Chapter 162: Drama queen
"I had to be perfect," Isabella said one last time, her voice softer now as her fingers busied themselves, adjusting the balance stone—a wide, flat slab of sun-smoothed stone with a shallow bowl carved into the center, perfect for measuring by weight and feel.
Ophelia said nothing.
The clearing fell quiet, the air thick with unsaid things. In the distance, a windbeast howled low through the trees, and the rustle of leaves became the only sound that dared remain.
Isabella moved like clockwork, untouched by the silence. She reached for a dew-horn flask—carved from the horn of a mist antelope, its sides smooth and warm from the sun—and tilted it, narrowing her eyes at the liquid sloshing within. Her lips pressed into a firm line. Not a single strand of her hair was out of place. Her back remained straight, jaw tight. Every motion careful, rehearsed.
Ophelia shifted, toes curling against the packed earth. Dry leaves rustled beneath her feet as she hesitated, hands clasped at her belly, unsure whether to speak—or just slip away into the brush.
Then she did something Isabella didn’t expect.
She toddled forward and wrapped her arms around her.
Isabella froze.
"What—what are you doing?" she stammered. Her hands were still holding the flask of moonflower oil and a stone-leaf stirrer. She didn’t even know where to place them. Or her hands. Or her mind. Her body was stiff as bark.
"You sounded like you needed one," Ophelia murmured into her shoulder, her voice soft as moss. She was warm—too warm. Her cheek pressed gently against Isabella’s neck, and her breath smelled faintly of honeyfruit. "You say it like it’s normal. But it’s not."
Isabella’s eyes flicked around the clearing, as if the thick trunks and tangled underbrush might part and swallow her whole. She could be heating up the cauldra-root for the base oils. She could be carving the wax mold charms. She had things to do.