“And with that… we’re done.”
Asha places the jar in the wicker basket, balancing it on top of the already precarious pile.
She checks off the last name on the list and exhales, satisfied.
Summer always means work. This year, she has handled everything alone.
Sunburn ointments.
Soothing balms for insect bites.
Herbal teas for restless nights.
Tonics for low energy.
She has been working non-stop for days. Now the orders are finally complete.
She looks around. The small kitchen is a battlefield.
Zelda used to scold her for being messy. Asha can see what she meant. Kinda.
There is no point in tidying while she works.
The house seems to have a life of its own; everything leaps out of place the moment she turns her back.
Well, maybe some of it is her fault.
She grimaces at the splashes of liquid and scraps of herbs scattered across the countertop.
Even the cat looks offended.
Bubi sits in the corner with military precision, tail wrapped neatly around his paws so it won’t brush against the mess. His yellow eyes reflect the light as he stares at her.
Judging. As always.
“We really need to clean up, don’t we, Bubi?”
In answer, the cat jumps out of the open window with a deeply unimpressed meow.
“Thanks for the help, eh!” she laughs, watching him disappear into the garden.
She leans on the windowsill for a moment, letting the sun warm her face.
The first weeks of summer have already dusted her pale skin with freckles, scattered like tiny constellations across her nose and collarbones.
At the edge of the clearing, a figure appears.
Asha narrows her eyes against the glare.
A woman. Long, heavy skirt. A cloth wrapped tightly around her head.
Her steps are uneven.
Martha Nolt.
Coming for the usual.
“Hello, Martha!” Asha waves from the window.
“Oh, h-hello, Miss Chuda,” the woman stammers.
Asha doesn’t take it personally.
It’s not her Martha is afraid of.
“Just a second, Martha. I’ll open the door.”
She scans the kitchen for the medicine she prepared earlier — tansy, barberry, yarrow, infused in honey and oil. Not common in this region, but effective.
Especially for a girl who works in that terrible pub.
She grabs the glass bottle, puts it in a pocket and hurries to the door.
On the other side, Martha is fidgeting with her fingers, eyes fixed on the lavender bush nearby.
The bush moves.
A gray tail flicks out, followed by the back half of a cat.
Martha lets out a small, nervous laugh, covering her mouth with a bandaged hand.
Asha’s eyes sharpen.
“What happened?”
“N-nothing.”
“That’s not nothing.”
“I s-said it’s n-n-nothing.”
There are tears in her eyes.
Asha exhales slowly.
Men are pigs.
And the fatter the pig, the worse it behaves.
“Come inside,” she sighs. “Let me look at that hand.”
She pauses, softer now.
“No questions asked.”
That seems to give Martha courage. She nods and follows Asha into the house.
Inside, the light is dimmer. The kitchen window floods one side of the room with summer brightness, but the rest remains cool and shadowed.
Asha gestures toward a chair while she searches the shelves.
“Ah. Here.”
She returns with a jar, fresh bandages, and a bowl of clean water.
She clears herbs from a second chair and sits opposite Martha.
“Let me see.”
She unwraps the bandage slowly. The cloth underneath is stained.
Not with dirt.
With something darker.
She says nothing as the final layer falls away.
The skin beneath is swollen, mottled purple and yellow. Scrapes tear across the knuckles. Two fingers twist slightly wrong. The nails are cracked.
No fall.
No accident.
For a moment, red clouds the edges of Asha’s vision.
“Are you hurt anywhere else?”
Her voice comes out rougher than intended.
“No,” Martha whispers, barely audible.
Asha inhales deeply and begins to clean the dried blood. The water turns pink. Then darker.
“Does it hurt if I press here?”
Martha nods.
“And here?”
Another nod.
There are no tears now. Only flushed cheeks and the rigid silence of someone used to enduring.
“I’ll apply the ointment,” Asha says. “You’ll need to reapply it twice a day. For several days.”
Martha nods again.
“Do you have someone to help you?”
A pause.
Then a nod.
Asha chooses not to ask who.
“Good. This will sting.”
“It’s okay,” Martha whispers.
Asha dips her fingers into the thick golden mixture. Lavender rises in the air.
Martha inhales sharply as the ointment touches skin.
Asha’s vision flickers red again.
Kurt.
The name resounds in her head like a curse.
Her jaw tightens.
Breathe in.
Breathe out.
She wraps the swollen fingers carefully, then secures everything with a fresh bandage.
“Twice a day. Clean hands. No heavy lifting.”
The words come out sharper than she means them to.
Martha nods once more.
Coins clink softly on the table as she stands.
Asha doesn’t count them.
“Oh— wait,” Asha says suddenly as they reach the door.
She pulls the bottle from her pocket.
