But the tea leaves break, and glide, and pool at the bottom leisurely, forming wings as black as night that stretch and mold against the confines of the delicate cup. She tilts the teacup in her direction, and while the residual tea follows along, the leaves do not, staring up at her in mocking display.
She grabs the teacup and flings its contents onto the grass unceremoniously.
The white garden chair creaks as she lays back, the empty vessel now dangling precariously from her index finger. Her head falls back, neck surrendering against the weight and her eyes close leisurely, lashes fluttering against cheekbones. The light flickers over her eyelids and she welcomes the frail slivers of warmth gladly, her mornings having turned colder with each passing day.
Tendrils of hair tickle her nose and she brushes them aside, tucking the curls behind her ear. She inhales slowly, the aroma of the herb garden reaching her first, followed by the sweetness of the forest flowers. Her nose twitches slightly as the ending note of that ever-present stink of decay arrives. The chirping of the birds grows stronger when she pushes herself forward, the saucer rattling as she places the cup back on the table, the red design reflecting against the white surface, a shade of soft pink.
She places her elbows on the table, her chin finding her hands. The scabs on her skin rub against her face, the tissue still tender. Her teeth grind against each other as she presses her cool fingers against her eyelids, the pressure alleviating the pulsating pain behind them. A desperate groan vibrates from within her chest and up her throat but what escapes her lips is almost a lifeless mewl, akin to the cry of a broken animal.
She sits there, suspended. Her skirt soaking in the last of the dew, a half-eaten toast by her side, the world around her moving along. The presence of the cabin looms behind her, the vastness of the unknown forest before her and, in that moment, she feels as if the gap between them could swallow her whole – hers, a waning existence.
A bee buzzes past her ear and she flinches, her hands freeing her from their wild grasp, her shoulders expanding as she gulps down fresh air. She slaps her cheeks twice and stands quickly, brushing away the crumbs and shaking the teacup one final time for good measure.
“Ridiculous superstition,” she breathes out as she stomps past the garden, fleeing the restlessness that always accompanied those muffled thoughts, seeking to leave all fear behind, buried amongst the rosemary and the thyme.
She enters her cabin with a renewed air of decisiveness, grabbing her shawl and her basket without a second thought. The front door groans with effort as she pulls it open and her footsteps are hollow thumps against the wooden porch. The gravel under her feet shifts as it seeks to escape the thin rubber sole of her worn boots, soon replaced by the packed dirt of the main road. The farmers and the peddlers joke and jibe around her, their voices floating over the din of the long caravan. She nods and bobs her head as she marches alongside them, reaching the three white arches soon enough.
The market and the accompanying liveliness of the fluctuating crowd overwhelms her.
She brings the basket closer to her chest as unknown bodies move from one place to the other and their sense of purpose, which days before had seemed infectious, now annoys her. Struggling past the vendors of meat and spices, she finally arrives at Bast’s table but she does not linger, parting quickly with a kind smile and a shake of the head.
“I’ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word!”
“You do that, Bast,” she replies, her words not quite matching her mood, both of them aware that the transaction would not move past her ardent admiration for his precious ring. Unawares of the turmoil within her, the merchant cackles, his bright voice following her as she continues her route.
The bell sings its customary song as she barges into the Apothecary’s shop, the space devoid of Mr. Tarpeius’s dark patron.
“Now, how may I–. Oh, it’s you.” The Apothecary’s glasses flash as he approaches the counter, his spidery hands wringing as his eyes survey every parcel placed before him. With his thin fingers, he pushes the white boxes around suspiciously, the thread used to tie them together quivering with every push. “I smell–.”
“Olives?” With an exasperated sigh, she grabs one of the meat pasties and slides it towards her, her fingers moving quickly to undo the ribbons placed neatly above them.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?”
“Searching for olives, Mr. Tarpeius.”
A flustered Apothecary jumps forward, grabbing the parcels from under her and pulling them towards his chest and away from her grubby hands. He quickly turns and deposits them on a nearby table, his eyes shifting from his order to her stoic expression.
“That will be five Krounen, Mr. Tarpeius.”
She can see the flush creep upwards and reach his ears, his mouth opening and closing like a shocked fish. He stares at her for a moment, his bulging eyes round with dismay, before he scoffs quietly. Running his hands down the length of his chest, he approaches the counter once more, but slowly, as if he were nearing a wild beast and not a baker half his size. She follows his movements as he bends down and unlocks his safe. He rises, knees creaking, and she braces herself for the tongue lashing of the century but he simply extends his arm.
