𝐓𝐖𝐎 𝐏𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐃𝐒, douxie casperan

halfway, aster flowers she found in the fields.

be that as it may, only the stars know the truth behind things.

ॱ०      ❛♛       ॱॱ     ✦ॱ           ॰ॱ      ໌ ॑         ०ॱ໋        ✸  ✦࡞        ॱ❜    ✶०ॱ   ✩♚໋ॱ

MIST.

By eventide, streets were blanketed in a thick quilt of misty fog, hiding the markets and shabby old buildings. Disembodied voices and figures hummed, scattered across the misty, murky sea. Hooded, Tristabelle held her basket close as she did her late errands, buying textiles and threads and medicine. First, she had to get the medicine before the pharmacy closed.

The Bisset mother had fallen ill months ago. Her name was Hortense and she was the one that granted Tristabelle some mercy. Giving her medicine was the least Tristabelle could do, really. Even if she never defended Tristabelle when the sisters would berate her. But what could she do, anyway? She loved her actual daughters just a bit more.

For a while, Hortense tried teaching Tristabelle some English. It was difficult. Tristabelle already managed Spanish and French. Now she had to learn this confusing tongue? Well, if Hortense could do it, then Tristabelle could. Possibly. Tristabelle was catching on, at least.

There were some nice English words that the girl liked. She also read a bit too many books when not working. The stories made it easier to learn. Writing, too, had less difficulty than speaking.

"The cures, dear child." The elder apothecary smiled as she handed Tristabelle two vials and a pouch of sweet leaves.

"Thank you, um..." the young girl muttered. She hadn't an idea of what to address this woman as.

"Amabel. No need for formalities."

Tristabelle nodded, timid. She soon walked away.

Every new home the Bissets traveled to had Tristabelle wary. A bit too wary, wanting to hide away. She tugged on her hood to overshadow her face. Even her bright eyes had most concerned. At least this 'Amabel' had some kindness.

Or it could've been a ploy. Who knew?

The fog still covered the streets. Every now and then, Tristabelle would use the ends of her cloak to brush away the vapor, doing at least some good. Yet as she continued, it became more difficult. It grew thicker, more difficult to see and know.

And she soon heard a voice. A haunting song ahead of her, a familiar one. She felt drawn towards it. She walked closer and closer to the source. It became clearer, even.

"Wiladat najmat, euyun mushriqat, 'aeidni, 'unashidu."

And at the source, the mist was suddenly cleared. A woman strolled the empty streets, singing to herself as the night fell. A black dress, quarter-sleeved and reaching the ground, gliding on the stone brick. A grey shawl was draped over her shoulders, knitted intricately. She held a lantern that glowed a soft azure light, clearing the fog in a way.

The woman turned her head slightly. From the corner of her eye, her vision was narrow, but not enough to miss the hooded girl. Even as Tristabelle stood still, watching in a bit of awe, the woman walked towards her.

She spoke in Spanish. "Are you lost?" She queried.

Tristabelle stayed silent.

She spoke again. "Do you understand me?"

Tristabelle nodded.

The woman walked closer. She had a vague smile on her face. Mysterious, perhaps? Like Ris, her skin was dark, her raven hair was coiled, her eyes were bright.