“Will today be the day, miss?”
A quiet gasp escapes her parted lips. Her hand rises and her arm feels as if it is wading through water, the rise slow and heavy. The frigid ends of her fingers touch her cheek and she flinches, startled by her own closeness. She wipes away at the moisture, the tear now a layer of dampness over her skin. The liquid coats and shimmers over the ridges of her fingers and when she rubs them together, her palm smarts, new wounds and red tissues fresh from her fall. She spreads her other hand and finds similar markings where the rock split and tore through.
Staring down at the wounds, she blinks once, twice.
She watches as her fingers curl inwards, her nails biting, her fists turning white. Her heart beats loudly against her ears as blood pools around her cuticles, scabs yielding to the pressure, wrists trembling with exertion. And as the blood begins to travel down her wrist, frustration rises within like bile, both the pain and the warmth escaping her. All attempt to feel seemingly muffled.
As if she were experiencing time through a dream. As if she were experiencing time through– .
“A nightmare,” she whispers.
“Miss?”
Her gaze snaps forward and she finds herself standing in the middle of the morning market, standing before the man with his gray, speckled beard and his ruddy cheeks. Bast’s face is etched with concern. Like a child caught in the act, she hides her fists behind her back before he can glimpse the damage.
Mind scrambling to make sense of where she is, it takes her a moment longer to comprehend that the merchant was, once again, standing proudly at his usual post. Her brow rises as soon as reality finally solidifies around her.
“Bast!” She exclaims, forcing her trembling lips to widen but genuinely glad to see him behind his many wares, precious stones glinting against the early sun. “You have returned!”
“Aye!” The merchant’s head bobs up and down as he waves her forward. “And I have come just in time, I think”
“In time?” The nervousness in her voice betrays her and she buries her fists further still, hoping the merchant had not been witness to her momentary lapse in judgment. She can feel beads of sweat bloom around the edges of her forehead but she cannot wipe them away so she allows them to be. For all he knew, she had sprinted all the way from her cottage at the edge of town.
“To offer you a discount!” He replies good-naturedly, eyes sparkling as she breathes out in marked relief. “A discount for that lovely piece you fell in love with.”
“True, true. And where is my ring now?” She asks playfully, stepping closer to peer at the different designs displayed before her. The blunt gold and glorious opal finds her immediately, sitting humbly amongst its peers. The orange and gold specks seem to float within it, in stark contrast with the darkness of the gem. She senses her upper body lean over the table, her shadow obscuring the rich velvet draped over its surface, the magnetic pull of the ring irresistible.
“It is right where you left it.”
His voice reaches her just as she is about to unfurl her hand to touch the hypnotizing surface and she is grateful for it. She stops herself just in time but still gazes at the ring for a while longer. When she looks back at the merchant, the words he had just spoken finally reach her.
“Right where I left it,” she whispers absentmindedly. Sparing one last glance at the ring, she grins politely and pulls herself away from the table and its singing siren.
“One thousand Krounen, in exchange for a year’s worth of your lovely boysenberry pies.”
About to dispense her usual rejection, her tongue hesitates and she holds his gaze instead. The merchant seemed unperturbed by her presence, their scene a daily interaction that never wavered. And it occurred to her now that it needed to waver.
“I am glad to see that you are here and doing well, Bast.”
“It is a pleasure to be back, miss.”
“Bast,” she pauses, smiling back at his beaming face. “Do you perhaps remember our last conversation?”
“About the ring, miss?”
“No,” she replies unsteadily, already anticipating the muddled headache. Her mind had already caught on and she could feel it piecing together her missing morning. “Our last conversation. Before you left.”
Bast looks away as if in deep thought, hand brushing beard theatrically, before returning his eyes to hers, shaking is head apologetically. “I am afraid not, miss. Do you?”
Her lips open, ready to push on, to ask again, but recoils as the first wave of pain hits her temple. Her basket, poised at the ready, sways from side to side as she struggles to keep her hands hidden. It takes her a few seconds to compose herself, and she barely manages to croak out a no.
“Then it must not have been too important.”
She looks at him and his lighthearted grin, and the heaviness bearing down at the top of her head lifts slightly.
“No, I guess not,” she responds finally, pushing herself to reciprocate his effervescence amidst the receding throbbing in her head, understanding then that this was as far as her conversation with Bast would go, and that she was in no state to pursue the matter. “May the rest of your day be fruitful, Bast.”