She leans forward and collects her payment, the palms of her hands glistening with sweat. Closing her fingers around the shimmering coins, she looks back at the Apothecary, who is glaring down at her with simmering disdain.
“May you have the best of mornings,” she finally replies, and bows her head once more. “I thank you for your patronage.”
She turns to leave. Mr. Tarpeius clicks his tongue once and she spares a glance from over her shoulder. He crosses his arms around his chest and gestures towards the exit with his head.
“Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.”
Opening her mouth to speak, she stops herself before she can upset the Apothecary any further. She had not forgotten her request from the day before, but she doubted his manner would be forthcoming after today. Instead she nods, knowing somewhere deep within her that purposely angering a loyal patron would not be a particularly wise move.
The bell rings as she quickly exits the shop, her boots carry her seemingly abject shoulders all the way to the entrance of the alley, her hand pulling at her shawl so hard she fears the fabric will fray.
Her stomping slows down as soon as she moves left, the mud underfoot notoriously treacherous. She hears the sloshing of ale as the men roll the barrels towards the tavern. The boy is nowhere to be seen but she figures his help will not be needed, seeing as the Old Maid’s windows are still tightly closed and her gate firmly locked.
Her eyes fixed on the foggy glass above, her eyelashes suddenly flutter as tufts of white land on her eyebrows, her cheeks, her nose.
Confounded, she runs her fingers over her forehead lightly, the cold flakes melting immediately against their warmth.
Pulling them away, she looks down at her palm, the droplets of water trembling before they run down, melting as soon as they land on the mud below. Her eyes gaze upwards in awe once more, taking in the wispy crystals that float and dance above her.
The snow stops before she can fully understand what is happening.
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To her surprise, the brief flurry seems to have made no difference to the life of the town as she watches the vendors and the townsfolk alike go about their day, carriages rolling and horses neighing, no eyes staring up at the sky in wonder. She looks back at the alley and, while the air is still wintry and the clouds still gray, there is no remaining proof of the magical snowflakes.
The moment having been so bizarre, she wonders if it happened at all.
Sparing glances at the sky along the way, she reaches the Blacksmith’s Forge. As she approaches the towering edifice before her, she tries to push away the thought of having offended the sour man, finding consolation in the fact that his acerbic personality might equal a less than active social life in town, and hence a lower possibility of his sharing her lack of decorum with other potential patrons.
Clang!
The landing hammer reminds her of her next delivery and she shuffles forward, swinging the basket away from the curious mare. The apprentice grants her access and she swiftly enters the sultry den.
Clang!
She makes her way to the large table, unloading her order of meat pies and stacking them neatly to one side. Awaiting for the second apprentice, she watches as the Blacksmith works his craft, facing the hearth. It dawns on her that she has never seen his face, and were she to ever happen upon him elsewhere, she would not be able to recognize him. But she dismisses the thought quickly, knowing that she would probably identify the Blacksmith for his large build alone.
Clang!
The apprentice catches her eye as he nears the table, the fourteen Krounen already in hand. She slides the small jar with the medicinal balm in his direction and he grabs it dexterously, bowing in her direction. She nods her head back and moves to leave, taking hold of the significantly lighter basket in the process.
Clang!
As she walks to the exit, a ray of light filters through the wooden beams above and lands on a pile of scrap metal nearby. The flash is so blinding it stops her in her tracks and she coils back defensively, her free hand rising to protect her addled eyes. She shifts slightly to escape the glare as she attempts to find its source.
Clang!
Nearing the heap of discarded and rusty scraps of metal, her eyes are unexpectedly drawn to a sliver of metal so fine, so smooth, it shimmers like water. Spellbound, she steps towards its alluring silver shine, fingers mirrored on its exquisite surface. Moving the scraps aside, she grabs hold of the discarded artifact and rescues it from the rubble.
A Knight’s helmet.
Never having seen anything quite like it, she examines her reflection, studying the emblematic flowers intricately engraved at each side. She runs her thumb over them, feeling the grooves meld momentarily with her skin. Her breath fogs the brow and she quickly wipes it away with her sleeve.
Suddenly, a large hand enters her line of vision and she watches in paralyzed silence as its blackened fingers grab hold of the helmet and lift it over her head and out of her sight.
She quickly brings her hands to her chest and glances cautiously to the side. Her startled gaze follows the Blacksmith’s retreating figure as he walks towards the hearth. He stares at the helmet for a second before casting the metal into a large cauldron hidden within it. The fire swallows the offering greedily and her eyes widen as the Blacksmith, face darkened by the brightness of the fire around him, turns his neck in her direction.
