The cup and the saucer rattle against the solid surface of the kitchen counter.

She outstretches her hand and her fingers wrap absentmindedly around the handle of the sated basket, the grasp worn and made smooth from years of use. Making sure the sides are secured, she flings the shawl over it and wraps a loose knot with its frayed ends. Her hands flatten the fabric, her fingers feeling the bumpy contours of the lid’s woven pattern. As she breathes in, the smell of the neatly tucked pastries rises and she sighs with satisfaction, ignoring the underlying presence of putrefaction that lingers around the house now.

The weight of the basket pulls her shoulder down but she quickly straightens her frame, widening her stance to better carry its burden. The floorboards underneath her feet creak as she steps over the old rugs to reach the entrance and her eyes find themselves beyond the stains of the small mirror, perched at an odd angle by the door. In the darkness of the cabin, her eyes appear to her the darkest of browns, almost black. Shadows underneath her cheekbones give her face a cruel demeanor, her skin opaque. Raising a hand to touch the wild tendrils that fall past her neck and down her back, her hair feels rough and frail, her fingernails thin and malnourished.

Fear creeps up her throat as that same hand glides towards the iron handle, seeking clarity and escape. The sliver of yellow light widens as she pulls it open slowly, the sun flooding into the space around her. The sense of sudden angst dissipates with the shadows as they are replaced by a lovely complexion tinted slightly pink in all the right places. The radiant shine returns to her curls, which bounce with her every slight movement. And when her eyes catch a wandering beam, they light up in glorious gold.

Her lips quiver involuntarily and her fingers rise to stop them.

Like a book slammed shut, she closes the door behind her with a determined thud, leaving the darkness behind. She takes unsteady breath after unsteady breath until she reaches the end of her garden path, and looking back at the stone cabin, with its single trail of chimney smoke, vibrant moss, and beautiful array of flowers, her stomach drops in a way she has no time to understand. She walks away, the sharp rocks from the stony path to the main road made evident underneath the thin leather of her boots.

Using her vigorous morning trek to force and leave all heaviness to be dealt with at a later time, she makes it all the way to the three arches and they are free of flying vermin. She does not stay long, mindful of any villagers who might have seen her sudden outburst yesterday and thought it strange. Instead, she advances through the burgeoning multitude comfortably, already tracing a straight path to the Apothecary’s shop. Her mind barely registers the absence of the merchant as she walks by his vacant spot.

She slows down her march after she realizes the black-donning patron is moving about inside, his gestures in tune with those of Mr. Tarpeius, their early exchange unperturbed. The bell rings, signaling his parting, and she steps into the Apothecary’s domain, the man already hidden somewhere behind swinging doors. They do eventually open, and she is once again in the throes of his irrational whim, evading and rebutting all accusations related to misplaced olives.

“Well, it smells like olives.”

“I shall slice one open for you, then.”

The Apothecary rolls his eyes at this as he pushes the parcels away from her grasp. She stretches out her palm to receive her precious golden coins triumphantly.

“That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.”

She watches as he disappears beneath the counter and reappears with her money, his sullen expression still neatly in place. Paying it no mind, she quickly grabs her belongings, throwing the shall over the basket and moving to leave the shop.

“I, once again, thank you for your patron—.”

Hard and fast, something smashes against the door outside, causing the frame to rattle violently. The force of it startles them, and both Mr. Tarpeius’s glasses and her coins land on the ground, adding to the commotion. Their eyes wide as saucers, they look at each other for a brief moment before returning their attention to the street outside.

She moves quickly towards the display window, hoping to spot whomever is responsible, and she catches the tail end of a massive black bird of blue-black plumage.

“It seems to have been a bird,” she finally says, her voice surprisingly steady. Looking back at the Apothecary, she realizes that he remains rattled. Quickly, she returns to pick up his glasses, placing them next to his closed fist. She then bends and collects her coins, scattered all over the impeccable floor, and returns them to her pouch.

“Here,” she continues as she stands up. Mr. Tarpeius looks at her but his eyes remain unfocused. When he finally opens his palm, she delivers the bell’s clapper, which had detached and rolled her way after the impact. “The bell is broken.”

She moves towards the entrance again, opening the door several times, the bell thumping against its frame with a dull, metallic clump. Opening it wide, she examines the glass, running a hand over it, but finds nothing shattered or splintered. She looks around for a dead animal, but her search is futile. There are no feathers. There is no blood.

Once she is satisfied, she steps back inside to retrieve her belongings.

“Just the bell,” she tells him reassuringly and watches as the Apothecary places his glasses back atop his nose with shaky hands. “No damage to the door itself.”

Unsure if he has understood her meaning, she stares at him and she sees as his eyes lift to the clouds outside and, for a fraction of a second, a look of deep confusion tortures his face.

