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 – 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.
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“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–”
“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–,” 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 – 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.