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.
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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 – 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–”
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 –” 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.