voice sounds almost subdued. Understanding him to be startled still, and perhaps embarrassed, she finishes his sentence for him. ¡°Or I will be hearing from you, yes, I know.¡± He huffs and scoffs as she stalls a few seconds to make sure he is stable before she leaves to continue her route. She sneaks a glance through the window and he waves her away with a sour look on his face. Taking this as a good sign that he is halfway towards recovery, she continues on, highly aware of her surroundings, searching for any sign of unhinged fowl. She turns left at the alley quickly, shawl fluttering in the wind as the frigid gust rushes behind and past her. She sees the young boy sitting on an empty barrel, his short legs hitting rhythmically against the fading logo of the Alba Custodia stamped on its side. His cap is pulled low so she cannot make out his expression, his attention fixed on some trinket in his hand. She watches as he angles its flat surface and balances it on his index finger, catching it as soon as it topples over. Mud squishing under her feet, she finally reaches the Old Maid¡¯s doorway and is surprised that the boy yet to notice her presence. She glances at the spiral staircase, wondering if perhaps she should have kept flipping a Krounen his way, and if perhaps this was his way of letting her know. Unsure of how to approach the situation, whether she should call out to him and ask him to fetch her next client or simply trek up the stairs to deliver the goods directly at the Old Maid¡¯s door, she decides to pursue the latter. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Keeping an eye on the slippery floor, the entrance already filthy with debris from outside, she begins her ascent. The railings are made of a thick, porous metal that scratches at her hands and she is careful not to hold on too tightly, for it has corroded and the gaps are ragged and sharp. The steps are sturdier than they appear, unyielding, lessening her fear of collapse and inescapable injury. There are cobwebs hanging from the grooves and pigeon droppings on the walls, and when she reaches the last of it, there are melted candles, spent and hardened, aligned ceremoniously on every window sill. ¡°Miss Mirah?¡± She calls and her voice echoes but there is no response. Having never been inside, she wonders if she¡¯ll be able to locate the Old Maid¡¯s apartments. But her worries are for nought, because there is only one door¨C and it is open. ¡°Miss Mirah? I came to deliver your order.¡± This is also met with silence so she stops to listen. She waits, in case the Old Maid is in another room and has not heard her, before she calls her name again to no avail. She looks around but the stairs remain empty, their only inhabitants the spiders weaving their intricate homes. The wallpapers that line the hallway have not been tended to in quite some time, their color long since faded. Returning her attention to the apartment before her, she tucks her head in with precaution, but she sees no sign of the noble woman. ¡°Miss Mirah, I¡¯ve come to deliver your breakfast,¡± she repeats, placing one foot within the apartment. It smells of all things old and expensive. She takes another step forward. ¡°I¡¯m coming in. I only wish to make sure that all is well.¡± Dust lifts as soon as she steps over the entrance rug, the furniture around her lined with a thick layer of grime. She walks by closed doors she assumes lead to other rooms, her sights set on the receiving area in front of her. It strikes her, once she reaches the end of the apartment¡¯s hallway, that if the Old Maid were to return, she would find herself in a compromising position, standing in the middle of her dwelling with no real reason for being there. This gives her pause and she turns, wondering if the best course of action would be to leave Miss Mirah¡¯s order by the door with a note stating she would return to collect her payment later. Deciding over drafting a message to leave with the brooding boy by the entrance, her train of thoughts dies there. An eerie, red light spills from one the rooms, the door now agape. ¡°Miss Mirah?¡± Her voice travels but lands nowhere, the apartment drowning in that deafening silence. Slowly, she moves forth, one boot in front of the other, until she is standing before the door. She raises her hands and they are bathed in the crimson color, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room within. When she finally enters the space before her, she sees a shadowed figure sitting on an ivory chair with a wide back that stretches beyond its head, with beautiful carvings of religious imagery reaching all the way up and ending in a sun of many rays. An identical seat stands beside it. Behind them, a stained glass window composed of thousands of small pieces spans the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, dyeing the room in a kaleidoscopic frenzy. Red is the predominant color. The space is far larger than she could have ever imagined, the apartment seemingly meager when seen from the alley. She sets her basket to one side and moves further in. ¡°Miss Mirah?¡± Now close enough to identify the Old Maid, she watches as the light stains the noble woman in its bright shadow. Miss Mirah¡¯s eyes stare at something beyond the glass. Her lips are moving but all she can hear are faint whisperings. She leans in to listen. ¡°C-c-coming,¡± Miss Mirah finally spits out, the hard sound of the consonant made more pronounced by the shattering of her teeth. ¡°Miss Mirah?¡± ¡°Oh, my sweet,¡± and now the Old Maid¡¯s voice is breathy. ¡°Are you quite alright?¡± ¡°I¡¯m perfectly fine, Miss Mirah,¡± she says, frowning with concern. ¡°It is you who worries me. Shall I fetch a physician?¡± The Old Maid clucks her tongue once. ¡°These outsiders, I tell you,¡± she whispers and, as if in a trance, repeats it several times. ¡°These outsiders, I tell you, these outsiders I tell you, theseoutsidersitellyou¡­¡± ¡°You are unwell,¡± she says and moves to exit the room but cannot, the Old Maid¡¯s hand suddenly latching onto her wrist, her gaunt fingers tightening against her skin. She winces and tries to pull away but the noble woman pulls her in closer, her many jewels shimmering multicolor against the stained glass. ¡°But you¡¯re nothing like them,¡± she states somberly, her head turning slowly, their eyes finally meeting. ¡°I do not know what you mean, Miss Mirah,¡± she says, struggling in vain against her grasp. ¡°Please, allow me to fetch you some help.¡± Miss Mirah shakes her head, her headdress shaking with her, and her lips part to reveal an ugly smile. She releases her wrist but not before she grabs her hand tenderly, patting it as if it were an old grandmother to a child. ¡°No. Nothing like them.¡± The Old Maid¡¯s attention returns to the stained glass, her eyes growing vacant again. Stunned, she takes a step away from Miss Mirah, bumping into a small table set between the two chairs and the loud screech startles her. Miss Mirah¡¯s neck turns, and her face is as shocked as she can only imagine her own to be. ¡°Oh, my sweet,¡± her smile is now a confused one. ¡°Are you quite alright?¡± She stares at the Old Maid, the fading feel of fingertips on her wrist the only proof of what had just happened between them. Miss Mirah¡¯s eyes recognize the basket laying next to the door and they light up. She rummages through her skirts and pulls out seven Krounen, their gold surface reflecting the display of colors around it. ¡°Thank you, pet.¡± Habitually, she reaches forward to collect the coins, Miss Mirah grinning pleasantly at her. She looks at her due, pushing them around with her thumb before she looks up, moving to ask if there was anything she could do, but the noble woman is already fast asleep, her quiet snores and indication of her exhaustion. The light coming from the stained glass windows seems to dissipate, and the lines around the Old Maid¡¯s face, which had frightened her at first, soften. She takes a moment to even her breaths and looks around, noticing that the room is scantily furnished and, under further scrutiny, not as terrifying as it had appeared when she first walked in. Heading towards the exit to retrieve her basket, she walks back and places the Old Maid¡¯s order on the table she had knocked over before, making sure as to not wake the sleeping lady. Tiptoeing her way out of the room, she reaches the entrance quickly, closing the apartment behind her and steadily descending the vertiginous staircase. When she finally makes it to the alley, she feels her knees buckle beneath her and her hand grabs the nearest barrel to steady herself. Nothing like them. The words bounce around in her head as her heart struggles to slow down to a normal pace. She feels a presence to her left and realizes that the child is sitting on one of the barrels still, completely unaware of her behavior, playing with what she now realizes is a single Krounen. She watches as he repeats the same motion over and over again, tipping and catching it in mid-air. Without a second thought, she marches towards him. Snatching the Krounen in mid-air, she speaks to the boy for the first time ever. ¡°I need you to look after Miss Mirah for me.¡± The boy blinks at her and then at her hand, which now holds three golden coins. He nods once. She continues, as she gives him the Krounen, tapping his cap upward with her finger so he can meet her eyes. ¡°I will know if you do not.