Chapter 12 #3
The walls are painted a muted cream, though age has kissed them with faint cracks and uneven patches.
Framed sketches hang in crooked lines—charcoal drawings of Cinderspine as it once was, flour-dusted children laughing in the square, and a younger Marta standing proudly in front of her ovens.
There’s a shelf crammed with jars of herbs and glass bottles of oils, their contents glowing with captured sunlight.
A knitted blanket the colour of embers is folded neatly over the back of one armchair, its edges slightly frayed from years of use.
A small hearth sits in the corner, not roaring, but glowing with quiet coals that breathe gentle warmth into the room.
Above it, hangs a blackened kettle and a string of dried orange slices and cloves, their scent threading through the air.
A worn rug—deep red with intricate gold stitching—softens the dark wooden floorboards beneath our feet, the boards creaking as we move.
Marta gestures me into one of the deep red armchairs, and I sink down.
It’s soft, but clearly well used, a small worn dip in the cushion.
The fabric is velvet, smoothed thin at the arms from years of hands resting there.
I run my fingers along the seam without thinking.
Aran takes the chair opposite, his steady presence a quiet anchor in the glow of the candlelight.
Marta presses a cup of steaming herbal tea into my hands.
The ceramic is mismatched, painted with tiny red flowers that have chipped at the rim.
The warmth seeps into my palms, grounding me, anchoring me in this small pocket of peace.
She perches at my side, her skirts softly rustling in the silence.
She watches me with eyes so full of pity and love, it almost breaks me again.
“I’m sorry my guards wouldn’t let you through,” I murmur, grimacing. “Things have been… hectic.”
Hectic doesn’t even begin to cover it. Meltdowns, endless training, grief, secrets unravelling like threads in a storm.
Overwhelming is too soft a word for the chaos I can’t seem to escape.
Yet how else could I even begin to explain my life without someone living it beside me?
They could never understand. I don’t think anybody does. Not even Aran.
“Don’t fret about that,” Marta says briskly, patting my hand. “You’re here now.” Her voice drops to a low hush. “How are you, sunshine? I’m so sorry about Korithax. I loved that boy like my own.”
My chest lurches. “I know you did. I’m sorry for your loss, too. It hurts. Gods, Marta, sometimes it hurts so bad I can’t breathe. But…” My voice falters. “I don’t have time to hurt. I have to keep going. I have to run a kingdom, prepare for—” I stop, uncertain.
“The war with The Divine Six.” Her eyes don’t waver. “We all know, sweetheart. We all feel it in the air.” She squeezes my hand tighter. “I can’t imagine the weight that is bearing down on you.”
The tea trembles in my grip, so I set it down before I spill it everywhere. Marta takes both my hands in hers, her thumb stroking over my knuckles with such tenderness and warmth, it sinks straight into my bones.
“You changed him,” she says softly. “In so short a time. You changed him more than anyone else ever could. He was lucky to have found you.”
A tear slips down my cheek, despite my best efforts to hold myself together. “No. I was the lucky one. He saved me, Marta. In every way that matters.”
She hesitates, her mouth twitching as if she’s unsure whether to speak. I tilt my head urging her on. “What is it?”
Her voice drops to a whisper. “Is it true? That you’re… her?”
A laugh slips from me, despite my fragility. “It’s true. I am her. But I’m also me. Both. Neither. Someone new entirely, I suppose.”
She nods thoughtfully, accepting it with the same ease as she’s always accepted me.
We talk a little longer, her words equal parts comfort and steel.
When I confess about the tour today, she squeezes my hand again, offering me her reassuring words.
“The kingdom is lucky to have you, Daisy. Do not ever forget that, my sweet sunshine child.”
I sob all over again, and she just lets me, gently shushing me and comforting me as I ride through the wave of emotions.
Despite only knowing her for a brief amount of time, she’s grown into somewhat of a motherly figure for me, just as she had for Korithax.
Her presence is something I hadn’t realised I’d been craving until I saw her bright smile behind the counter.
When we return to the bakery front, I find my guards looking utterly guilty—and full. Boxes are empty, and there’s crumbs dusting their armour. “I hope you left some for me,” I whine, pouting like a child.
“There are always tarts for you.” Marta says, pressing a box into my arms, warm and fragrant. Emberfruit glistens beneath crystallised sugar, the scent so sweet and rich I almost moan.
“Gods, thank you, Marta. You’re an angel in disguise.”
She scoffs, swatting my arm. “Angel, my ass. Now go, you’ve got work to do. And you buffoons—” she levels a glare at the guards “—remember my face next time I try to see my sunshine. Got it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” they echo in unison, looking chastened.
I hug her one last time, basking in her sweet scent as I squeeze her extra tight. And then we’re off again, the box of sweet treats cradled in my arms like treasure, bound for Gehenna.