Steam rises, flowing and whirling up and away from her.

Her toast, buttered and jammed, sits untouched on the simple porcelain plate, in stark contrast to the intricate metal design of the table top beneath. She runs an ink-stained finger along the edge of the sliced bread before bringing it to her lips, tasting the sweet saltiness on her tongue. She follows by picking up the delicate teacup, feeling the porcelain warm her lips, its liquid contents hot and fragrant. She swirls it around slightly, watching the tea darken as it twirls, and then proceeds to drink it in three, steady gulps.

Setting the teacup on the table, she grabs the handle haphazardly with her index finger, tipping the cup in her direction. She waits for the black leaves to trickle down the edge and settle at the bottom before studying them. When her eyes pore over every possible arrangement of the leftovers, her inquiry is met with disappointment – the leaves in disarray, no recognizable omen making itself known.

She sighs, unsure of what she expected to find. An answer to how odd she had been feeling these last few days, perhaps. A reason for why events that appeared to be seemingly normal to others rang strange to her ears, like she was singing along to a lively tavern song but her tune never quite matched that of those around her.

Something is off, and she fears it is her.

She stands, dumping the leaves onto the grass nearby and taking her fresh slice of bread with her. When she enters the kitchen, she leaves the plate next to the basin in the hopes that her appetite will return later. Her eye catches the thin note paper she stuffed underneath the jar of sugar the day before, finding reassurance in knowing that at least the name of the wise woman was still within her grasp.

As she steps outside, basket in one hand and shawl neatly wrapped around her shoulders, she is once again accosted by the pungent smell that now circles her house like miasma. She walks the length of her wooden porch, searching beneath its steps for any trace of animal remains but finds nothing. She figures the cabin might be due for a good cleaning, the stench being caused by general untidiness, rather than a specific blight.

She promises herself that she will freshen up the place soon and hopefully clear up the issue of the foul odor.

She begins her routine anew, marching onto the main road and mingling immediately with the usual crowd. Her gaze travels the length of the caravan, searching for Bast but can’t make him out amongst the carts and the horses.

She figures that the bearded man had only been away for two days, which wouldn’t be considered much of a journey by any standard. No self-respecting merchant would leave a comfortable station with regular customers to return empty handed. So, while she did not lay aside the possibility that she would hear him call after her today, she held no expectation that he would, in fact, be present at the market.

Thus, she is no victim of disappointment when she walks by the empty lot, no shining jewelry or heavy, velvet mantel to be seen. Too soon for other merchants to step in and claim the coveted spot for themselves, it remained unmanned. It would only be a matter of time before they did, however, and it all depended on how long Bast intended to stay away.

And how much they were willing to pay him for it, she thinks as she strolls past, knowing the Merchant would surely drive a hard bargain.

The ring of the bell signals her arrival as she steps inside the Apothecary’s domain, with its strong smells and even stronger disdain – for her, it would seem. She watches as he attends his morning regular with the utmost politeness, folding their parcel with care, no scowl anywhere near his thin lips. Although there were no words exchanged between the two, they got along with their business effortlessly, the patron taking hold of his package and the Apothecary pocketing his shiny Krounen.

“Good morning,” she nods quietly at the customer as he turns to leave but receives no response as he exits the shop, the door closing with a resounding thud. She stares at his figure as it walks away, hearing as Mr. Tarpeius leaves the counter to become busy elsewhere. It should not surprise her that someone who seemed to have at least a cordial relationship with the Apothecary would be equally acerbic.

Placing her basket on the thick glass and taking out the baked goods, she counts the four parcels under her breath, trying her best to ignore the looming jar of eyes above her. Time seems to slow down mercilessly as she waits for the Apothecary to return, never having yearned to see him until that exact moment.

But annoyed by her own uneasiness and not one to dwell in discomfort, she takes a deep breath, and stares back, expecting to find an unwelcome presence gaping at her. Instead, she is met with its usual contents, the pale eyeballs stacked neatly in place and, most importantly of all, unmoving. She breathes out in relief and scoffs quietly at her childishness, knowing her distraction and tiredness had led to her feeling disoriented yesterday.