¡± He stares at his open palm for a few seconds before closing his fist tightly around them. Startling her, he jumps off the barrel and takes off, taking a left at the end of the small, side street. Holding in a few choice words for the child, she looks up at one of the windows of Miss Mirah¡¯s apartment and wonders if she should be doing more for the noble woman. While she suspected that the Old Maid did not possess the riches that befitted her title, she had not expected her living conditions to be so significantly deteriorated. And as she continues her deliveries, she ponders over whether there were any existing family members she could reach out to regarding the Old Maid¡¯s health and where she could begin to ask for such information. The more obvious answer to that query would be Ketevan, who seemed to have returned to his usual self when she delivers her strawberry tart to the grand house but decides to ask some other day. She exits the grand manor without any awkward incidents and moves towards the market to collect her produce, thanking the woman tending the stall for her service. Strolling past the three arches, she searches briefly for missing ravens, lost in the battle against the Apothecary¡¯s door, and finds the same three perched expectantly on every arch, their eyes ever watching. It must have been a crow, is her only thought as she turns right onto the narrow pathway that leads back home. Chapter Eleven Nothing like them. Her gaze travels beyond the heads of the farmers, lingering over their weathered features, made taut and ragged by the morning sun. Some carry their wares on their backs, hunching forwards, their callused hands holding on to the grips tightly. Others employ the help of farm animals, mares and donkeys mostly, large straw sacks abounding with seasonal vegetables and hand-picked fruit. Here and there, she can spot the odd wagon, stumbling its way through the gravel, crockery trembling with every vibration, covered in thick cloth to guard it from possible rain. When she arrives at the three arches, she stops and looks back, the crowd a slow river, splitting and pouring past the entrance and into the market. It flows around her seamlessly, bodies moving with purpose, lives in perpetual motion. Switching her basket from one side to the other, she makes way for a band of merry peddlers, already heading to the next town. They smile at her in gratitude and she finds comfort in their acknowledgment, the interaction proof that she is there. And with her baked goods and her hefty basket and her places to be, she is one of them. She has to be. Entering the market, she matches its pace, allowing the current to take her past their many stalls, the shouted bartering their collective work song. As she waits for the Apothecary¡¯s patron to exit the shop, she hears the bubbling of boiling water, the sizzle of frying meat, the definite thud of knife hitting the fish at just the right angle, head and innards sliding off expertly. The wind struggles to sway the long links of cured meat, placed as ornaments over the butcher¡¯s stall, a worn sign stating their freshness. Bowls full to the brim with ground spices line the streets, the spice merchant weighing a small pouch over an old scale before he hands the merchandise to one of his many customers. The patron¡¯s dark figure steps out, parcel in hand, and resumes his path up the road as she nears the door. The frame, she notices, remains free of any damage, the only evidence of yesterday¡¯s incident the broken bell, which jingles sweetly as she walks in. She looks up to find the silver metal piece shimmering delicately, clapper back in its place. Swinging the door a few times for good measure, done mainly to annoy Mr. Tarpeius, she knows he must already be clattering and harrumphing his way through his daily inventory. ¡°Now, how may I¨C.¡± When the spindly man marches in, his glasses are placed neatly atop his nose and for a brief moment, the glare from the light outside hits their surface just so, and she cannot make out his eyes. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± ¡°You fixed the bell,¡± she replies casually, opening her basket swiftly and producing his order of meat pasties and raspberry puffs. She examines him from under her lashes as she did the frame outside, but there is no sign of splintering here either. Mr. Tarpeius was behaving in his usual manner, his attitude not made better or worse, his mind otherwise preoccupied with the presence of olives. He pokes at one of the parcels with his index finger suspiciously. ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°I am glad you fixed it,¡± she says as she opens her hand, raising an eyebrow. ¡°How else would you know when to hide from me?¡± ¡°Well, it smells like olives,¡± she hears him murmur as he bends to fetch her five coins, ignoring her yet again. She bristles mildly at his indifference and chooses not to reply. Watching him struggle to rise from beneath the counter, she does not push the matter of the derelict bird any further, knowing there would be no answers from the stubborn man before her. ¡°I shall be the judge of that,¡± he rambles on, speaking mostly to himself. The coins slide easily from his palm into her purse and she ties it well before placing it to one side. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she parts, conceding defeat to his bullheadedness. Her curls bouncing in tune, she nods her goodbye and turns on her heels, moving towards the door. ¡°Was¨C¡± Her fingers stop a breath away from the handle, her ears straining with effort. She looks back at Mr. Tarpeius, and finds him looking down at his hands. The parcels stacked in front of them, he does not move, lips pursed. They stand there for a minute longer than is comfortable, and she begins to wonder if she misheard him. Her hand begins to turn the handle once more and the door gives away marginally. ¡°Was it?¡± Her neck turns at lightning speed and she stares at him, stunned. ¡°Excuse me?¡± ¡°A raven,¡± he says and her eyebrows rise in realization. Perhaps he was not as unperturbed by what had happened the day before as he pretended to be, the brute force of the animal hitting the side of his shop having shaken them both to the core. ¡°I do not¨C,¡± she says, her shock receding enough for an answer. ¡°It may have been a crow.¡± He raises his head slowly in her direction, but does not reply immediately. His glasses reflect the light outside again, and she cannot see his eyes, making his expression unreadable, almost lifeless. ¡°Mr. Tarpeius?¡± He opens his mouth, his thin lips parting, but stops and she watches as his hands curl against the counter¡¯s surface. He clicks his tongue. ¡°Not a single olive,¡± he says, pushing the parcels to one side, bringing the conversation to an end. ¡°Or you will be hearing from me.¡± Her eyes narrow slightly and she angles her head to one side, gaze following him as he goes about his business, producing old vials of clear glass to clean. He stops suddenly, as if surprised to find her still there and he waves her away. Her mind races to find the correct response and when she speaks, her voice is far kinder than even she expects it to be. ¡°You are safe, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± He stops, a short, unnoticeable thing, and when he turns towards her, the disdain is clear on his face, his annoyance at her presence palpable. He waves her away, with more insistence this time, so she opens the door, raising one hand to show that she understands. ¡°I thank you for your patronage, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she says, the bell drowning her voice as she steps out of his shop finally. He does not look in her direction as she passes the window display, and a strange, empty feeling settles in her chest. Nearing the alley, her feet come to a halt and she looks up at the sky, the bitter air seeping through her shawl. She shivers. If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. She may not be the only one unnerved by the presence of ravens. Sparing one last glance at the Apothecary¡¯s shop, she heads over toward the Old Maid¡¯s apartments and, as she gradually remembers their red-tinted haze of an exchange, that same feeling in her chest deepens, spreading across her torso and up her neck. And when she realizes that the gates to the dilapidated building are closed shut, it is not surprise, but a solid sense of wariness that causes her body to tense. She swivels, catching the men carrying barrels of ale to the Alba Custodia by surprise. Staring down the alley, she searches for the wretched boy. Having run off the second he saw her turn the corner, he would be too far gone to find now. The delivery men shake their heads at her harried questions and she does not dare ask the townsfolk passing by, knowing they would have nothing to do with the Old Maid. Or rather, Miss Mirah would not have anything to do with them. Looking up at the apartment windows, she notices that they are also shut, the curtains drawn. She shouts Miss Mirah¡¯s name a few times, her words echoing against the thick brick walls but there is no response, only odd looks from strangers. Stepping back until her shoulder blades touch the wall, the rough surface biting against the thin fabric of her blouse, a frustrated sigh escapes her lips. Allowing the basket to slide down her arm and settle on her elbow, she raises her hands to her temples, the cold fingertips bringing relief to the faint waves of pain that push and roil against the sides of her head, thoughts of disappearing patrons rushing through her mind. Miss Mirah had been unwell, she reasons with herself. It could be that her family had been made aware of her condition and had taken her away to a place where she could recuperate, spend much needed time around her loved ones. That was what she had wanted when she found her, sitting by herself in the darkness of that horrid room. It all made sense. But, not having allowed herself to question it before, and almost afraid to whisper the words now, she stares at the closed gates, eyes unfocused. ¡°Something is¨C¡± Thunder rumbles overhead and her gaze snaps heavenward, and all she sees is a sky as blue as the finest periwinkle, clouds floating quietly along. Another sigh rushes through her nose as she places a hand on her chest, slowing down her breathing. Pushing herself off the wall, she steps away, her pace quickening. She dodges and swerves her way around those obstructing her path to the Blacksmith, watching as the Forge grows larger and more threatening as she approaches it. She steps in, not waiting for the apprentice to grant her entry and feels immediately suffocated by the heat of the hearth, overwhelmed by the loud noises that bang against her head mercilessly. Unloading their order and accepting the fourteen Krounen gratefully, she slides the honey balm towards the new apprentice. Struggling to keep her thoughts at bay, but feeling them nip at her ankles insistently, she bows and exits the Forge without a glance back, sidestepping the mare and his owner and rushing towards Qadahl Road. All is well, she repeats to herself when she finally sees the colorful shingles and the grand homes, all is well. She leaps into the kitchen, almost slamming against one of the kitchen maids in the process, and places her basket on the table. She takes out the parcel containing the glorious strawberry tart, along with three blueberry tarts, one meat pasty, and a jar of apple jam. She ignores the glare from the cook, too uneasy to bother, and when she looks to the side, Ketevan is already poised next to the kitchen entrance, watching her. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± ¡°Help yourself,¡± she says, slamming the lemon-raspberry jam on the kitchen table and turning towards the exit. She knows she is acting oddly, and odd was a dangerous thing to be when your livelihood depended on the pleasing of others, so she stops, one foot on the steps. She turns and gestures at the pastries. ¡°I baked them this morning.