And although unable to see his features, his face a dark void within the brightest of halos, she can somehow feel his gaze pierce right through her.
She gasps.
Retreating, her back hits the table and a small yelp escapes her lips, the pile of scraps tumbling and landing noisily around her. Flustered, she bows and apologizes hurriedly under her breath before she flees the Forge.
Clang!
Failing to acknowledge the apprentice and his customer as she moves away from the town square, every blink brings back the Blacksmith’s imposing silhouette, outlined by the violent heat of the hearth. Still feeling the heaviness of the helmet in her hands, she runs her hands down her skirt anxiously, as if to shoo away the feel of the Blacksmith’s presence when he surfaced behind her.
She rubs at the goosebumps that now riddle her arms as she nears the black gate that surrounds the large manor, her boots appearing and disappearing beneath her skirts as she quickens her step.
The kitchen smells of breakfast and boiling stew, the cook busily barking instructions to her helpers as they chop and stir and serve. Maids and footmen come in and out, leaving used cutlery in their wake. Waiting for a pair of maids to receive their undue reprimand for returning with plates of untouched food, she finally delivers her last parcel, along with the Old Maid’s usual order.
The clamorous fall of a metal tray startles her and the image of an awakening fire flashes before her eyes, an ominous figure at its center. She bends down, skirt pooling around her, and she grabs hold of the tray. Rising, the cook does not acknowledge her but she does scold the careless helper, who then scurries forwards and takes it from her hands.
“Ever the optimist, my friend.”
Her head angles in acknowledgement but their eyes do not meet, instead she stares at the tray which now lies discarded. She hears his footsteps as he steps closer to her and senses his nearness when he leans against the table next to her.
The hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end.
Without looking at him, her fingers glide the small jar across the table. “Lemon.”
Ketevan does not reply, instead he stands there, by her side, and she can feel his inquisitive stare study her every movement.
“You’re no fun.”
“I suppose not,” she replies, but her voice is barely above a whisper. Her eyes close abruptly as images of the silver helmet rush through her mind and her hands find the edge of the table, knuckles whitening – her headache back in full force now that the shock of the Blacksmith’s encounter had finally caught up with her.
Ketevan leans closer, his fingers instantly under her chin, turning her head towards him.
Summoning all of her will power to stretch her pale lips into a smile, unable to hold his gaze for more than a few seconds, she whispers, "You owe me a Krounen.”
“What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” she replies quietly.
Ketevan tilts her head as his eyebrows rise, his look an incredulous one.
“I’ve–,” she continues, freeing her face from his grasp and stepping away, aware of the moving bodies around them. “I’ve had an odd week, that is all.”
“Odd?” He asks, placing his elbows on the table and facing her direction. Unlike her, he seems unbothered by the attention. “How come?”
“Just odd. Disappearing villagers, reappearing pastries, horrible headaches,” she lists them off casually, grabbing hold of her basket as she prepares to leave. “And those dreadful ravens.”
“Ravens?”
She looks down at her hands, unexpectedly embarrassed by the admission. “And then I was awful to Mr–.”
“Where?”
“Well,” she responds without looking up, too busy tightening her shawl. “At the Apothecary, of course.”
“No,” Ketevan’s voice startles her and when she finally meets his eyes, her breath catches in her throat. He steps forward and she takes one step back, his features foreign to her, his countenance clouded by an otherness she cannot describe, his eyes devoid of all light.
“Where did you see the ravens?”
“Ketevan,” her voice barely rises above a whisper.
“Where?”
“By the three arches!” She exclaims, finding herself cornered, her heartbeat rising. “By the meadow.”
“How many?”
“Ketevan, you frighten me.”
Suddenly, the same fingers that had previously held her chin so delicately, now grab and bite at her face, fingernails breaking skin. She feels the blood run down her cheeks and drip down to her shirt, dampening the fabric. Her eyes frantically search for help, widening as they realize that the space around her has grown deafeningly silent.
The kitchen is empty.
“I’ll ask you once more,” he says with calm brutality, his grasp tightening. “How many ravens did you see?”
“Three,” her voice cracks and tears pool around her eyes, fear tightening her muscles, begging her to flee. “Three ravens.”
She whimpers as his fingernails finally escape her flesh, her cheeks pulsating with pain. He takes one step back and her knees buckle and surrender beneath her, her body landing with a loud thud on the floor. She looks up and watches her dear friend run his hand across his jaw, leaving thin traces of bright red blood behind, his eyes fixed on something beyond Qadahl Road.
His black pupils lower slowly, back to her, and a mirthless smirk twists his lips.
“They found you.”