“This is like the one my aunt used to make. I thought you might be running low. I added honey. Makes it easier to drink.”
She presses it into Martha’s uninjured hand.
“One spoon a day. Not more. It can be dangerous.”
Martha nods.
“I’ll come tomorrow to pay you. I don’t have any more coins today.”
“No need,” Asha replies gently. “What you gave is enough.”
They step outside into the sunlight, both shielding their eyes.
Martha walks a few steps. Then stops.
“Miss Chuda.”
Asha looks up.
“Thank you.”
Her smile burns in Asha’s mind as the girl fades back into the woods.
There’s something in her eyes.
Fear, of course.
But also something else.
Something Asha couldn’t quite place.
She sighs, closing the door behind her back.
She really hopes that Martha manages to escape that terrible fate.
Poor girl.
Thinking about how her life could have been if Zelda didn't take her, Asha looks around the kitchen.
Time to clean.
***
The sun begins to set before she finishes cleaning.
The last few chores are lit by candlelight.
She is about to close the windows and call it a day when something catches her eye.
At the back of the wardrobe, half-hidden in a corner, a chain glints.
She frowns.
She never noticed that.
She would have.
She lifts the necklace carefully into the light.
A silver chain, thin and delicate. The kind of craftsmanship difficult to find in the village. Or in any other village nearby.
Suspended between silver threads rests a rough stone.
Black as a moonless night.
Veined with flashes of pink and violet.
Like lightning trapped inside a rock.
Her fingers move toward it before she even decides to touch it.
A sharp snap bites into her skin.
She jerks back.
“Oh.”
She tries again.
No shock this time.
But her fingertip feels strangely numb. As if the sensation hasn’t quite returned.
She focuses again on the chain, lured to it by the glimmering.
The clasp is broken.
Of course it is.
“Maybe Aran could fix you”, she murmurs.
She places the necklace on a small plate beside her bed.
Tomorrow.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
Sleep doesn’t come easily that night.
Moonlight spills across the room, striking the stone at just the right angle.
The veins of violet seem to pulse.
Asha turns onto her side. But her eyes drift back to it.
Again.
And again.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, a voice stirs.
Soft.
Melodic.
Calling her name.
**
She’s curled up on Zelda's lap.
Her head rests against the woman’s warmth. Fingers glide through her light hair.
“Tell me the story again,” she whispers.
Big green eyes. Stubborn pout.
“Again?” Zelda laughs softly. “Aren’t you tired of it?”
“Just one more time. I promise.”
“You always promise.”
“And I always keep them.”
Zelda sighs, defeated in the way only loving people are.
“On a moonlit night...”
“No, you have to start with ‘once upon a time,’ all fairy tales start that way”
“But this isn't a fairy tale, it's a true story.”
She gives a pat on Asha's nose.
“But it's nicer with ‘once upon a time’!” she replies promptly.
“All right, all right,” she laughs. “Once upon a time...”
“A long time ago?”
“Yes, a long time ago. Now be quiet and listen, or you'll go to bed without a story.”
The little girl snaps her mouth shut.
She turns an imaginary key and throws it away.
“In an enchanted village,” Zelda continues, “on the edge of a magical forest, there lived a lonely witch. Everyone feared her, though she was kind.”
“The witch wanted a child more than anything,” she says, her voice lowering. “And one night, she followed a strange cry into the woods.”
A great tree.
Split nearly in two.
Light pouring from its heart.
“A voice spoke from within,” Zelda murmurs. “Not in words anyone knew.”
The witch stepped closer.
And when the light faded—
There was a child.
As beautiful as the first morning of spring.
The little girl is fast asleep, a little hand under her cheek.
Zelda brushes her fingers across her forehead, rubbing a kiss on her temple.
Asha wakes with tears already on her cheeks.
She looks around, disoriented.
The room is empty.
But the warmth of Zelda’s lap still lingers on her skin.
It hurts.
It's been months since she dreamed of her.
Remembering her favorite bedtime story is painful, yet sweet.
As a child, she had wanted that story to be true.
The villagers had made sure she knew otherwise.
Men screaming about devils.
Women praying at her sight.
Rumors whispered behind her back.
Witch’s daughter. Demon-child. Omen.
She had learned early which version of herself the village preferred.
Asha's eye gets caught once again by the necklace.
A coincidence, of course.
Isn’t it?
She watches closely.
Fingers entwined in the silver chain.
She doesn't remember Zelda wearing it. It's way more striking than her usual jewelry.
It lies dead in her palm. Then her throat tightens, and the veins flare, barely.
A blade of light reflects on the crystal veins.
Asha’s eyes are captivated.
Her vision blurs, a whistle in her ears.
She can’t breathe.
A flash. A thunder.
Violet lights. The scent of pine.
A woman's voice that...