¡± ¡°Have I told you,¡± he begins his usual reply, smile spreading and teeth flashing. ¡°What an excellent baker you are.¡± A piece of dough flies across the expanse of the kitchen and lands between them, the cook returning to stir her stew with more strength than was needed. Ketevan places his palms together and bows apologetically, whispering sweet nothings in her direction. She takes his distraction as an opportunity to leave, so she turns and continues her path up the steps. Not particularly pleased at having to dispense with her pastries to unpaying customers, she is at least glad for the empty basket, as it made for an easy walk home. As she exits through the black gate, thoughts of Miss Mirah¡¯s absence return and loom over her like a bad smell, but she pushes them away, unwilling to spend the rest of the day suffering from that dreaded headache. She repeats the same words over and over again, annoyed at herself for having allowed doubt to fester within. All is well. ¡°Alma!¡± Her train of thought is broken by the voice of the mother and she looks back, having forgotten that the family was due to leave for town around this time, and is surprised to find Alma standing by the carriage. Rabbit cuddled comfortably in her arms, the heiress stares straight at her. When their eyes meet, the smiling beauty angles her arms to allow her a better look of the animal. She raises her eyebrows cordially to show that she has, in fact, seen the rabbit. Alma¡¯s smile widens, but falters as someone shuffles within the carriage, the wheels swaying with movement. The heiress waves goodbye and moves forward, her large dress gliding along with her as she steps towards the carriage. Handing the rabbit to whomever is waiting inside, a hand appears and holds on to her delicate one. Just as she is sliding in, the sound of something snapping fills the air. She then catches sight of multiple, miniscule, white orbs rolling every which way, rushing from under Alma¡¯s skirt. Following them, dumbfounded, she watches as their smooth bodies travel down the sidewalk, into the bushes, and bounce along the ridges of the cobbled road. Pearls. She looks back up, opening her mouth to shout after Alma but the driver has already cracked his whip, the heavy carriage wheels turning, the many errands in town awaiting. Gazing as its tail end disappears, she returns her attention to the precious gems scattered all round her. Noticing that some of the pearls have settled against the sole of her boot, she bends forward, her fingertips struggling to grab hold of them. Once she manages to collect a few, she closes her fist, rising from her crouched position, feeling their perfect shape twirl around her palm. Never having seen such beauty up close, she opens her hand to ogle at the pearls but instead stands frozen. Blood. It pools in her palm and drips down the sides of her hand¨C pearls glistening a gruesome pink. She drops them with a sudden yelp, watching as they bounce violently away from her. A shuddering breath racks her chest as she looks around desperately, trying to find the source of the blood but there is no trace of it anywhere. When she looks at her fingers once more they are clean of all vile but she wipes her hands on her skirts all the same, beads of sweat emerging on her forehead and slipping down the sides of her face. Breathing heavily, she turns and runs away from the wretched scene, oblivious to those around her. She does not stop by the grocer¡¯s stall, instead dashing straight through the three arches, her goal the narrow pathway. But somewhere along the way her boots catch and tangle and she trips, her knees hitting the gravel hard. Her hands follow and she feels the rocks bite into her palms, her fingers curling against the hard earth. A fingernail snaps. Her heart beating in her ears, she sees the basket has landed somewhere to her right, the lid snapped open. Her lip trembles and her shoulders shake, the blood in her hands her own doing. She pushes herself upward slowly, feeling wave after wave of emotions crash within her. All is well, her mind repeats nonsensically. Whoosh! Her hair flies forward and the sound of fluttering wind fills her ears, her breath catching in her throat. From the side of her vision, she sees long, black claws fly an inch away from her cheek. The raven lands on the tree branch above her, its head cocking every which way, as if assessing the scene before it. She stares up in awe as it extends its great wings ceremoniously, and when it finally croaks, a single tear traces a path down her dirty face. Chapter Twelve ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± A quiet gasp escapes her parted lips. Her hand rises and her arm feels as if it is wading through water, the rise slow and heavy. The frigid ends of her fingers touch her cheek and she flinches, startled by her own closeness. She wipes away at the moisture, the tear now a layer of dampness over her skin. The liquid coats and shimmers over the ridges of her fingers and when she rubs them together, her palm smarts, new wounds and red tissues fresh from her fall. She spreads her other hand and finds similar markings where the rock split and tore through. Staring down at the wounds, she blinks once, twice. She watches as her fingers curl inwards, her nails biting, her fists turning white. Her heart beats loudly against her ears as blood pools around her cuticles, scabs yielding to the pressure, wrists trembling with exertion. And as the blood begins to travel down her wrist, frustration rises within like bile, both the pain and the warmth escaping her. All attempt to feel seemingly muffled. As if she were experiencing time through a dream. As if she were experiencing time through¨C . ¡°A nightmare,¡± she whispers. ¡°Miss?¡± Her gaze snaps forward and she finds herself standing in the middle of the morning market, standing before the man with his gray, speckled beard and his ruddy cheeks. Bast¡¯s face is etched with concern. Like a child caught in the act, she hides her fists behind her back before he can glimpse the damage. Mind scrambling to make sense of where she is, it takes her a moment longer to comprehend that the merchant was, once again, standing proudly at his usual post. Her brow rises as soon as reality finally solidifies around her. ¡°Bast!¡± She exclaims, forcing her trembling lips to widen but genuinely glad to see him behind his many wares, precious stones glinting against the early sun. ¡°You have returned!¡± ¡°Aye!¡± The merchant¡¯s head bobs up and down as he waves her forward. ¡°And I have come just in time, I think¡± ¡°In time?¡± The nervousness in her voice betrays her and she buries her fists further still, hoping the merchant had not been witness to her momentary lapse in judgment. She can feel beads of sweat bloom around the edges of her forehead but she cannot wipe them away so she allows them to be. For all he knew, she had sprinted all the way from her cottage at the edge of town. ¡°To offer you a discount!¡± He replies good-naturedly, eyes sparkling as she breathes out in marked relief. ¡°A discount for that lovely piece you fell in love with.¡± ¡°True, true. And where is my ring now?¡± She asks playfully, stepping closer to peer at the different designs displayed before her. The blunt gold and glorious opal finds her immediately, sitting humbly amongst its peers. The orange and gold specks seem to float within it, in stark contrast with the darkness of the gem. She senses her upper body lean over the table, her shadow obscuring the rich velvet draped over its surface, the magnetic pull of the ring irresistible. ¡°It is right where you left it.¡± His voice reaches her just as she is about to unfurl her hand to touch the hypnotizing surface and she is grateful for it. She stops herself just in time but still gazes at the ring for a while longer. When she looks back at the merchant, the words he had just spoken finally reach her. ¡°Right where I left it,¡± she whispers absentmindedly. Sparing one last glance at the ring, she grins politely and pulls herself away from the table and its singing siren. ¡°One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year¡¯s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.¡± About to dispense her usual rejection, her tongue hesitates and she holds his gaze instead. The merchant seemed unperturbed by her presence, their scene a daily interaction that never wavered. And it occurred to her now that it needed to waver. ¡°I am glad to see that you are here and doing well, Bast.¡± ¡°It is a pleasure to be back, miss.¡± ¡°Bast,¡± she pauses, smiling back at his beaming face. ¡°Do you perhaps remember our last conversation?¡± ¡°About the ring, miss?¡± ¡°No,¡± she replies unsteadily, already anticipating the muddled headache. Her mind had already caught on and she could feel it piecing together her missing morning. ¡°Our last conversation. Before you left.¡± Bast looks away as if in deep thought, hand brushing beard theatrically, before returning his eyes to hers, shaking is head apologetically. ¡°I am afraid not, miss. Do you?¡± Her lips open, ready to push on, to ask again, but recoils as the first wave of pain hits her temple. Her basket, poised at the ready, sways from side to side as she struggles to keep her hands hidden. It takes her a few seconds to compose herself, and she barely manages to croak out a no. ¡°Then it must not have been too important.¡± She looks at him and his lighthearted grin, and the heaviness bearing down at the top of her head lifts slightly. ¡°No, I guess not,¡± she responds finally, pushing herself to reciprocate his effervescence amidst the receding throbbing in her head, understanding then that this was as far as her conversation with Bast would go, and that she was in no state to pursue the matter. ¡°May the rest of your day be fruitful, Bast.¡± ¡°I¡¯ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.