“Mr. Tarpeius,” she says, instinctively grabbing his hand, his skin leathery and thin. Their eyes lock and she grins worriedly. “It was but a raven.”

His attention suddenly snaps back to her and, just as quickly, he removes his hand from underneath hers. She steps back, basket hitting her side.

“Not a single olive,” he demands abruptly, but his voice sounds almost subdued. Understanding him to be startled still, and perhaps embarrassed, she finishes his sentence for him.

“Or I will be hearing from you, yes, I know.”

He huffs and scoffs as she stalls a few seconds to make sure he is stable before she leaves to continue her route. She sneaks a glance through the window and he waves her away with a sour look on his face. Taking this as a good sign that he is halfway towards recovery, she continues on, highly aware of her surroundings, searching for any sign of unhinged fowl. She turns left at the alley quickly, shawl fluttering in the wind as the frigid gust rushes behind and past her.

She sees the young boy sitting on an empty barrel, his short legs hitting rhythmically against the fading logo of the Alba Custodia stamped on its side. His cap is pulled low so she cannot make out his expression, his attention fixed on some trinket in his hand. She watches as he angles its flat surface and balances it on his index finger, catching it as soon as it topples over.

Mud squishing under her feet, she finally reaches the Old Maid’s doorway and is surprised that the boy yet to notice her presence. She glances at the spiral staircase, wondering if perhaps she should have kept flipping a Krounen his way, and if perhaps this was his way of letting her know. Unsure of how to approach the situation, whether she should call out to him and ask him to fetch her next client or simply trek up the stairs to deliver the goods directly at the Old Maid’s door, she decides to pursue the latter.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Keeping an eye on the slippery floor, the entrance already filthy with debris from outside, she begins her ascent.

The railings are made of a thick, porous metal that scratches at her hands and she is careful not to hold on too tightly, for it has corroded and the gaps are ragged and sharp. The steps are sturdier than they appear, unyielding, lessening her fear of collapse and inescapable injury. There are cobwebs hanging from the grooves and pigeon droppings on the walls, and when she reaches the last of it, there are melted candles, spent and hardened, aligned ceremoniously on every window sill.

“Miss Mirah?” She calls and her voice echoes but there is no response. Having never been inside, she wonders if she’ll be able to locate the Old Maid’s apartments. But her worries are for nought, because there is only one door– and it is open.

“Miss Mirah? I came to deliver your order.”

This is also met with silence so she stops to listen. She waits, in case the Old Maid is in another room and has not heard her, before she calls her name again to no avail. She looks around but the stairs remain empty, their only inhabitants the spiders weaving their intricate homes. The wallpapers that line the hallway have not been tended to in quite some time, their color long since faded. Returning her attention to the apartment before her, she tucks her head in with precaution, but she sees no sign of the noble woman.

“Miss Mirah, I’ve come to deliver your breakfast,” she repeats, placing one foot within the apartment. It smells of all things old and expensive. She takes another step forward. “I’m coming in. I only wish to make sure that all is well.”

Dust lifts as soon as she steps over the entrance rug, the furniture around her lined with a thick layer of grime. She walks by closed doors she assumes lead to other rooms, her sights set on the receiving area in front of her. It strikes her, once she reaches the end of the apartment’s hallway, that if the Old Maid were to return, she would find herself in a compromising position, standing in the middle of her dwelling with no real reason for being there.

This gives her pause and she turns, wondering if the best course of action would be to leave Miss Mirah’s order by the door with a note stating she would return to collect her payment later. Deciding over drafting a message to leave with the brooding boy by the entrance, her train of thoughts dies there.

An eerie, red light spills from one the rooms, the door now agape.

“Miss Mirah?” Her voice travels but lands nowhere, the apartment drowning in that deafening silence. Slowly, she moves forth, one boot in front of the other, until she is standing before the door. She raises her hands and they are bathed in the crimson color, her eyes adjusting to the darkness of the room within.

When she finally enters the space before her, she sees a shadowed figure sitting on an ivory chair with a wide back that stretches beyond its head, with beautiful carvings of religious imagery reaching all the way up and ending in a sun of many rays. An identical seat stands beside it. Behind them, a stained glass window composed of thousands of small pieces spans the entire wall, from floor to ceiling, dyeing the room in a kaleidoscopic frenzy. Red is the predominant color.

The space is far larger than she could have ever imagined, the apartment seemingly meager when seen from the alley. She sets her basket to one side and moves further in.

“Miss Mirah?”

Now close enough to identify the Old Maid, she watches as the light stains the noble woman in its bright shadow. Miss Mirah’s eyes stare at something beyond the glass. Her lips are moving but all she can hear are faint whisperings. She leans in to listen.

