Lustful Alchemy

43. CASSANDRA

London greets me with sunshine that clashes with the city's typically gloomy demeanor—a light and clarity I can't quite define: is it the promise of something bright ahead? Or merely a cruel mockery of fate?

I ponder this as I watch motes of dust dancing in the air, seated on the rigid chair in The Daily Prophet's waiting room. The polished marble floor gleams like a mirror, and the dark wooden paneling on the walls feels like it's closing in on me, holding its breath along with the nervous tapping of Aesop's shoes against the floor beside me.

The golden plaque on the door in front of me glints in the dim light: "Carnelian Yates – Editor in Chief". Its gleam feels like a boundary, marking the divide between what has been and what will be.

Aesop shifts slightly, trying to mask his unease. It was his idea to accompany me here, insisting I shouldn't face this conversation alone. Yet, his presence unsettles me as much as it reassures me. I want to give him the best news in the world, to be sure I have everything under control, but the walls of this room seem to press closer, constricting my breath, and I can't quite envision what lies ahead. I don't dare imagine how we would react if things don't go as planned.

I close my eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath to force myself to calm down. Anxiety preys on me as I think about having to relive what happened, to recount it again—to a man. When I open my eyes and glance at Aesop, he's staring at the door, waiting, as though our thoughts are mirrored. His jaw is set tight, and the scar on his face looks even deeper in the light streaming through the window. His beard has grown back, flecking his cheeks, and shadows darken his eyes. I know he hasn't been sleeping, that when he could, he's chosen instead to watch over me. I can't help but feel guilty for this additional burden he's had to bear.

Sensing my gaze on him, he turns to me, breaking the silence. «You have nothing to worry about.» His voice is steady, but there's an undercurrent of tension he can't quite hide. He looks into my eyes, and for a moment, I wonder if he truly believes his own words.

Perhaps he's wondering the same thing himself.
The lump in my throat swells even more, making it impossible to reply or do anything else. I lower my gaze, fixing it on our hands resting close on the armrests, our fingers barely brushing. I find myself mesmerized by our differences—his skin against mine, the raised veins and calluses that speak of his trade.

Somehow, inexplicably, they've found a way to bridge the gap to my delicate, unblemished surface, which conceals scars that in him are so openly worn.

As I lose myself in the intricate texture of his skin, in that warmth so familiar, in that light touch that feels like home, he places his hand over mine, intertwining our fingers. It's a warm, steady touch that makes me wish I could freeze time and avoid everything that lies ahead.

«Whatever happens in there,» he says softly, his voice carrying a gentle note I've come to realize is reserved only for me, «don't forget who you are, what you're worth, and that what happened to you does not define you.»

Before I can reply, the door opens. «Miss Doyle, the editor will see you now.»

I let go of Aesop's hand and stand, trying to ignore the sudden emptiness left by his touch. I walk through the door, but I carry his words with me, a talisman against whatever awaits.

Editor Yates greets me with a warm smile, arms spread wide as though we were old friends, though during my time at this office, we'd rarely crossed paths enough to claim such familiarity. His solid frame fills the small, chaotic, and incredibly vibrant room. Stacks of parchment, newspaper copies, and draft pages scribbled with notes are scattered everywhere, creating a clutter that feels oddly comforting—a mess that, until a few months ago, was my daily routine. The flickering light of an oil lamp casts shadows over the cluttered desk, and the unmistakable scent of ink and parchment saturates the air.