¡± Bast calls out after her, waving her off as he goes about his day, reaching out to possible customers and rearranging his merchandise, unaware that her eyes are fixed onto his every moment a few streets away. The reappearance of the merchant had appeased her discomfort somewhat, a peace she had found she craved after the disconcerting episode she had experienced with the young heiress the day before. Images of blood soaked pearls flash through her mind and she closes her eyes tightly for a brief second, quickening her pace to the Apothecary¡¯s shop. She stops halfway to unravel her shawl, and wipes away at the already thickening blood in her palms, around her fingers and lodged between her cuticles. In a moment of unchecked domesticity, she worries over whether she will be able to wash away the stains on her favorite shawl and hopes for a forgiving fabric. The sound of a silver bell travels to where she stands and soon after the patron exits the shop, turning left and continuing his way up the street with his parcel. Her gaze follows him until his figure is made indiscernible by the looming fog. The bell rings once more as she finally steps inside, the familiar smell of vinegar and cleanliness bringing a sense of familiarity to her otherwise affected state. She waits patiently for the Apothecary, routinely placing his order on the counter. When he finally graces her with his presence, she does not wish to upset him with talk of the bird-related incident, so she surveys him discreetly. Sensing no alarming behavior, outside of his complaining over the same order he had had since she could remember, she decides to let the matter go. As she collects her five Krounen, she observes at the shiny coinage before looking up at the glowering Apothecary, who had already diverted his attention to tidying up the shelves above. This book''s true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Surprising herself and the Apothecary, she places the Krounen back on the glass. ¡°Would you happen to have any remedies for an aching head?¡± Considering she could brew herself a poultice of earthworm and houseleek back home, she wondered why she suddenly felt compelled to ask him¨C but she recognized it as the same compulsion that had motivated her to question Bast. It was a desperate need to know. The Apothecary freezes, clearly surprised to find her standing there still. He places the vial in his hand back on the wooden shelf slowly, before turning towards her, glasses dangerously close to falling as he tilts his chin downward, gazing incredulously at her from above their bridge. ¡°I beg your pardon?¡± ¡°A remedy,¡± she repeats, pushing the coins in his direction. ¡°For an aching head.¡± ¡°I am afraid,¡± he replies after a short pause, pushing the coins back. ¡°We are all out.¡± ¡°All out?¡± ¡°And I am not allowed to dispense with remedies without the input of a qualified physician.¡± ¡°Are you not a qualified physician?¡± Her question is followed by the sliding of the coins back to him. ¡°I¨C¡± he stops, pursing his lips before he continues. His eyes travel to the window and back, a sudden air of uneasiness settling between them. The tension dissipates when he speaks, his words slow and deliberate. ¡°As I said, we are all out.¡± ¡°When will you have more?¡± ¡°I shall have more, when I have more,¡± he answers, clearly annoyed by the onslaught of questions and reaching his limit. Mr. Tarpeius shoves the coins back with an air of finality. ¡°Now if you don¡¯t mind.¡± He points at the exit before turning around, disappearing through the swinging doors, and leaves her staring at nothing. Glancing around the shop, her mind counts all the vials and concoctions lying about, and comes to the conclusion that lack of resources is not a most obvious issue for the Apothecary. Mr. Tarpeius does not resurface, so she pockets her five Krounen once more, sliding the coins noisily against the glass before exiting the shop. As the heavy door closes behind her, she lets out an exasperated sigh, placing a hand over her basket. Her shoulders shiver and it aggravates her mood. She reaches the entrance to the alley quickly, eager to leave the frigid air behind. Sidestepping the rolling barrels of ale, she peers heavenward at the Old Maid¡¯s window and finds her apartment as lifeless as it had been the day before. Mildly surprised at seeing the messenger boy gone, she does not dawdle, leaving the alley as quickly as she entered it. Working her way through to the Blacksmith, the thought of sending word out to Miss Mirah crosses her mind. A letter to see if she is doing well, wherever she is, but she would not know where to begin. And as she quits the Forge and marches her strawberry tart all the way to Qadahl Road, the thought of having to interact with yet another unwilling townsperson makes her weary. Delivering her order and a couple of extra blueberry tarts on the side, she dances around Ketevan gracefully, handing him his jam and dodging all invitations to the Alba Custodia. Taking two steps at a time, she finally exists through the gate. Her heart races, and while she favors believing that this is due to the sudden exercise, she knows that the memory of blood and pearls haunts her still . Unintentionally, she examines the sidewalk and the hedges for any stray pearls but spots none, and neither does she see any splatters of old blood anywhere near the polished cobblestones. As she angles her head to inspect the bushes that line the back entrance, she hears a sound so clear and smooth, it reminds her of the sweet gurgling of fresh mountain water. ¡°Good morning.¡± She turns to look for the source and her eyes land on Alma, standing by the steps watching her inquisitively, a playful smile curling her perfect lips at the edges. Her eyes sparkle with amusement as her gaze travels to the bushes and back. ¡°Have you lost something?¡± Still speechless, she looks around to confirm it is her whom the heiress is speaking to, mouth slightly agape. When she regains control of her neck muscles, she shakes her head. Alma finds this amusing, and she releases a delicate laugh that both frees and twists her heart. A crack deepens within. The rabbit in Alma¡¯s arms stirs with the noise but falls right back to sleep, ears flickering and then laying still. Alma once again angles the animal towards her but this time she adds, ¡°Would you like to pet him?¡± ¡°U-uhm, I¨CI¡¯m sorry,¡± she replies clumsily, stepping away from the bushes and bringing the basket closer to her chest. ¡°I really should get going.¡± ¡°Oh?¡± ¡°I am sorry,¡± she says, smiling sheepishly, and is surprised as tears rise and sting her eyes. The heiress stares at her in bewilderment, her magnificent green eyes widening, her hand never once ceasing its steady path along the rabbit¡¯s head. ¡°I must go.¡± She turns to walk away but stops, looking back at Alma and curtseying quickly, head bowed low. From the edge of her vision, she sees as the heiress moves to say something but the carriage is ready to depart so she decides to leave instead. Not waiting for the crack of the whip, she marches away from Alma and her rabbit. Breathing in and out steadily, she makes her way past the Forge and the Old Maid¡¯s quarters, slowing down when she walks by the Apothecary¡¯s shop. He is standing inside, tending to one of his customers. With half a mind to stop and ask for the remedy once again, she decides against it, continuing her path down the street. She ambles past, working her way through the busy crowd. ¡°Be right there with you,¡± she hears the woman call out from within her stall. When she emerges, her red hair is neatly tied in a bun and her smile is perfectly in place. ¡°Why, I¡¯ll say. I haven¡¯t seen you around these parts in ages.¡± ¡°Yes, the last few days have been,¡± she replies as she follows the woman around the stall. ¡°Eventful.¡± ¡°I was wondering where you¡¯d been,¡± the woman carries on, disappearing behind one of the crates. ¡°What can I get for you today? The usual?¡± ¡°Yes, please,¡± she answers, bringing her pouch forward and counting the number of Krounen she will need to purchase her daily groceries. ¡°And some bitter currants, if you have them.¡± ¡°Sure.¡± The woman responds, hauling the satchel onto the table, its surface bulky with added vegetables. ¡°Here. A little extra, as always.¡± ¡°Thank you. How much?¡± ¡°Four Krounen,¡± the woman answers amicably, wiping her hands on her apron. She then extends her hand to receive her payment. Looking down at the Krounen, she counts six and smirks up at her. The woman takes out two of the golden pieces and hands them back. She smiles at the woman and shakes her head. ¡°I shall see you tomorrow, yes?¡± The woman asks after tsking at the extra Krounen, pocketing the money all the same. ¡°Yes, see you tomorrow.¡± And with that, she grabs hold of her satchel, placing it smoothly against her hips to avoid holding the rough cloth with her wounded hands. Giving the woman a quick nod goodbye, she walks away, thus ending another confounding day. Ignoring the tremor in her bones and the lethargic quality of her thoughts, she steps through the three arches, searching the pristine semicircles for brooding ravens. There are none today. Entering the narrow pathway, the cover of the evergreens brings with it peace and serenity and she feels it soak her skin. She enjoys treading along to the sounds of swaying needles, the sporadic fall of a pine cone scaring the hidden creatures below, the smell of deep purity filling her lungs. The crunching of leaves underneath, twigs snapping every now and then, and the swishing of the bag against her thigh accompany her as she nears the wildflower meadow. She crouches down thoughtlessly and feels the scabs on her knees strain with effort. Stretching her arm to collect nearby flowers quickly, she notices a presence hidden somewhere further in. Her senses immediately on edge she stiffens, hand wrapped around the stem of a stray daffodil. Ears perk at the sound of sudden croaking and her grasp on the flower tightens. When she finally catches sight of the black wings flapping amongst the swaying grass, her eyes narrow. She stands up slowly, pulling the daffodil from the earth, its roots dangling sadly below, trailing dirt. Shoulders squared, she stares at the center of the meadow and realizes that the raven is not alone. Accompanying the black bird stand the blue-black and the white raven, their chests puffed high, their gaze unrelenting. She glares at the birds for a split second and then turns around once she feels silly enough, resuming her walk home. Without a second thought, she chucks the wilted flower onto the field and secures the satchel around her shoulders. She has had enough of the ravens. Chapter Thirteen But the tea leaves break, and glide, and pool at the bottom leisurely, forming wings as black as night that stretch and mold against the confines of the delicate cup. She tilts the teacup in her direction, and while the residual tea follows along, the leaves do not, staring up at her in mocking display. She grabs the teacup and flings its contents onto the grass unceremoniously. The white garden chair creaks as she lays back, the empty vessel