“Ouch!”
The cat's razor-sharp claws dig into her thighs.
She jumps, pain flooding.
Her mind cleared again.
Bubi jumps onto the bed. A big stretch, then its morning hygiene routine.
Shaking her head to clear her thoughts, Asha starts to get dressed.
A wide skirt, a light blouse. All neutral colored.
No corset, of course. Damn torture tool.
Wrapping a light pashmina around her shoulders, she gives the mirror a dissatisfied grimace.
She grabs the necklace and puts it in the pocket.
She is heading to the door and almost trips.
“Meow”
The cat.
Damn cat.
She scratches it behind the ears, throws some food in its bowl and closes the front door behind her.
The sun kisses her skin, but a cold shiver runs down her spine as she walks toward the village.
**
The goldsmith's shop is in the village's central square. It’s a small shop with a blue and gold door. Almost squeezed between the other buildings.
On one side, the baker’s occupies the space of several houses.
On the other there’s the old pub, the main meeting place for all the villagers. Every day, there are so many customers that they spill out onto the street, their chatter heard from several streets away. On the most chaotic evenings, the singing and laughter travel even to Zelda's house.
A joyful bell announces Asha’s entering.
A small man is hunched over his workbench, unbothered.
Big mustache, large glasses.
Eyebrows furrow in concentration as he examines a large gem.
“Good morning, Aran!”
He looks up, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh, good morning to you, Asha,”
He places his tools on the table and greets her with a large smile.
“It's so nice to see you. How are you? It's been months since you've been around here.”
Asha smiles affectionately.
He’s kind as always.
When she was little, he used to show her all the precious gems that fascinated her so much.
Few things in life, in fact, enchant her as much as sparkling stones and precious metals. Aran showed her how he works with stones to create unique jewelry.
How to polish a ruby to bring out its intense red color.
More than anything, he taught her that not all villagers were ignorant and bigoted.
“I'm fine, always busy with deliveries and cleaning the house,” she replies softly.
“Zelda was like a dragon, may she rest in peace!” he laughs “I've never known anyone more inclined to accumulate objects in every corner. I imagine tidying up the house is practically a full-time job.”
“Yes, indeed,” she agrees, smiling wider, “I found new things in every corner. Some are more mysterious than others. Like this one, for example.”
She takes the necklace out of her pocket and hands it to him.
“The clasp is broken, I was hoping you could fix it.”
The man looks at the jewel with wide eyes. He leans closer without meaning to. Then brings the gem close to his face with his gnarled fingers.
“I couldn't figure out what kind of stone it is,” explains the girl, "the veins remind me of quartz and amethyst, but I didn't think they could form inside other gems. And I don't know the black stone, I don't think you've ever shown it to me."
“No, indeed,” he murmurs.
The goldsmith puts his work glasses on and studies the jewel under the light.
"This stone is unique. You're right about the veins, they are rose quartz and amethyst, but I've never seen the rough stone before. It doesn't reflect light, see?"
Asha takes a step closer to get a better look. The light does indeed reflect off the colored veins, creating small rainbows all around.
The black stone seems to eat every drop of light it meets.
“I've never seen a gemstone behave like this. I really can’t tell you what it is or where your aunt found it.”
“So she didn't buy it from you?”
Strange.
Her aunt always bought her gems and crystals from Aran's shop, claiming that every other seller in the region was a charlatan.
“No, dear, even the silverwork is different from mine, see?”
He points to the silver threads surrounding the stone.
“See how they curve without any sign of pliers? Unfortunately, my tools can't do that. I can’t do lines like these. Not with my hands, not with my pliers.”
“But can you still fix the clasp?”
“Of course! It won't be perfect, but I assure you it will be perfectly functional.”
He shows his crooked teeth with a huge smile.
“Just give me time to finish the work I'm doing at the moment. Come back in the afternoon and it will be ready.”
“Great, thank you so much, Aran, you're always the best!”
She waves goodbye, the bell ringing while she opens the door.
“See you later then.”
Then she stops, one foot already out of the shop.
On a cluttered stall, a thin silver ring sparkles. It’s crafted into a small point and topped with five small sparkling gems.
She comes back inside and picks it up without even realizing it.
“Beautiful, isn't it?”
The goldsmith's voice is right behind her.
He moved without a sound.
Or maybe she didn’t hear him.
“New piece. Haven’t sold one yet.”
“It's incredible, Aran,” Asha’s voice is almost dreamy.
“It's yours, if you like it,” he says softly, smiling at her shocked expression.
“Oh, I couldn't! It must be expensive!”
She immediately puts the ring back on the counter.
Aran takes the ring in one hand.
With the other, he grasps her right hand.
The ring slips onto her ring finger as if it is meant to be.
