Chapter 2 #3
Where wind salted the air and the sun shattered across water too wide to hold.
~~~~~
Only a little further. The herbalist was just around the bend—so close, but the pain made her feel so far.
The thick wool of my skirt rubbed against the welts reaching across my ass and legs.
Raw skin caught on the cloth, ripping with every step I took.
Yesterday’s vivid memories of Kavish’s punishing hand flashed across my thoughts.
All this pain, yet no coin to show for it.
My jaw ached from gritting my teeth. I knew I would find solace in the company of the one person whom I trusted with my whole heart.
So I pushed on.
Bitter wind whipped at my face almost like it, too, was punishing me.
Though the sun was only beginning to set, any warmth it once offered had long vanished.
I pulled my woollen shawl closer around my shoulders, grateful that the herbalist was on the outskirts of town.
I didn’t feel like dealing with crowds today.
An image of a certain copper-haired stranger with eyes that haunted my sleep flashed across my mind. I certainly didn't feel like dealing with him today either.
The familiar stone building came into view, and my pace increased despite the pain. I pushed the wooden door open, the bell above it alerting my presence as I stepped inside. Tension melted out of my body—instantly I felt safe.
It smelled of crushed leaves and dried roots, a heady mix of lavender, rosemary, and bitter wormwood. Beneath that lingered the sour kick of vinegar tinctures, the sweetness of elderflower, and the musty undertone of old wood and worn parchment.
Kindness, and refuge, in the form of a shop.
Hair the colour of wheat in the summertime gleamed as it passed the back window. The sunlight caught it, making it look like spun spider silk.
“Sapphire!”
A smile formed across my dry, winter lips. “Meeka!”
My golden-haired friend had been beside me in one way or another for most of my life.
Meeka’s mother used to visit my mother to have her gowns tailored, and Meeka would always come with her.
While our mothers talked for hours inside, we would sit outside in the sun, talking about nothing and everything, two little girls who didn’t yet understand how hard the world could be.
When my mother died, I tried to find Meeka’s house before the law could ship me off to the orphanage. But I was only ten, and the town felt enormous when you were small and alone. I got lost before I ever found her street.
I didn’t see Meeka again for six years.
By then, life had already taken me down a path I never would have chosen.
One afternoon, I stumbled into the apothecary where she worked, and for a moment we just stared at each other across the counter, both trying to recognise the children we used to be.
What followed was an impossible amount of tears and far too long spent catching up. We’d been inseparable ever since.
Meeka rounded the side of the counter to pull me into a much-needed embrace. “I was expecting you yesterday, but you didn’t come. Is everything alright?”
I stepped back, feigning a smile, but she saw right through it.
Meeka jerked her head towards the waiting chair, her cerulean eyes filling with sorrow. “Would you like to take a seat?”
There was no point lying to her now. She would figure it out one way or another. So I shook my head softly. “No, thank you.”
“Bly,” she whispered.
I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t cry for my pain. The hardened heart inside my chest wouldn’t allow me to—it had become too accustomed—but I would heal. I always do.
Meeka pulled me close again. “What happened this time?”
After a second, I took a step back, fishing in my pocket for the coins Kavish had given to me earlier this morning. “I was late home on a work night. That’s all.”
I placed them on the countertop. There was no need to tell Meeka what they were for—she knew. I came here twice a week to collect the tinctures all the girls at the Silver Finch drank to prevent pregnancy.
She moved behind the counter to retrieve the bottles. “Why do you stay there?” Meeka asked, gently placing the bottles into a brown paper bag.
Her question was valid. Something I asked myself all the time. Yet no matter how often I pondered my choices, I always came to the same conclusion.
“Because I need the money.”
Meeka’s brow softened. “You could work here?”
I offered her a gentle smile. She was always so kind and generous to me. Without her friendship I fear I would have perished a long time ago. “Meeks, you have financial struggles already. I would be a burden to you.”
She shook her head, blonde strands spilling over her shoulders. “You’re never a burden to me. We could find another job for you then.”
I took a step forward, propping my elbows on the wooden countertop, resting my chin on my hands. “Who would hire me? . . . The Night Jewel?”
The name Kavish had bestowed upon me so many years ago rolled off my tongue. At first it’d been humorous, something I’d laughed at, but then the men got a hold of it, and suddenly, I became Sapphire—The Night Jewel. No one even knew my real name. Except for Meeka.
A gentle sigh escaped my lips. “It’s alright, Meeks. A few more months and I’ll finally have enough money to move away from here for good. Somewhere he can’t ever find me.” I reached across to grasp her hand in mine, a feigned smile upon my lips. “Who knows, maybe you could come with me.”
Meeka’s soft smile and kind eyes eased some of the aching in my heart. “Just say the word and we’re out of here,” she murmured. “Is there anything else I can do in the meantime?”
I straightened, and pulled a single copper coin from my shirt pocket. “I’ll also take whatever cinderleaf I can with this coin.”
“You know that herb isn’t good for you long term, Bly,” she murmured.
I pushed the coin towards her. “Is anything?”
Meeka rolled her eyes, pushing the coin back across the wooden surface. “Keep your money. The cinderleaf is on me.”
She turned around, reaching for a jar of dried pink petals. After gathering a small handful and placing it into the brown paper bag with the pregnancy tonics, she turned back towards me. “Now, don’t smoke it all at once.”
“Thanks’ Meeks, I owe you.”
“No you don’t . . . not ever.”