now dangling precariously from her index finger. Her head falls back, neck surrendering against the weight and her eyes close leisurely, lashes fluttering against cheekbones. The light flickers over her eyelids and she welcomes the frail slivers of warmth gladly, her mornings having turned colder with each passing day. Tendrils of hair tickle her nose and she brushes them aside, tucking the curls behind her ear. She inhales slowly, the aroma of the herb garden reaching her first, followed by the sweetness of the forest flowers. Her nose twitches slightly as the ending note of that ever-present stink of decay arrives. The chirping of the birds grows stronger when she pushes herself forward, the saucer rattling as she places the cup back on the table, the red design reflecting against the white surface, a shade of soft pink. She places her elbows on the table, her chin finding her hands. The scabs on her skin rub against her face, the tissue still tender. Her teeth grind against each other as she presses her cool fingers against her eyelids, the pressure alleviating the pulsating pain behind them. A desperate groan vibrates from within her chest and up her throat but what escapes her lips is almost a lifeless mewl, akin to the cry of a broken animal. She sits there, suspended. Her skirt soaking in the last of the dew, a half-eaten toast by her side, the world around her moving along. The presence of the cabin looms behind her, the vastness of the unknown forest before her and, in that moment, she feels as if the gap between them could swallow her whole ¨C hers, a waning existence. A bee buzzes past her ear and she flinches, her hands freeing her from their wild grasp, her shoulders expanding as she gulps down fresh air. She slaps her cheeks twice and stands quickly, brushing away the crumbs and shaking the teacup one final time for good measure. ¡°Ridiculous superstition,¡± she breathes out as she stomps past the garden, fleeing the restlessness that always accompanied those muffled thoughts, seeking to leave all fear behind, buried amongst the rosemary and the thyme. She enters her cabin with a renewed air of decisiveness, grabbing her shawl and her basket without a second thought. The front door groans with effort as she pulls it open and her footsteps are hollow thumps against the wooden porch. The gravel under her feet shifts as it seeks to escape the thin rubber sole of her worn boots, soon replaced by the packed dirt of the main road. The farmers and the peddlers joke and jibe around her, their voices floating over the din of the long caravan. She nods and bobs her head as she marches alongside them, reaching the three white arches soon enough. The market and the accompanying liveliness of the fluctuating crowd overwhelms her. She brings the basket closer to her chest as unknown bodies move from one place to the other and their sense of purpose, which days before had seemed infectious, now annoys her. Struggling past the vendors of meat and spices, she finally arrives at Bast¡¯s table but she does not linger, parting quickly with a kind smile and a shake of the head. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word!¡± ¡°You do that, Bast,¡± she replies, her words not quite matching her mood, both of them aware that the transaction would not move past her ardent admiration for his precious ring. Unawares of the turmoil within her, the merchant cackles, his bright voice following her as she continues her route. The bell sings its customary song as she barges into the Apothecary¡¯s shop, the space devoid of Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s dark patron. ¡°Now, how may I¨C. Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± The Apothecary¡¯s glasses flash as he approaches the counter, his spidery hands wringing as his eyes survey every parcel placed before him. With his thin fingers, he pushes the white boxes around suspiciously, the thread used to tie them together quivering with every push. ¡°I smell¨C.¡± ¡°Olives?¡± With an exasperated sigh, she grabs one of the meat pasties and slides it towards her, her fingers moving quickly to undo the ribbons placed neatly above them. ¡°What on earth do you think you are doing?¡± ¡°Searching for olives, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± A flustered Apothecary jumps forward, grabbing the parcels from under her and pulling them towards his chest and away from her grubby hands. He quickly turns and deposits them on a nearby table, his eyes shifting from his order to her stoic expression. ¡°That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.¡± She can see the flush creep upwards and reach his ears, his mouth opening and closing like a shocked fish. He stares at her for a moment, his bulging eyes round with dismay, before he scoffs quietly. Running his hands down the length of his chest, he approaches the counter once more, but slowly, as if he were nearing a wild beast and not a baker half his size. She follows his movements as he bends down and unlocks his safe. He rises, knees creaking, and she braces herself for the tongue lashing of the century but he simply extends his arm. She leans forward and collects her payment, the palms of her hands glistening with sweat. Closing her fingers around the shimmering coins, she looks back at the Apothecary, who is glaring down at her with simmering disdain. ¡°May you have the best of mornings,¡± she finally replies, and bows her head once more. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± She turns to leave. Mr. Tarpeius clicks his tongue once and she spares a glance from over her shoulder. He crosses his arms around his chest and gestures towards the exit with his head. ¡°Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.¡± Opening her mouth to speak, she stops herself before she can upset the Apothecary any further. She had not forgotten her request from the day before, but she doubted his manner would be forthcoming after today. Instead she nods, knowing somewhere deep within her that purposely angering a loyal patron would not be a particularly wise move. The bell rings as she quickly exits the shop, her boots carry her seemingly abject shoulders all the way to the entrance of the alley, her hand pulling at her shawl so hard she fears the fabric will fray. Her stomping slows down as soon as she moves left, the mud underfoot notoriously treacherous. She hears the sloshing of ale as the men roll the barrels towards the tavern. The boy is nowhere to be seen but she figures his help will not be needed, seeing as the Old Maid¡¯s windows are still tightly closed and her gate firmly locked. Her eyes fixed on the foggy glass above, her eyelashes suddenly flutter as tufts of white land on her eyebrows, her cheeks, her nose. Confounded, she runs her fingers over her forehead lightly, the cold flakes melting immediately against their warmth. Pulling them away, she looks down at her palm, the droplets of water trembling before they run down, melting as soon as they land on the mud below. Her eyes gaze upwards in awe once more, taking in the wispy crystals that float and dance above her. The snow stops before she can fully understand what is happening. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. To her surprise, the brief flurry seems to have made no difference to the life of the town as she watches the vendors and the townsfolk alike go about their day, carriages rolling and horses neighing, no eyes staring up at the sky in wonder. She looks back at the alley and, while the air is still wintry and the clouds still gray, there is no remaining proof of the magical snowflakes. The moment having been so bizarre, she wonders if it happened at all. Sparing glances at the sky along the way, she reaches the Blacksmith¡¯s Forge. As she approaches the towering edifice before her, she tries to push away the thought of having offended the sour man, finding consolation in the fact that his acerbic personality might equal a less than active social life in town, and hence a lower possibility of his sharing her lack of decorum with other potential patrons. Clang! The landing hammer reminds her of her next delivery and she shuffles forward, swinging the basket away from the curious mare. The apprentice grants her access and she swiftly enters the sultry den. Clang! She makes her way to the large table, unloading her order of meat pies and stacking them neatly to one side. Awaiting for the second apprentice, she watches as the Blacksmith works his craft, facing the hearth. It dawns on her that she has never seen his face, and were she to ever happen upon him elsewhere, she would not be able to recognize him. But she dismisses the thought quickly, knowing that she would probably identify the Blacksmith for his large build alone. Clang! The apprentice catches her eye as he nears the table, the fourteen Krounen already in hand. She slides the small jar with the medicinal balm in his direction and he grabs it dexterously, bowing in her direction. She nods her head back and moves to leave, taking hold of the significantly lighter basket in the process. Clang! As she walks to the exit, a ray of light filters through the wooden beams above and lands on a pile of scrap metal nearby. The flash is so blinding it stops her in her tracks and she coils back defensively, her free hand rising to protect her addled eyes. She shifts slightly to escape the glare as she attempts to find its source. Clang! Nearing the heap of discarded and rusty scraps of metal, her eyes are unexpectedly drawn to a sliver of metal so fine, so smooth, it shimmers like water. Spellbound, she steps towards its alluring silver shine, fingers mirrored on its exquisite surface. Moving the scraps aside, she grabs hold of the discarded artifact and rescues it from the rubble. A Knight¡¯s helmet. Never having seen anything quite like it, she examines her reflection, studying the emblematic flowers intricately engraved at each side. She runs her thumb over them, feeling the grooves meld momentarily with her skin. Her breath fogs the brow and she quickly wipes it away with her sleeve. Suddenly, a large hand enters her line of vision and she watches in paralyzed silence as its blackened fingers grab hold of the helmet and lift it over her head and out of her sight. She quickly brings her hands to her chest and glances cautiously to the side. Her startled gaze follows the Blacksmith¡¯s retreating figure as he walks towards the hearth. He stares at the helmet for a second before casting the metal into a large cauldron hidden within it. The fire swallows the offering greedily and her eyes widen as the Blacksmith, face