Her feet land on the thick rug with a dull thud.
Her curls, long and unkempt, pull and spill over her shoulders, dangling lazily just above her knees. She extends her legs forward, immediately regretting it as the cramp sprawls and spreads up her leg. She bends forward to alleviate the pain but it only makes matters worse, her body fully awake now. Her teeth grind together as she suppresses a yelp, a low hiss escaping her lips instead.
Hitting her thigh lightly with her closed fist, she risks standing up, and while her leg spasms still, she manages to limp about the room and towards the kitchen. By the time the tea’s whistle signals the start of breakfast, she is fully dressed and washed, her toes flexing away the last of the irritating strain. As she gives her leg one last good shake, she remembers vaguely that it was said that cramps heralded the beginning of a harrowing journey, but she dismisses it now as the result of over exerting herself yesterday while sprinting back to her cabin.
Back and away from the stranger manning the wise woman’s stall.
She takes the time to savor her breakfast, breathing in the heady smell of the wilderness. Enjoying the symphony of the bungling bees and the fluttering butterflies, she welcomes the early rays as they kiss her face delicately. The thin porcelain touching her lips, she takes a long sip of her tea. When she sets the teacup back on the table, a wandering bee lands on its edge, wings bursting with flurries of movement. As she watches the little creature fly away, a profound serenity settles deep within her, and she struggles to remember why the last few mornings had become uncommonly hectic for her.
Bones humming with renewed energy, she returns to the cabin, wiping her damp boots against the floorboards before stepping in. She resumes her quotidian dance, going from basket to shawl, from shawl to mirror, and from mirror to door. She sneaks one last glance at her reflection, rosy cheeks beneath warm eyes, and she allows an encouraging smile to bow her lips.
A grimace slowly transforms her face, her nose wrinkling.
There it is again, the rot and decay. Her head swivels, hand on door handle, sniffing as she searches once again for the source of the offending smell but finds nothing. She looks under her boots and into her basket and when she opens the door she stares at the garden in front of her, with its perfect mess of flowers, and wonders if perhaps the earth is far too rich. However, when she walks by their beds, brimming over with bobbing colors, all that her nose can identify is the smell of sweet grass and blooming roses.
She continues to examine the pathway for any signs of discarded waste before she reaches the main road with its farmers and travelers. Her search fruitless, she remembers to nod and swerve and salute her way all the way past the three arches and through the busy market, her mood not quite as affected as it had been the day before. She slows down when she nears Bast’s usual location and while she exhales in mild frustration, there is no real sense of surprise when faced with a vacant space where the Merchant’s table usually stood, its surface fraught with precious jewels – including her coveted ring.
Nonetheless, she reasons, it was not unusual for merchants to move stations or leave for months at a time, selling their wares elsewhere or scouting for new merchandise to woo the locals. So she does not linger, her feet carrying her decidedly up the road and away from yet another probable misunderstanding.
Bast would surely return.
Mist curling at a distance, she reaches the Apothecary’s shop, the silver bell ringing as soon as she swings the door open.
“Good morning, Mr. Tarpeius,” she calls, trying her best to breathe and speak and keep the overpowering smell of brine at bay. Unimpressed by her greeting, the Apothecary spares not even a sideways glare at her, instead resuming the wrapping of his current customer’s package whom she recognizes as the shop’s apparent regular. She positions herself behind him, studying his heavily cloaked figure as he places the packet beneath his arms and tips his cap at Mr. Tarpeius.
He quickly exits the shop, her gaze in tow, his figure disappearing into the mist. When she looks back at the Apothecary, she is met with a set of swinging doors, the moody man nowhere to be seen. With no one to witness her act of insolence, she rolls her eyes as she places the basket on the counter. She proceeds to unpack her first order of the day, the four parcels stacked in a neat tower before her.