“I’ll keep it safe for you, miss. Just say the word.” Bast calls out after her, waving her off as he goes about his day, reaching out to possible customers and rearranging his merchandise, unaware that her eyes are fixed onto his every moment a few streets away.
The reappearance of the merchant had appeased her discomfort somewhat, a peace she had found she craved after the disconcerting episode she had experienced with the young heiress the day before. Images of blood soaked pearls flash through her mind and she closes her eyes tightly for a brief second, quickening her pace to the Apothecary’s shop.
She stops halfway to unravel her shawl, and wipes away at the already thickening blood in her palms, around her fingers and lodged between her cuticles. In a moment of unchecked domesticity, she worries over whether she will be able to wash away the stains on her favorite shawl and hopes for a forgiving fabric. The sound of a silver bell travels to where she stands and soon after the patron exits the shop, turning left and continuing his way up the street with his parcel. Her gaze follows him until his figure is made indiscernible by the looming fog.
The bell rings once more as she finally steps inside, the familiar smell of vinegar and cleanliness bringing a sense of familiarity to her otherwise affected state. She waits patiently for the Apothecary, routinely placing his order on the counter.
When he finally graces her with his presence, she does not wish to upset him with talk of the bird-related incident, so she surveys him discreetly. Sensing no alarming behavior, outside of his complaining over the same order he had had since she could remember, she decides to let the matter go. As she collects her five Krounen, she observes at the shiny coinage before looking up at the glowering Apothecary, who had already diverted his attention to tidying up the shelves above.
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Surprising herself and the Apothecary, she places the Krounen back on the glass.
“Would you happen to have any remedies for an aching head?”
Considering she could brew herself a poultice of earthworm and houseleek back home, she wondered why she suddenly felt compelled to ask him– but she recognized it as the same compulsion that had motivated her to question Bast.
It was a desperate need to know.
The Apothecary freezes, clearly surprised to find her standing there still. He places the vial in his hand back on the wooden shelf slowly, before turning towards her, glasses dangerously close to falling as he tilts his chin downward, gazing incredulously at her from above their bridge.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A remedy,” she repeats, pushing the coins in his direction. “For an aching head.”
“I am afraid,” he replies after a short pause, pushing the coins back. “We are all out.”
“All out?”
“And I am not allowed to dispense with remedies without the input of a qualified physician.”
“Are you not a qualified physician?” Her question is followed by the sliding of the coins back to him.
“I–” he stops, pursing his lips before he continues. His eyes travel to the window and back, a sudden air of uneasiness settling between them. The tension dissipates when he speaks, his words slow and deliberate. “As I said, we are all out.”
“When will you have more?”
“I shall have more, when I have more,” he answers, clearly annoyed by the onslaught of questions and reaching his limit. Mr. Tarpeius shoves the coins back with an air of finality. “Now if you don’t mind.”
He points at the exit before turning around, disappearing through the swinging doors, and leaves her staring at nothing. Glancing around the shop, her mind counts all the vials and concoctions lying about, and comes to the conclusion that lack of resources is not a most obvious issue for the Apothecary.
Mr. Tarpeius does not resurface, so she pockets her five Krounen once more, sliding the coins noisily against the glass before exiting the shop. As the heavy door closes behind her, she lets out an exasperated sigh, placing a hand over her basket. Her shoulders shiver and it aggravates her mood.
She reaches the entrance to the alley quickly, eager to leave the frigid air behind. Sidestepping the rolling barrels of ale, she peers heavenward at the Old Maid’s window and finds her apartment as lifeless as it had been the day before. Mildly surprised at seeing the messenger boy gone, she does not dawdle, leaving the alley as quickly as she entered it.
Working her way through to the Blacksmith, the thought of sending word out to Miss Mirah crosses her mind. A letter to see if she is doing well, wherever she is, but she would not know where to begin. And as she quits the Forge and marches her strawberry tart all the way to Qadahl Road, the thought of having to interact with yet another unwilling townsperson makes her weary.
Delivering her order and a couple of extra blueberry tarts on the side, she dances around Ketevan gracefully, handing him his jam and dodging all invitations to the Alba Custodia. Taking two steps at a time, she finally exists through the gate. Her heart races, and while she favors believing that this is due to the sudden exercise, she knows that the memory of blood and pearls haunts her still .
Unintentionally, she examines the sidewalk and the hedges for any stray pearls but spots none, and neither does she see any splatters of old blood anywhere near the polished cobblestones. As she angles her head to inspect the bushes that line the back entrance, she hears a sound so clear and smooth, it reminds her of the sweet gurgling of fresh mountain water.