darkened by the brightness of the fire around him, turns his neck in her direction. And although unable to see his features, his face a dark void within the brightest of halos, she can somehow feel his gaze pierce right through her. She gasps. Retreating, her back hits the table and a small yelp escapes her lips, the pile of scraps tumbling and landing noisily around her. Flustered, she bows and apologizes hurriedly under her breath before she flees the Forge. Clang! Failing to acknowledge the apprentice and his customer as she moves away from the town square, every blink brings back the Blacksmith¡¯s imposing silhouette, outlined by the violent heat of the hearth. Still feeling the heaviness of the helmet in her hands, she runs her hands down her skirt anxiously, as if to shoo away the feel of the Blacksmith¡¯s presence when he surfaced behind her. She rubs at the goosebumps that now riddle her arms as she nears the black gate that surrounds the large manor, her boots appearing and disappearing beneath her skirts as she quickens her step. The kitchen smells of breakfast and boiling stew, the cook busily barking instructions to her helpers as they chop and stir and serve. Maids and footmen come in and out, leaving used cutlery in their wake. Waiting for a pair of maids to receive their undue reprimand for returning with plates of untouched food, she finally delivers her last parcel, along with the Old Maid¡¯s usual order. The clamorous fall of a metal tray startles her and the image of an awakening fire flashes before her eyes, an ominous figure at its center. She bends down, skirt pooling around her, and she grabs hold of the tray. Rising, the cook does not acknowledge her but she does scold the careless helper, who then scurries forwards and takes it from her hands. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± Her head angles in acknowledgement but their eyes do not meet, instead she stares at the tray which now lies discarded. She hears his footsteps as he steps closer to her and senses his nearness when he leans against the table next to her. The hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end. Without looking at him, her fingers glide the small jar across the table. ¡°Lemon.¡± Ketevan does not reply, instead he stands there, by her side, and she can feel his inquisitive stare study her every movement. ¡°You¡¯re no fun.¡± ¡°I suppose not,¡± she replies, but her voice is barely above a whisper. Her eyes close abruptly as images of the silver helmet rush through her mind and her hands find the edge of the table, knuckles whitening ¨C her headache back in full force now that the shock of the Blacksmith¡¯s encounter had finally caught up with her. Ketevan leans closer, his fingers instantly under her chin, turning her head towards him. Summoning all of her will power to stretch her pale lips into a smile, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds, she whispers, "You owe me a Krounen.¡± ¡°What is wrong?¡± ¡°Nothing,¡± she replies quietly. Ketevan tilts her head as his eyebrows rise, his look an incredulous one. ¡°I¡¯ve¨C,¡± she continues, freeing her face from his grasp and stepping away, aware of the moving bodies around them. ¡°I¡¯ve had an odd week, that is all.¡± ¡°Odd?¡± He asks, placing his elbows on the table and facing her direction. Unlike her, he seems unbothered by the attention. ¡°How come?¡± ¡°Just odd. Disappearing villagers, reappearing pastries, horrible headaches,¡± she lists them off casually, grabbing hold of her basket as she prepares to leave. ¡°And those dreadful ravens.¡± ¡°Ravens?¡± She looks down at her hands, unexpectedly embarrassed by the admission. ¡°And then I was awful to Mr¨C.¡± ¡°Where?¡± ¡°Well,¡± she responds without looking up, too busy tightening her shawl. ¡°At the Apothecary, of course.¡± ¡°No,¡± Ketevan¡¯s voice startles her and when she finally meets his eyes, her breath catches in her throat. He steps forward and she takes one step back, his features foreign to her, his countenance clouded by an otherness she cannot describe, his eyes devoid of all light. ¡°Where did you see the ravens?¡± ¡°Ketevan,¡± her voice barely rises above a whisper. ¡°Where?¡± ¡°By the three arches!¡± She exclaims, finding herself cornered, her heartbeat rising. ¡°By the meadow.¡± ¡°How many?¡± ¡°Ketevan, you frighten me.¡± Suddenly, the same fingers that had previously held her chin so delicately, now grab and bite at her face, fingernails breaking skin. She feels the blood run down her cheeks and drip down to her shirt, dampening the fabric. Her eyes frantically search for help, widening as they realize that the space around her has grown deafeningly silent. The kitchen is empty. ¡°I¡¯ll ask you once more,¡± he says with calm brutality, his grasp tightening. ¡°How many ravens did you see?¡± ¡°Three,¡± her voice cracks and tears pool around her eyes, fear tightening her muscles, begging her to flee. ¡°Three ravens.¡± She whimpers as his fingernails finally escape her flesh, her cheeks pulsating with pain. He takes one step back and her knees buckle and surrender beneath her, her body landing with a loud thud on the floor. She looks up and watches her dear friend run his hand across his jaw, leaving thin traces of bright red blood behind, his eyes fixed on something beyond Qadahl Road. His black pupils lower slowly, back to her, and a mirthless smirk twists his lips. ¡°They found you.¡± Chapter Fourteen Rays of warmth kiss her closed eyelids as they flutter open slowly, brown lashes turning gold against the risen sun. The trees whisper above her, bringing about a new wave of murmurs with every caress from the soft wind. The creatures of the forest, awake before the first sign of dawn, work their way through the branches, unaware of their perpetual observer. When she takes her first sip of her tea, her lips curl upwards, melding around the delicate china. Cradling the white porcelain in her palms, she places her elbows on the table comfortably, leaning forward to observe the grassy lane before her. A sudden gust of cool wind tangles in her hair, enveloping her in the scents of the old woods ¨C evergreen sap, rosemary, and wet moss. She opens her eyes to find her attention immediately taken by a wisp of white smoke stretching beyond her, swirling and disappearing into the sky. The stone chimney stands proudly amongst the great trees that surround it, the highest point of her small cabin. Her gaze travels downward towards the herb garden, long overdue for a trimming and identifies a few specimens ripe for the picking. The old chair creaks when she rises, skirts sticking to the ends of her boots. She kicks them aside absentmindedly, teacup placed neatly over its corresponding saucer. Swishing her way through the overgrown sprigs of thyme and stepping over webs of mint, she reaches the back door. The smell of baked fruit and old oak finds her as soon as she steps in, stopping to stomp her boots before making her way to the kitchen. The basket awaits her just where she left it, her shawl folded neatly above the lid. Leaving her teacup and plate on the empty basin, she takes the time to wash and dry her hands. She grabs her diligently packed parcels and shawl as her boots turn her in the direction of the entrance. Closing the door behind her, she marches down the front porch and onto the gravelly path. She quickly falls into place next to the familiar faces of those heading towards town, their wobbly wagons and plucky animals as much part of the caravan as the people. The smiles she gives are returned easily, and a sense of camaraderie settles effortlessly between them. Soon, they all arrive at the great arches erected at the entrance of the busy town, the colorful shingles of Qadahl Road peaking playfully behind them. She enters the crowded marketplace with a fresh sense of purpose, mapping her route through the many vendors to ensure the most efficient path towards the Apothecary. Once she is confident enough, she weaves and elbows her way past the growing throng, making herself small so as to avoid their sharp eyes. Her basket, however, has a mind of its own and it bumps and bounces against others and she is forced to bring it above her head, negating all attempts at concealment. ¡°Will today be the day, miss?¡± A resigned laugh brightens her face as she turns to look at the merry merchant waving her over, his table already set up and ready to lure locals and visitors alike with his beautifully crafted pieces of silver and gold. ¡°Not today, Bast.¡± But nonetheless, she steps close enough to peruse his wares, leaning carefully over the velvet mantelpiece. Once she finds the gorgeous opal ring, her shoulders relax and her smile widens. She resists the urge to touch its glistening center. ¡°I¡¯ll give you a discount,¡± the merchant replies, recognizing the possessive glint in her eye as an opportunity for a sale. ¡°One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year¡¯s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.¡± Stepping back and shaking her head, she replies dejectedly. ¡°Generous as ever, Bast. But I am afraid today will not be the day.¡± He waves her away as she resumes her path to the Apothecary, following their daily exchange perfectly. ¡°I¡¯ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.¡± ¡°I would not expect less!¡± She shouts over her shoulder, already halfway up the road. Her ears perk at the sound of the silver bell, the dark patron exiting the sour-smelling shop and working his way determinedly up the street and into the fog. The same bell rings loudly when she enters Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s shop, alerting the equally sour patron that she has arrived with what she assumed was his breakfast. As she waits for Mr. Tarpeius to appear, she busies herself with the unpacking of his order, counting the four parcels quietly before closing the lid of her basket. She looks around at the many jars displayed about the shop and she wonders if they have ever been of any use to the man, considering how they never seemed to change. ¡°Now, how may I¨C,¡± his voice stops mid-sentence as his gaze lands on hers. Her attention drifts from the jar of eyes to his own and she smiles politely. This does little to please the Apothecary, as is evident by his deepening scowl. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s you.¡± ¡°Yes, odd¡± she responds, matching his suspicion by mockingly narrowing her eyes. ¡°It¡¯s almost as if you hired me to deliver these every morning.¡± Mr. Tarpeius ignores her completely, sniffing over the parcels once. ¡°I smell olives.