Squashing the memory of the pitch black pupils from her mind, she greets Mr. Tarpeius with a little more enthusiasm than usual and her good wishes are once again received with icy detachment. She follows the old man as he sniffs and prods and pokes about her parcels and she is curious as to whether they would ever move past this ritual of distrust.

She pockets the five Krounen all the same and expresses her gratitude. As he clicks his tongue at her, she glances at the jar one last time and finds its contents exactly as they were before, finally laying all her fears to rest.

“Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.”

“No need for excuses, Mr. Tarpeius,” she replies to his remark with a smirk as she steps out, silver bell dangling above. “You know where to find me.”

She stops to peer at the Apothecary through the window display, his neck a bright pink. Her smirk transforms into a smile, her mood much improved.

Pushed forward by the cold wind, turned icier with the passing of the days, she hurries up the Old Maid’s alley, immediately grateful to be out of the gale’s path. Dodging the messenger boy as he runs past her, she watches the men roll the barrels of ale against the mud, the Alba Custodia their final destination.

The old tavern stood solidly amongst the other buildings, its design old and plain, the only indication of it being a regular meeting place for locals after a long day at work being the hand painted lettering displayed proudly on both faces of the tavern. The yellow glass windows, made murky from years of burnt tallow candles, hid its many patrons from view. For those who wished to drink outside, planks and barrels had been roughly put together to resemble chairs and tables. The smell of stale malt and pork hung in the air like the small, makeshift flags placed all around the establishment.

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In all the years she had lived in the outskirts of the village, she had never once entered the place, and she found herself curious as to why. The tavern was not particularly inviting to her, but it was a rite of passage of sorts and she wonders if perhaps it was time to take up Ketevan’s offer.

The thought of his smug grin at knowing he had finally convinced her to join is enough to put her off the idea entirely.

“Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?”

She starts, her head swiveling to find Miss Mirah standing directly in front of her.

“Oh, excuse me, Miss Mirah,” she struggles to blurt out, taking a step back, her tone apologetic. “I was distracted by the, uhm–”

Pointing vaguely at the tavern besides them, she cuts her sentence short, realizing that the Old Maid was otherwise engaged, glaring at the usual passerbys.

“These outsiders, I tell you,” the Old Maid begins, her eyes following the strangers heading towards the market place, more to herself than anyone. Allowing Miss Mirah to continue her daily tirade, she pulls her second order out of her basket, handing it over. She obediently accepts her handkerchief blessing under the whispering of nothing like them, nothing like them and receives her payment.

“May you have the best of mornings, Miss Mirah,” she bids the Old Maid goodbye with a deep courtesy, thanking her for her patronage. She stays for a while longer to make sure the gentlewoman completes her journey up the stairs safely before she moves along.

Entering the town square, she knows straight away the Forge is closed, the absence of the booming, metallic clang of the Blacksmith deafening. When she finally stands before the imposing structure, she finds the door shut and locked, windows closed tight, and no signs of life coming from within. She searches for the note she had left the day before but finds it gone.

A wave of exasperation washes over her.

Peeking down at the heavy basket perched on the crook of her elbow, she decides then and there. She would not continue to waste money and time making what was her largest batch of pasties for a patron who had chosen to close up shop without even deigning to sever their agreement in person. She would not bake for the Blacksmith again until she knew for sure that he, and his apparently ever hungry staff, would be present and willing to pay for it.

Nodding her head decidedly and resting the basket on her hip with determination, she forges ahead towards shiny Qadahl Road.

She unloads her meat pasties and one strawberry tart onto a grumbling chef, Ketevan watching the interaction with amusement, his eyes twinkling with mischief. Once she puts away the twelve Krounen owed, she hands over her due – a raspberry and rosemary mix. He twirls the jar around playfully and follows her out, dispensing his usual invitation and sage advice regarding her social life. She can feel his gaze on her as she climbs up the stairs and closes the black gate behind her.