As she waits for the Apothecary’s return, she steps away from the counter and finds herself perusing the many odd remedies lined neatly behind the glass. Ground coriander for the treating of high temperatures, wormwood balms for upset stomachs, concentrated liquorice for breathlessness. Oil of mint for the treating of open wounds, she reads silently as she tiptoes slowly down the length of the counter, stopping at the tall bottles of vinegar and clear witch-hazel. Her gaze travels upwards, to the many organs and innards morbidly displayed above, their tissue having turned a pale white with time. The jar of eyes, her least favorite of the Apothecary’s many exhibits, stands proudly between them, the milky orbs stuck together like frog eggs.
She makes a disgusted face as she imagines being touched by their slimy surface.
Looking away momentarily, her concentration broken by loud stomping somewhere within the shop, she looks back to continue her repulsive study and her breath catches in her throat. She steps back abruptly, ignoring the rattling of Mr. Tarpeius’s sign outside, her mind barely registering the persistent noise, her gaze fixed on the jar of eyes above – its contents slithering about, rubbing and sliding against one another.
She rubs her own eyes to discard any trick of the light. When she looks again, the movement has stopped.
A frightened laugh bubbles up inside her as the wooden doors that lead to the back of the shop swing open and in walks the Apothecary.
“Now, how may I–.” She meets his apathetic gaze as if in a trance, not quite registering his presence. “Oh, it’s you.”
She does not respond immediately and he follows her stare to the top of his display, raising one eyebrow in exasperation. Not interested enough to inquire further, he steps forwards and shuffles the boxes around with his boney fingers, shaking one of the boxes against his ears.
“I smell olives.”
“No,” she manages to say, blinking several times and walking forward promptly, her eyes shifting from the jar to the Apothecary and back. “No olives.”
“Well, it smells like olives.”
“Uh,” she vocalizes, her hand wrapping slowly around the handle, its checkered cloth neatly tucked. Shaking her head slightly, she wills herself to be present, adding more strength to her voice. “No olives here, Mr. Tarpeius.”
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If the Apothecary has taken notice of her disgruntled state, he plays the part of not caring about the matter beautifully. He scoffs in her general direction. “I shall be the judge of that.”
“The five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.”
She watches the man kneel before her, unlocking the safe and producing the golden coins. Once she is out of his line of vision, she looks up once more and nothing. She breathes in through her nose and exhales through her mouth, releasing the feeling of apprehension from her shoulders. It had been her tired mind playing tricks on her, that is all.
“May you have the best of mornings,” she says as she takes her leave, sliding the coin purse back to her side, eager to leave the foul smelling shop. Not planning to stay for his usual parting statement, she opens the door, the bell singing loudly above her. Against her better judgment, she spares one last glance at the eyes behind her and her heart stops.
There, amongst the murky eyeballs congealed together, were two eyes staring directly at her.
She gasps.
“Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me,” she hears the Apothecary’s voice as if through a tunnel, the pupils of her spectator dilating until the white flesh turns pitch black and she gets the unshakable feeling that she is truly being watched.
When she blinks, the jar has returned to its usual, grotesque self and she is left standing there, staring at nothing. She knows Mr. Tarpeius is glaring at her, but she has no explanation for her behavior. At least, not one that would make any sense to him.
She steps out of the shop and hears the bell ring again. She walks a few blocks towards the alley before her feet come to a halt.
“The stomping,” she whispers to herself finally, referring to the pounding she heard while she was waiting for Mr. Tarpeius. The vibrations must have loosened the viscous contents within, causing them to move around and swirl every which way.
And somewhere inside lay two eyeballs of a raven black hue that turned and looked at her.
“Not at me,” she says under her breath as she walks past the Alba Custodia and steps onto the street, having delivered the Old Maid her goods. “In my general direction.”
She can’t help but feel ridiculous, and admittedly a tad annoyed, as her mind continues to produce different theories while she enters the town square, going over the incident again and again, every reiteration losing its detail until her memory transforms the matter into a peculiar event, and nothing more. Of course the eyes had not looked at her, she reasons as she pauses by the closed Forge – the eyes belonged to the dead.
A shiver courses down her spine at the thought.
She produces a note she had scribbled hastily before heading out and wedges it in between the Forge’s massive doors, the great structure silent, hoping to hear from her patron soon.
