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–.” 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–”
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–,” 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.
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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–”
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– 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.