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 – 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–,” 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–” 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.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
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–”
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, méman.”
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.