“Consider it a final gift from your aunt, delivered by an old friend.”
She looks up, holding back the tears.
There are no words that can express how thankful she feels.
She smiles and hugs him briefly.
Then she goes back to the street.
Blinded by the light, she doesn’t notice the figure on her way until it’s too late.
A dark shadow covers the sun.
The street noises fade, just a little.
“Where do you think you're going, witch?”
Thick legs in torn pants.
Dark hairs peeking from a dirty shirt.
Bull-like neck.
Pimply round face.
Vincent Micaelson, in all his glory.
Asha giggles a little.
The boy has always targeted her, but he’s harmless. Mostly.
Too afraid of being cursed to even lift a finger.
He’s all insults and slander. Nothing she should be scared of.
“Move aside, Vincent, or I'll really put a curse on you this time”
She tries to circumnavigate him.
Not that she wants to run.
It’s more like she wants to get home to sit down and read. She’s a few pages from the plot twist, she can feel it.
And Vincent is on her way.
Damn boor.
“Oh, how scary, now I'm going to go cry to my mommy” he contorts his big face into a fake cry.
Then he laughs, amused by his own sense of humor.
Asha catches a good view of his impressive array of broken and crooked teeth, all strictly yellow.
Disgusting.
His horrendous face is now just inches from hers.
“I asked”
His saliva squirts on her face.
“Where do you think you're going, witch?”
“At home, where else do you think I'm going?”
She dries her face with the pashmina, her voice muffled.
“I don't waste my days at the inn like you idlers do.”
She points to the entrance of the Old Owl, the only inn in the village and the regular haunt of Vincent and his gang.
The village is not as wealthy as others in the region.
But the villagers can surely afford to revel at the inn for hours on end.
Just as she thought, the boy's friends are sitting on the benches outside.
Beer in their hands.
Eyes on her.
One pair of eyes bothers her the most.
Sebastian’s.
He’s leaning limply with one arm on the edge of the table.
Blond hair falling over his face.
Handsome as a damn angel.
“You think you can walk around town like nothing happened?”
She stares back at Vincent, still spreading saliva into the air.
Planted like a pillar.
“I live here too, remember?” she replies, “for the past twenty years.”
The boy laughs. Loud.
“Do you really think things will be the same now that the old woman has kicked the bucket?”
Asha inhales sharply, straightening her shoulders and preparing for a confrontation.
“Dare to disrespect my aunt again...”
“Your aunt?” Vincent interrupts her. His face now serious.
Asha feels a shiver down her spine.
“You are not a daughter of these lands”
He is shouting now.
“You are not related to any of us. You are an abomination, a demon!”
His screams are so loud, even the other patrons turn toward them.
She has never seen him like this before.
Face red and swollen. Bloodshot eyes.
For the first time, she feels in danger.
“Yes, of course, whatever you want,” she mutters, retrying to get around him.
A huge hand grabs her arm.
The pashmina slips from her shoulders.
“Let me go,” hisses Asha, trying unsuccessfully to free her arm. “I said let me go, Vincent!”
He tightens his grip.
Her skin wrinkles, red under his fingers.
This will bruise.
She looks around desperate.
Useless.
No one stands. No one meets her eyes.
No one would protect her.
Vincent's hand rises against the sun, ready to strike.
She shuts her eyes, waiting for the hit.
But the blow doesn't come.
One.
Two.
Three seconds pass.
No hit.
The noises coming from the inn’s benches stop.
Asha narrows her eyes.
What she sees leaves her speechless.
Sebastian isn't at the table anymore.
He's at her side, one hand on his friend’s arm.
His figure between Vincent's hand and Asha's face.
She can't see his face, but the wind carries his scent.
Wisteria and honey.
Her head feels light all of a sudden.
Sebastian saved her.
He came.
“That's enough, Vince,” he says calmly.
Vincent looks at him, mouth open.
“The hell are you doing, Perry?”
“The beer is getting warm. If you waste any more time on this, it'll taste like piss,” he points out in a drawling voice.
He looks at her over his shoulder.
Eyes emotionless.
“She's not worth it.”
Something inside her cracks.
She nods slightly, as if agreeing.
Not worth it.
He's right, she shouldn't be surprised.
Vincent considers it.
Beyond his pig-like eyes there's something.
Almost as he's calculating some difficult mathematics.
Then his hand lowers to scratch his neck, smiling at his friend.
“You're right, she's not worth it.”
He spits at Asha's feet and heads back for the inn.
The wind brings some fractured curses back to Asha.
“Thanks,” she whispers.
Sebastian’s silence is enough of an answer.
He doesn't even look at her. He just walks back to the inn.
Soon the mugs start to clink again.
Like nothing happened.
But something happened.
He saved her.
Her fingers tremble.
That's what happened.
Right?