The thought of detached eyeballs follows her as she carries the many meat pasties all the way to Qadahl Road, heaving the basket onto the kitchen table and unloading its heavy burden. She greets Ketevan and ignores the cook when she scowls at her generous delivery as if the contents were actual poison. Handing over the lemon-orange rind jam and walking away with a considerably lighter load, she ducks Ketevan’s advances, pretending to think about accompanying him to the Alba Custodia as she works her way up the stairs and through the gate.
She pauses for a second to watch as the family makes its daily procession down the pearly steps and onto their splendid carriage. Alma’s arms are cradling the same white rabbit tenderly, the creature sleeping safely in their owner’s soft embrace. They exchange their customary glance and nod as they part ways, the heiress heading to the tailors and the jewelers, while she goes on to haggle her way through the market.
The strange woman greets her when she arrives at Gródur Un’s stall.
“The usual?” She asks with a knowing smile, already producing the well-stocked satchel from behind the crates. Remembering the smell of rotting fruit from this morning, she peeks inside but finds only fruits in perfect state, glistening against the high noon sun. She grabs the satchel with one hand and produces the golden coins with the other, paying the stranger six Krounen’s worth. “Thank you for your patronage.”
The stranger’s words fall on deaf ears as she surveys the stall quietly, searching for any indication of the old woman’s presence.
“May I help you with anything else?”
When she looks back at the stranger, her lips part, several questions rush through her mind but she does not allow them to spill out recklessly. If she had learned anything from these past few days, it was that she had to be mindful of how she phrased her queries when speaking to the people of the town. She proceeds carefully.
“Yes,” she finally responds, mirroring the stranger’s smile. “A few days ago, I happened to leave a small jar of brew here. Has it perhaps been found?”
“Oh, I’m afraid not,” the woman replies casually, pretending to look around the stall, as one does when asked about a missing object. “What did it look like?”
“Small,” she opens her fingers to show the stranger the size of the vial. “Of a deep, reddish blue color. And on the side there was a label.”
“I shall keep an eye out for it,” the stranger says helpfully. “What did the label say?”
“It said –.” And she feels the name suddenly slip from her memory, dissolving like sugar in warm water. She frowns in frustration, having thought of it only a few minutes ago. She points vaguely at the stall. Dread makes its steady climb up her neck. “The – The wise woman, the old woman.”
The stranger shakes her head, looking at her curiously. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”
“All of this,” She says with some difficulty, gesturing at everything around them. “It all belonged to her.”
“I should think not,” the stranger says chuckling amicably, mistaking her outburst for a jest. “But I do not know w–.”
“Yes, you do,” she cuts the stranger off before she can help herself, her tone taking on an edge that even she was unfamiliar with.
“Oh,” the woman exclaims, concern lacing her every word. “I seem to have upset you. It was not my inten–.”
“Gródur Un!” She says triumphantly with a snap of her fingers. She repeats it for good measure. “The name I wrote on the label. It was Gródur Un.”
The stranger stares at her for a second before replying, speaking in a careful manner that vexes her to her core. “As I have said before, child, I do not know this person. But rest assured, were I to find the brew, I shall find a way to return it to you.”
She studies the stranger, her bright disposition making her feel almost remorseful for her rudeness.
Almost.
“Please do,” she replies finally, readjusting her hold on the satchel and strengthening her grip on her basket. She bows her head slightly. “May you have the best of evenings.”
She turns, the stranger waving her goodbyes, and marches decidedly away from the stall and straight to her cabin, driven by a sudden sense of self-preservation that pushes her forward, whispering a name underneath her breath. She bypasses all strangers in her way, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and past her neck, the threat of a headache looming.
When she opens the door to her cabin, she tosses her belongings to one side and grabs a loose piece of paper and a quill from one of her many overcrowded desks. She licks the blunt tip hurriedly, procuring a small jar of ink and dipping the end into the container, her lips moving silently like a prayer. She slams the piece of paper onto the kitchen table and scribbles the name several times.
But even as she looks down at her spidery handwriting, she can already feel it slipping through her fingers like sand.
Gródur Un. Gródur Un. Gródur Un. Gródur Un. Gródur Un.