Once she concludes her silent conversation with Alma, the pet rabbit sleeping blissfully in her arms, she watches the carriage whisk her and her family away and into town, its slim wheels bobbing over the perfectly laid cobblestones. She stands there for a moment, staring at the houses in the famously affluent neighborhood and wonders what it would be like to be born into a life of comfort and ease. Even the sun seemed to shine differently for the wealthy, lighting everything just right, never glaring. Plants bloomed when they had to and how they needed to, the smell of dung notably absent.

But as her gaze washes over the trimmed hedges and the immaculate flower beds, she finds herself preferring the messiness of her wild garden. There was a freedom in her chaos that she craved and knew she would not find it here.

However, a few extra Krounen would not hurt, she muses as she finally makes her way back to the morning market, on to her last stop.

The crowds part as she places the basket between her and them, apologizing to anyone who would listen but not slowing down all the same. As soon as she exits the thick of it, she walks towards the wise woman’s stall and catches the stranger already hard at work, smiling and conversing with an interested villager. She seems to be convincing him to purchase some of the rarer finds, listing their qualities, when she catches her eye.

The woman’s smile widens as she beckons her forward, walking towards the other side of the stall to fetch what she assumes is her satchel. The customer before her moves to one side, allowing her to step forward and take hold of the bag.

“I gave you a little extra,” she says conspiratorially, lowering her voice so the customer next to them cannot overhear. “For such a hard worker.”

“I thank you,” she replies gradually, trying and failing to keep the suspicion from lacing her voice. “How much would it all be?”

“The usual.” The strange woman looks at her curiously and angles her head slightly in that way she loathes. “Ten Krounen.”

It takes everything within her to not narrow her eyes, instead smiling understandingly and handing over the ten Krounen. It hurt her to part with such a large sum but she was suddenly unwilling to humor the unknown person before her.

“Oh,” the stranger says amicably, “You have overpaid, child. Here.”

Doing her best to not grind her teeth, she stretches her palm but stops halfway, noticing that the stranger’s hands are now lined with faint tattoos.

Impulsively, she leans forward to take a closer look. Her memory attempts to recreate their previous interaction, but cannot for the life of her remember the stranger having had these markings etched on her hands. The tattoos were similar to those of the wise woman, their blue ink already fading, branching every which way, written in a language she could not understand and ending just below the wrists.

But even now, as the stranger drops the golden coins onto her extended hand, the design seems foreign on her skin – similar, but not the same.

She looks down at her open palm and stares at the four rising suns for a few seconds longer than she intended. When she looks up, the strange woman is already redirecting her attention back to her initial customer.

“May you have the best of evenings,” she whispers under her breath, the engraved gold biting against her palms as her fingers close around them.

The stranger smiles back at her in parting and she is caught off guard, sure that her voice had not traveled far enough for the woman to hear. She pours the money into her coin purse quickly and walks away from the wise woman’s stall, the whole encounter already bringing about a throbbing pain above her temples. Immersed in a flurry of thoughts, she barely acknowledges the satchel slamming against her side with every stomp.

As she exits the village, a sudden call resonates around her and she stops, the bag swinging forward and landing with a thump against her knees. Pushing the satchel to the side, she moves to continue her path home when she hears it again, this time clearly, somewhere over her head. When she gazes upward, she realizes that she is standing just below the three arches, their towering presence in contrast with the homely architecture of the village, their white hue standing out against the greenery surrounding them.

The wispy fluttering of wings echoes above, followed by three, distinct croaks.

Her eyes struggle to make out the animal perched expectantly atop the first arch, the black figure hard to distinguish against the darkness of the tall trees beyond. When her eyes finally adjust, that now familiar feeling of being watched overwhelms her, constricting her chest in warning.

Head cocked. Long, prismatic feathers neatly tucked. Beady eyes staring openly down at her.

A black raven.