“So the little flower has finally figured everything out.” Dieve sighed, shaking her head. “They really did a number on you, didn’t they? I thought you would have figured it out years ago.”
Nymiria’s brow furrowed, eyes scanning the dusty townhouse and taking in every inch. Dried herbs hung from lines along the ceiling, dangling just low enough for someone to reach up and pluck at if needed. Shelves lined each wall, filled with brown leather tomes that had gathered dust and cobwebs over the years. The sconces, probably once a gleaming copper, had oxidized and were speckled black and brown, flickering candles sitting inside each wax-coated glass orb. The floors had large holes in some places, creaking horribly, sagging and soft in others.
There was a room at the end of a dimly lit corridor, the smell of sage and bay leaves seeping out from under the crack at the bottom of the door.
She’d smelled that scent before. Her mother was a ritualistic pagan and for the majority of her childhood, her mother had smelled strongly of herbs like patchouli and pepper clove. Inasha told her that the herbs would ward away negativity and protect her from evil forces, but Nymiria never really believed her. Evil still found a way in.
She drew in a deep breath, giving Dieve a smile that did not quite reach her eyes. “Unfortunately, being trapped in my own mind has made it difficult for me to see the truth sometimes.”
“I fear majority of the world suffers from the same ailment, little flower.” Dieve looked thoughtful for a moment, staring at the wall to her left and placing her hand on the knob of the door. “But that is what makes the world interesting. A life without surprises seems fairly dull. Plot twists make for a wonderful story.” Dieve beamed a toothy grin in her direction. “Don’t you think?”
A very true statement, but even with all of the twists and turns she experienced, what sort of twisted person would be interested in the story ofherlife? She just hoped that whenever acolytes decided to transcribe her memoirs, they would leave out the parts where she stared at a wall for three weeks. Perhaps…fluffthings up a little so her tale was not so depressing.
Could she even request something of that nature?
Before she could deign a response, Dieve was lightly rapping on the door, turning the knob and opening it just enough to peer inside, the smell of herbs grew stronger.
“Are you ready, my dear?” The old woman asked.
There was a light rustling from beyond, a muffled grunt and athunkof something loud landing on a table. “Bring her in.” The voice said.
Nymiria and Desi exchanged twinning expressions of surprise, for when Hilla and Lorelei claimed the Rune Witch was young, Nymiria believed her to be in her early twenties, at least. But this voice sounded much younger.
Dieve opened the door the rest of the way. The nerves that were tangled and fussy when Nymiria arrived were being replaced with something far more violent, her stomach threatening to empty itself.
Phyona, Owen’s little sister, glanced at them from her place at her table, flicking through a large tome as they entered the room. Nymiria felt like hiding her face. She felt like turning and running, but instead she pressed a shaking hand to the enchanted item tucked into the bodice of her dress. As if sensing the object, Phyona’s eyes lifted to her immediately. She observed Nymiria closely, with narrowed eyes and a pensive stare.
If she was angry at her being here, Phyona did not show it. The first and last interaction they had was tense, but Nymiria should have guessed there was more to the girl than what could be seen. She had exuded a fierceness that only a skilled witch could. And while Nymiria hadn’t met many, she knew enough of them to recognize their power.
“Stop gawking and strip.” Phyona sighed. “I know that I am young, but I am skilled and practiced. Dieve has seen to it that I perfected my craft before I took clients.” She moved around the table and shot a pointed look in Desi’s direction. “But I was unaware that we would have an audience.”
Desi lifted both hands in defense, eyes wide. “Not an audience. An escort, of sorts.”
Once again, the young girl looked to Nymiria. “Right. I forgot you are acourtesan.” She said the final word with a specific snap to her tone, one that told Nymiria that Owen's sister was probably more aware of what Nymiriatrulydid inside of that palace and that she was not really a courtesan at all—she was a killer.
Dieve made a sound that was mix between a laugh and choking, her gaze sharpening on the young girl. “Phyona, I’d watch that tongue if I were you.”
“Why?”
“Because she’s a goddess.” Desi answered. “And because we need your help.Weneed your help.” She pointed to her ears before gesturing around the room.
Nymiria was so thankful for her.From the moment they walked into that room, it felt as if every thought had shriveled and turned to dust in her mind. She couldn’t even begin to speak, let alone formulate a coherent sentence. What could she possibly say to her?
“A goddess?”
“The Anam, dear. We’ve studied this.” Dieve groaned as she fell into a chair, rubbing over the swollen knuckles on one of her hands. “When one god dies, another is selected out of many suitors to take their place. Nymiria was selected before she was even born.”
Phyona’s hands uncurled from the skirt of her threadbare dress, her shoulders slumping. “Do I bow?”
Finally finding the courage to make her voice heard, Nymiria snorted. “Good gods, no. Never do that.” She laughed, but the amusement soured when her eyes landed on the witch’s table. Knives and needles were scattered about the surface, looking more like a slaughtering slab than anything.
“Don’t look so frightened. I haven’t even seen the runes yet, so there is no telling if they will need to be lanced or not.” She motioned towards the table. “Undress and lie down, please.” The girl whirled around, giving the rest of the room her back, but Nymiria was aware that it was for her own privacy.
The moment she shrugged out of her cloak, Desi was behind her and tugging at the laces of her gown until she was able to let it pool around her waist. She took slow steps towards the table, her nerves getting the best of her as she looked down at all of the herbs spread around like confetti on the surface. She drew in a steadying breath before crawling on top of it, laying belly-down. Phyona moved to the table. She was slow and precise in her steps, her fingers cool to the touch as they traced over each rune.
“Someone must have truly despised you.” Phyona whispered. “There are much cleaner ways to do this work, but these look as if they were rushed and deep. Not only that—“
“She used an old knife.” Nymiria muttered, eyes fluttering closed to stop the flow of tears that were now burning them. “They got infected not long after.”