¡± ¡°I would never,¡± she says, in a tone that implies she would very much do that which he already suspects her of doing. He ignores her again. ¡°Well, it smells like olives.¡± ¡°If you were to find one, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she replies, simultaneously outstretching her palm to receive her payment. ¡°I simply must know.¡± ¡°I shall be the jud¨C¡± he mumbles all the way down to his safe, head moving side to side with every disapproving shake. He hands over the five Krounen owed and she drops them one by one into her pouch, the clink of each coin exacerbating Mr. Tarpeius further. ¡°May you have the best of mornings, Mr. Tarpeius,¡± she parts pleasantly, bowing her head. ¡°I thank you for your patronage.¡± ¡°Not a single olive!¡± He shouts after her, the dainty ring drowning out the rest of his tirade as she steps into the main road once more. She waves at him sweetly as he shakes his fist at her, her smile lingering all the way to the main alley. What was a village without its resident grouch, she pondered sagely. With thoughts of how to further improve Mr. Tarpeius¡¯s dark moods, she nears the muddy side street, already perturbed by the rolling of barrels. She watches the burly men grunt and huff their way up to the Alba Custodia, kicking at the chunks of mud that pool around the edges of their cargo. As she studies them, she feels something cold tickle her cheeks and her fingers rise to brush away at whatever insect decided to test its fate that day. Instead, her fingers meet the cold remains of melted snow. Staring up, she realizes that she is surrounded by a flurry of white snowflakes, descending gingerly around her. She spares a glance at the people nearest to her but no one else seems as perplexed as she is about the matter. Perhaps early snows were a common sign here and not something to be particularly worried about. Shoulders shivering ominously, she wraps her shawl around them like a scarf, hair neatly tucked within its folds. With thoughts of the coming harvest, and the dangers the farmers may face due to the dropping temperatures, she scales the alley. She looks once at the Old Maid¡¯s apartment window and is unsurprised to find them closed. It was well known around town that Miss Mirah would leave to visit her distant cousins every so often, her date of return unknown. Continuing her way to the town square, she hears the tapping of her boots against the cobblestones. The movement of the crowd is constant, people exiting carriages and entering shops, delivery men unloading boxes and owners carrying those same boxes inside, horses shaking their manes and tails as dogs bark playfully at nearby children. The hecticness of it all was only heightened by the banging of metal and flying of orange-red sparks overhead. Clang! The imposing structure looms over its patrons like a warning, opaque wood made darker by the constant burning of a savage fire. This same fire welcomes her into the Forge, leaving a sweaty forehead and toasted cheeks in its wake. Flames a bright white, she instantly spots the Blacksmith as she stands by his anvil, hammer in hand, speaking to his assistant. Words are muted by the roar of the hearth but she can''t help but wonder at the sound of his voice. Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work! Clang! One hand loosening the shawl around her neck, the other places the basket over the large wooden table, she waits for the apprentice to notice her. Looking around, she realizes that the space around her seemed tidier, piles of metal and rust moved somewhere else. The lack of clutter makes the space look bigger, the shadows longer. She feels a tap on her shoulder. Clang! Her head whips around at lightning speed, only to find the assistant and her fourteen Krounen standing by the basket. She smiles apologetically and moves forward, taking out the many parcels of meat pies and a little balm of thyme and crushed pot marigold for their burns. He thanks her with a quick bow and hands over the Krounen, coins shimmering with every breath from the hearth. Clang! Having delivered the goods and received her payments, she parts with the apprentice, stealing a glance at the large figure at the center of the Forge before turning away and exiting his domain. She sidesteps a customer and his ailing horse, the apprentices¡¯ pick working away at the animal¡¯s hooves. Clang! Bringing her basket closer and away from an incoming carriage, she brings one foot in front of the other, Qadahl Road her next destination. The grime and restlessness of the town square slowly dissipates, like dirt washed away by lather. The cobblestones polished, the hedges clipped to perfection, and every gate and door brightly painted, Qadahl Road beckoned all but welcomed none. Her brown boots looking even more bedraggled against the scrubbed sidewalk, she nears the black fence and swings open the narrow doors that lead to the downstairs kitchen. The steps, made of old stone, are lined on each side by rust-colored creepers, and end by the side entrance of a large kitchen. Stoves and kitchen counter to her right, staircase and adjacent rooms to the left. In the far back she can see a few tables where some of the maidservants are sitting, chatting as they sew. The cook barks an order and her attention returns to her final customer. She places the parcel containing her famous strawberry tart on the table and receives her payment from the mousy helper, tufts of straw-like hair escaping the edges of her cap. Pocketing the last of the day''s Krounen, she expresses her gratitude to the girl, who looks at the cook for approval before returning a weak smile and scurrying away. ¡°Ever the optimist, my friend.¡± Her polite grin becomes a smile as she turns to greet Ketevan. He responds to her smile with a sly one of his own, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Slicker than the Blacksmith but with an equally imposing presence, all eyes continually shift in his direction, hanging on to his every move. There was an entrancing grace to his manners, a charm so naturally his own no one could quite imitate it, his was an existence around which the world accommodated itself. She could see this happening now, in the microcosm that was this grand kitchen. And as the sun shone down this attention upon her, she wondered at his being one of them at all. ¡°You owe me money,¡± she says, looking inside the basket to escape being blinded, she focuses on producing the jar of orange and mint jam she had prepared for him. She does not sense his nearness, does not hear him step closer to her. ¡°You¡¯re no fun.¡± His lips next to her ear, she flinches, jar dropping and smashing against the floor. ¡°Oh, fuck.¡± She hears herself whisper, her body moving on its own. Ears ringing at an unbearably high pitch she lowers, trying her best to contain the mess of shards and viscous material before the cook takes notice. In her frantic need to make things right, a small shard slices her thumb and she hisses. ¡°Wait, allow me to¨C¡± Slender fingers grab on to her wrist, bringing her to a full stop. It is Ketevan, kneeling beside her. Her body recoils, snatching her hand away from his grasp, away from Ketevan and the mess she has made. All she can hear is her heartbeat, chest rising and falling desperately. She holds her wrist as if scalded, smearing it with bits of mint in the process. And for a second they lay there, suspended, looking at each other, the voices of those around them an echo. She can see he is startled, eyebrows rising and eyes widening. He is holding a kitchen rag in one hand, the other still outstretched towards her. Her gaze moves to his extended fingers and she watches in stupor as he curls them inwardly, closing them into a loose fist. She opens her mouth to say something, but no sound comes out, instead she shakes her head. Scrambling to her feet, she bows her head remorsefully before she mumbles her apologies, grabbing the cloth from Ketevan¡¯s hand. She cleans the mess haphazardly, placing the now sticky fabric onto the counter. She sets one Krounen on the wooden surface. ¡°For the cloth.¡± Unwilling to meet his eyes, she takes hold of her basket and turns to leave. Climbing up the stairs quickly, she barely registers the creak of the black fence as it shuts behind her. Rubbing the blood and the jam on her skirt, she begins her descent to the main road, her jumbled thoughts racing. ¡°Farewell, miss!¡± A sweet voice calls after her and her legs pause, slowing down first and then stopping completely. Hands still grabbing onto her skirts and face flushed with embarrassment she looks back at Alma, who is standing by her carriage, rabbit in hand. The heiress waves her unoccupied hand at her and, still in a daze, she waves back. ¡°Oh,¡± she says, her perfect mouth puckering slightly, her surreal, green eyes studying her face. ¡°What ever is the matter?¡± Thinking Alma means her blushing cheeks and stained attire, she looks down at her garments sheepishly. ¡°I had an accident when delivering your parcel, miss.¡± ¡°No.¡± Alma shakes her head stubbornly and stares at her for a second or two. The heiress then raises one hand, delicate like the finest porcelain, and grabs her own cheeks, nails squeezing against her perfect skin. Her own trembling hand mirrors Alma¡¯s eerie gesture and she feels sticky fingers touch her face. ¡°I have to go,¡± she whispers, more to herself than Alma. A voice from within the carriage calls out, and Alma looks back. Taking this opportunity to escape, she walks away, unnerved by the strange encounter with the young woman. She cleans her hands thoroughly and runs her hands down her cheek again. When she stops by a nearby display to study her reflection, everything seems in order. Her eyes are a bit wild, perhaps. After releasing an exasperated sigh, she continues her way down to the market, her heartbeat struggling to return to normalcy. ¡°Why, I¡¯ll say. I haven¡¯t seen you around these parts in ages.¡± The woman before her hoists the crate of leafy vegetables against her hip with one hand while the other pulls back her hair and rests it upon her shoulder. ¡°I was wondering where you¡¯d been!¡± ¡°Oh, just, around,¡± she replies distractedly, looking at the newer finds, brought over by travelers. She can hear the woman shifting her usual satchel forward, the bulky contents landing with a thud in front of her. ¡°Here. A little extra. As always.¡± ¡°Thank you, m¨¦man.¡± She hands over the six Krounen owed and loops the end of the satchel around her wrist, her shoulder giving in slightly. The woman moves to return the two Krounen she overpaid but she refuses. ¡°I shall see you tomorrow, yes?