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 – 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 – 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.
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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 – 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.
Gródur 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.
“Méman?” 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 Gródur 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– 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 Gródur Un’s own, her palms free of calluses and deep scars.
“Where is Gródur 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–,” 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 Gródur 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 Gródur 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.