“C-c-coming,” Miss Mirah finally spits out, the hard sound of the consonant made more pronounced by the shattering of her teeth.

“Miss Mirah?”

“Oh, my sweet,” and now the Old Maid’s voice is breathy. “Are you quite alright?”

“I’m perfectly fine, Miss Mirah,” she says, frowning with concern. “It is you who worries me. Shall I fetch a physician?”

The Old Maid clucks her tongue once.

“These outsiders, I tell you,” she whispers and, as if in a trance, repeats it several times. “These outsiders, I tell you, these outsiders I tell you, theseoutsidersitellyou…”

“You are unwell,” she says and moves to exit the room but cannot, the Old Maid’s hand suddenly latching onto her wrist, her gaunt fingers tightening against her skin. She winces and tries to pull away but the noble woman pulls her in closer, her many jewels shimmering multicolor against the stained glass.

“But you’re nothing like them,” she states somberly, her head turning slowly, their eyes finally meeting.

“I do not know what you mean, Miss Mirah,” she says, struggling in vain against her grasp. “Please, allow me to fetch you some help.”

Miss Mirah shakes her head, her headdress shaking with her, and her lips part to reveal an ugly smile. She releases her wrist but not before she grabs her hand tenderly, patting it as if it were an old grandmother to a child. “No. Nothing like them.”

The Old Maid’s attention returns to the stained glass, her eyes growing vacant again.

Stunned, she takes a step away from Miss Mirah, bumping into a small table set between the two chairs and the loud screech startles her. Miss Mirah’s neck turns, and her face is as shocked as she can only imagine her own to be.

“Oh, my sweet,” her smile is now a confused one. “Are you quite alright?”

She stares at the Old Maid, the fading feel of fingertips on her wrist the only proof of what had just happened between them.

Miss Mirah’s eyes recognize the basket laying next to the door and they light up. She rummages through her skirts and pulls out seven Krounen, their gold surface reflecting the display of colors around it. “Thank you, pet.”

Habitually, she reaches forward to collect the coins, Miss Mirah grinning pleasantly at her. She looks at her due, pushing them around with her thumb before she looks up, moving to ask if there was anything she could do, but the noble woman is already fast asleep, her quiet snores and indication of her exhaustion.

The light coming from the stained glass windows seems to dissipate, and the lines around the Old Maid’s face, which had frightened her at first, soften. She takes a moment to even her breaths and looks around, noticing that the room is scantily furnished and, under further scrutiny, not as terrifying as it had appeared when she first walked in. Heading towards the exit to retrieve her basket, she walks back and places the Old Maid’s order on the table she had knocked over before, making sure as to not wake the sleeping lady.

Tiptoeing her way out of the room, she reaches the entrance quickly, closing the apartment behind her and steadily descending the vertiginous staircase. When she finally makes it to the alley, she feels her knees buckle beneath her and her hand grabs the nearest barrel to steady herself.

Nothing like them.

The words bounce around in her head as her heart struggles to slow down to a normal pace. She feels a presence to her left and realizes that the child is sitting on one of the barrels still, completely unaware of her behavior, playing with what she now realizes is a single Krounen. She watches as he repeats the same motion over and over again, tipping and catching it in mid-air.

Without a second thought, she marches towards him. Snatching the Krounen in mid-air, she speaks to the boy for the first time ever. “I need you to look after Miss Mirah for me.”

The boy blinks at her and then at her hand, which now holds three golden coins. He nods once.

She continues, as she gives him the Krounen, tapping his cap upward with her finger so he can meet her eyes. “I will know if you do not.”

He stares at his open palm for a few seconds before closing his fist tightly around them. Startling her, he jumps off the barrel and takes off, taking a left at the end of the small, side street.

Holding in a few choice words for the child, she looks up at one of the windows of Miss Mirah’s apartment and wonders if she should be doing more for the noble woman. While she suspected that the Old Maid did not possess the riches that befitted her title, she had not expected her living conditions to be so significantly deteriorated.

And as she continues her deliveries, she ponders over whether there were any existing family members she could reach out to regarding the Old Maid’s health and where she could begin to ask for such information. The more obvious answer to that query would be Ketevan, who seemed to have returned to his usual self when she delivers her strawberry tart to the grand house but decides to ask some other day.

She exits the grand manor without any awkward incidents and moves towards the market to collect her produce, thanking the woman tending the stall for her service. Strolling past the three arches, she searches briefly for missing ravens, lost in the battle against the Apothecary’s door, and finds the same three perched expectantly on every arch, their eyes ever watching.

It must have been a crow, is her only thought as she turns right onto the narrow pathway that leads back home.