¡± She nods in answer as she tightens her grip around the satchel, bowing in parting as she makes her way towards the three arches. Once she is back on the main road and on her way home, she takes a left, entering the narrow path into the pine trees. Peaking at the nearby meadow through the trees, she feels her soul lift with every step. The same purple flowers greet her, their color richer, their stems stronger. The thrifting clouds above cause patches of shadow to sweep over the meadow, giving the space a sense of mobility, of life. Taking a moment to breathe in the brightness before her, she soon moves to leave. ¡°Venandi.¡± And it is as if lightning has hit and spread through her mind and heart and for a fraction of a second she remembers, and she feels her soul grapple another with the desperation of a mad man and a loud gasp exits her lips. When she feels it slip, she runs. She runs, faster than she has ever run, branches and leaves slicing through her skin, basket and satchel long forgotten. Somewhere along the way her shawl gets caught, almost choking her, but she breaks free, nearing the cabin with every stride. She opens the back door with all of her mustered strength and stumbles inward, tripping over mislaid carpets. She grabs hold of the nearest quill and scrap of paper and writes down the name Venandi over and over again until there is no more room, whispering it feverishly with every curve of the letter V. Folding it rapidly, she searches for some place to store the note and finds a large jar of sugar in a corner of the kitchen counter. She grabs hold of the heavy container and raises it. A scrap of paper drops silently onto the counter, having been stuck beneath the jar for some time. She pauses, placing the newly scribbled note to one side and opening the one before her slowly, so as not to tear the paper. When she finally reveals its contents, her lower lip trembles slightly. The note is bare. Chapter Fifteen Snow. Light and pure, floats and flutters through the air, drifting aimlessly, burying everything. The tall trees are bare, their bark, black as night, contrasting starkly with the white heavens. Snowflakes blanket the forest ground, the ice shimmering like diamonds against the pale light. A sharp winter breeze whistles through the bushes, white specks flurrying in its wake. The snow is relentless, falling over her lap, her folded hands, her arms, her shoulders. It drapes the chairs laid neatly around her, the floral arrangements, the aisle leading towards the center of the open meadow, the marble podium surrounded by blood-red roses. It falls over the closed casket. She inhales slowly, the frigid air burning her lungs, and when she exhales, it comes out as a gauzy cloud, like smoke. Her hands are covered in flimsy gloves made of delicate black lace, and she feels the weight of a gold ring sitting perfectly on her finger, its opal shimmering silver. Above her head sits a traditional Vistelian mourning veil, its web-like shroud falling over her face and stopping just below her neck, the top adorned in a gold brocade and teardrop pearls. The back of the veil falls beyond her back, draping her frame, almost invisible against her uniformly black dress. There is no sound. There are no voices. No pain. Just peace in the wintriness, so overpowering she feels the burden of it settle on her shoulders. She takes it all in, and as her lungs expand once more, the smell of wet earth invades her, and she is running through the Sine Woods, her feet bare and her hair flowing. Her power still hers. It is so intoxicating, she takes another long breath, and this time, beyond the smell of snow and frozen forest, she gets a hint of something else, like sweet smoke. She vaguely recognizes it. White Sage and Dragon¡¯s Blood. Her ears shift at the creaking sound of settling wood as someone sits down on the chair beside her, the scent of Silvani incense both overpowering and familiar. ¡°How interesting,¡± the hoary voice says next to her. An old, mournful smirk plays on her lips before replying. ¡°You came.¡± Both figures sit in the silence of the desolate requiem, both looking onward. ¡°Who are we mourning?¡± ¡°I do not know,¡± She replies, turning her head, the pearls in her headdress swinging elegantly, her long neck stretching as she surveys the empty chairs around her, devoid of mourners. Her gaze returns to the draped casket. She watches as the snow lands over its smooth dome, forming small mounds that drop silently onto the ground. ¡°A Vistelian funeral,¡± the strange voice continues, amused at the arrangement. ¡°Never a lover of the burning barges and the flaming arrows,¡± she replies, a soft chuckle interlaced with her words. ¡°No,¡± the voice says contemplatively. ¡°You wouldn¡¯t be.¡± The casket is sealed shut. The garlands that decorate it, row upon row of delicately woven lilies and chrysanthemums, meant it was to remain closed. Never to be disturbed. There is an outline of a seal at the podium¡¯s center, but the frost makes it impossible for them to read from where they sit, and neither can be bothered to stand. The question resonates once again against her ribcage. Who are we mourning? ¡°Why are we mourning?¡± Her voice comes out in a powerful whisper, and with the veil rustling close to her ears and the lack of an immediate answer from her newly-arrived companion, she questions if she spoke at all. She cannot remember moving her lips. ¡°Love,¡± is the voice¡¯s simple answer. If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it. ¡°There is no love here.¡± ¡°You always had such an aversion to love,¡± the voice begins before taking a shuddering breath followed by a muted cough. ¡°It is no surprise you cannot recognize it now.¡± It is then that her eyes travel to the person beside her and sitting there, her face riddled with tribal markings, her white hair cascading down her back and fanning around her, is Gr¨®dur Un. There are silver beads on her thin braids, which match the thick, silver necklace that hangs proudly around her neck, a symbol of her status as the tribe matriarch. Her frail fingers have the faint etchings of her ceremonial tattoos, her hands placed neatly over her knees, covered in a thin layer of snow. Her staff is located to her right, resting against the chair, and she can just about make the many symbols carved on the fine wood. Dried blood gave the staff its distinct color. She is wearing the same dark, evergreen gown she wore when they first met, but it seems to have taken a new shine. During their first encounter, Grod¨²r Un¡¯s eyes had been shut tight, thin skin folded beneath her brow, evidence of her old age. She had been, however, still as perceptive then as she was when she first became the leader of the Silvani. Her ability to see merely lay elsewhere. But now, there are no folds, no touching of faces, no barrier between her and that vast expanse of energy. Her eyes, a rich, warm brown like dried cinnamon, framed by delicate white eyelashes, were wide open. And they were looking right at her. When she speaks, her lips do not move. Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s voice, robust like a gust of strong wind, comes from nowhere and everywhere at once. She can hear it echo around and inside her and feels it settle somewhere deep within her. ¡°Why are you here?¡± ¡°I am dying,¡± she responds simply. This is followed by a long silence. ¡°Then, why are you here,¡± Gr¨®dur Un says finally, more a statement than a question, her voice devoid of emotion. With her head, she gestures at the casket. ¡°And not there.¡± ¡°Because the gods have a twisted sense of humor.¡± ¡°You don¡¯t believe in the gods.¡± ¡°True,¡± her smirk grows into a full-on smile, her white teeth peaking through the intricate lace. ¡°But they do not need to know that.¡± She hears Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s soft guffaw and, still smiling, turns to look at the great witch sitting beside her, an odd understanding settling between them. There is no pain in Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s eyes, no hatred, no enmity. But she could sense her grief in the depth of lines around her mouth, by the way her hands grasped at her knees and did not clatter about as they used to, by the way the sides of hers tipped slightly downward, giving her an air of perpetual heartbreak. She quickly looks away. But Gr¨®dur Un was never one for the weak-willed. ¡°Look at me.¡± It takes her a second, but she finally obeys, and when their eyes meet again, Gr¨®dur Un takes the staff in her hands and places it above her lap. ¡°What you seek,¡± Gr¨®dur Un continues. ¡°I will not give.¡± ¡°Gr¨®dur Un, I¨C.¡± ¡°That is my punishment to you,¡± Gr¨®dur Un says, and her words are final. ¡°For her.¡± Clang! ¡°Gr¨®dur Un,¡± she hears the desperation slip into her voice. Her chest feels as if it will burst open, and she bites her lips as she remembers the darkness of the dungeons and the smell of her own waste and the death of all who knew her and the feel of her blood running down her arms and the strike of the guard splitting her lip and the clasp of the chains and the stripping of her power. ¡°Please.¡± Clang! ¡°One thing is for certain.¡± Gr¨®dur Un¡¯s mouth is set in a grim line. Her gaze travels over the meadow and pierces through the woods. ¡°You can no longer remain here.¡± Gr¨®dur Un then grabs the staff next to her, her many bracelets jangling as she places the long wooden object between them. With her hand still gripping the staff by the middle, Gr¨®dur Un looks at her once more, and her gaze holds the power of lightning and thunder. The trees ruffle in response to a sudden storm and a frenzied gale circles the meadow with a blood-curdling howl, the white dust like ghosts gnashing at the sides of a dream. Her veil parts violently from her headdress, giving life to the desperate wind in the form of a black specter. Aware of the suffocating presence of doom just beyond the line of trees, the women do not look away from each other. ¡°I am not your savior,¡± she finally snaps back at the elder, and she feels her desperation giving away to anger, her eyes shining with unshed tears. ¡°Always so full of yourself,¡± Gr¨®dur Un answers with a soft tone acquired after years of mothering, her head bowing slightly, her lips turning slightly upward. ¡°And if we were ever in need of one, you would certainly not be it.¡± Clang! ¡°But you are Venandi,¡± Gr¨®dur Un releases her grip. Beneath the shadow of the weathered thumb, she can see two deep etches connecting to form a V. A streak of old blood lies gruesomely above it, darker where it pooled within the crevices. ¡°And you made us a promise.¡±