“Good morning.”
She turns to look for the source and her eyes land on Alma, standing by the steps watching her inquisitively, a playful smile curling her perfect lips at the edges. Her eyes sparkle with amusement as her gaze travels to the bushes and back.
“Have you lost something?”
Still speechless, she looks around to confirm it is her whom the heiress is speaking to, mouth slightly agape. When she regains control of her neck muscles, she shakes her head. Alma finds this amusing, and she releases a delicate laugh that both frees and twists her heart.
A crack deepens within.
The rabbit in Alma’s arms stirs with the noise but falls right back to sleep, ears flickering and then laying still. Alma once again angles the animal towards her but this time she adds, “Would you like to pet him?”
“U-uhm, I–I’m sorry,” she replies clumsily, stepping away from the bushes and bringing the basket closer to her chest. “I really should get going.”
“Oh?”
“I am sorry,” she says, smiling sheepishly, and is surprised as tears rise and sting her eyes. The heiress stares at her in bewilderment, her magnificent green eyes widening, her hand never once ceasing its steady path along the rabbit’s head. “I must go.”
She turns to walk away but stops, looking back at Alma and curtseying quickly, head bowed low. From the edge of her vision, she sees as the heiress moves to say something but the carriage is ready to depart so she decides to leave instead. Not waiting for the crack of the whip, she marches away from Alma and her rabbit.
Breathing in and out steadily, she makes her way past the Forge and the Old Maid’s quarters, slowing down when she walks by the Apothecary’s shop. He is standing inside, tending to one of his customers. With half a mind to stop and ask for the remedy once again, she decides against it, continuing her path down the street. She ambles past, working her way through the busy crowd.
“Be right there with you,” she hears the woman call out from within her stall. When she emerges, her red hair is neatly tied in a bun and her smile is perfectly in place. “Why, I’ll say. I haven’t seen you around these parts in ages.”
“Yes, the last few days have been,” she replies as she follows the woman around the stall. “Eventful.”
“I was wondering where you’d been,” the woman carries on, disappearing behind one of the crates. “What can I get for you today? The usual?”
“Yes, please,” she answers, bringing her pouch forward and counting the number of Krounen she will need to purchase her daily groceries. “And some bitter currants, if you have them.”
“Sure.” The woman responds, hauling the satchel onto the table, its surface bulky with added vegetables. “Here. A little extra, as always.”
“Thank you. How much?”
“Four Krounen,” the woman answers amicably, wiping her hands on her apron. She then extends her hand to receive her payment. Looking down at the Krounen, she counts six and smirks up at her. The woman takes out two of the golden pieces and hands them back.
She smiles at the woman and shakes her head.
“I shall see you tomorrow, yes?” The woman asks after tsking at the extra Krounen, pocketing the money all the same.
“Yes, see you tomorrow.”
And with that, she grabs hold of her satchel, placing it smoothly against her hips to avoid holding the rough cloth with her wounded hands. Giving the woman a quick nod goodbye, she walks away, thus ending another confounding day. Ignoring the tremor in her bones and the lethargic quality of her thoughts, she steps through the three arches, searching the pristine semicircles for brooding ravens. There are none today.
Entering the narrow pathway, the cover of the evergreens brings with it peace and serenity and she feels it soak her skin. She enjoys treading along to the sounds of swaying needles, the sporadic fall of a pine cone scaring the hidden creatures below, the smell of deep purity filling her lungs. The crunching of leaves underneath, twigs snapping every now and then, and the swishing of the bag against her thigh accompany her as she nears the wildflower meadow.
She crouches down thoughtlessly and feels the scabs on her knees strain with effort. Stretching her arm to collect nearby flowers quickly, she notices a presence hidden somewhere further in. Her senses immediately on edge she stiffens, hand wrapped around the stem of a stray daffodil. Ears perk at the sound of sudden croaking and her grasp on the flower tightens. When she finally catches sight of the black wings flapping amongst the swaying grass, her eyes narrow.
She stands up slowly, pulling the daffodil from the earth, its roots dangling sadly below, trailing dirt. Shoulders squared, she stares at the center of the meadow and realizes that the raven is not alone. Accompanying the black bird stand the blue-black and the white raven, their chests puffed high, their gaze unrelenting.
She glares at the birds for a split second and then turns around once she feels silly enough, resuming her walk home. Without a second thought, she chucks the wilted flower onto the field and secures the satchel around her shoulders.
She has had enough of the ravens.