Page 12 of The Noldrin Witch

Morgaine forgot about the girl the moment she stepped into the apothecary. The delicious smell of roots and incense quickly lifted her spirits. This was one of her most frequent stops in the city, and the familiar face of the owner, along with his well-considered charms, gave her more than enough reason to return on an almost monthly basis.

“Morgaine, is that you, wicked woman? I could have sworn a respectable client had just entered.”

“Ah, don’t try to butter me up, you goose,” Morgaine said with a smile.

The name of Morgaine’s friend was Henrik, and in spite of being longer in the tooth than the men she preferred these days, he was still handsome enough to catch the eye. At forty-two springs, the man had never burdened himself with wedlock, and much like Morgaine, valued his freedom more than the warmer comforts of responsibility, outside of tending to his business.

He was a stallion by any measure, tall, broad, and with an angular face that might have passed for an ancient god’s sculpture.

Henrik dusted his hands and, holding a wide smile, made his way around the counter. Morgaine waited for the usual warm welcome he always reserved for her.

“You’ve lost a few pounds, I can tell,” he said as he lifted Morgaine, only to let her slip down his chest as her feet touched the floor again.

Morgaine, not wishing to appear ungrateful for the greeting, proceeded to massage the hardened muscles of Henrik’s arms.

“You never fail to make me feel at home,” she whispered close to his ear as she decided on giving him an additional gesture of her gratitude.

“Ah.” Henrik recoiled, then laughed. “I can close the store, if you want.”

Morgaine shook her head. “I don’t want to inconvenience you. I came only for more Sardon roots. You won’t believe how many people are in need of a good lice potion during a war.”

“Are you giving your usual discounts?” Henrik asked, looking at her with knowing eyes.

Morgaine shrugged. “What can I say? I’m a generous soul.”

The considerations Morgaine more often than not extended were, quite coincidentally, reserved for young and attractive fellows who, being short on coin, somehow found their way into her good heart.

She always reminded herself that she was more noble than she gave herself credit for, and that, being a woman in the middle of her years, she still had plenty of generosity to spread.

“Fortunate souls the ones who find their way to you, dear Morgaine,” Henrik said as he opened a wooden box that contained the blessed roots.

With the dexterity Morgaine had witnessed many times in private, Henrik wrapped the roots in thick paper and handed a generous bunch to her. His strong hands took the parcel with such ease that, added to the earlier warmth of his reception, Morgaine quickly reconsidered Henrik’s proposition.

“How much do I owe you, love?” she said.

“It’s on the house, beautiful.”

Morgaine gave a small shake of her head. “That’s not a good bargain, and I like to pay fair.”

Henrik chuckled and with parted lips, waited for Morgaine to join him on the other side of the counter, where, if both bent low enough, more private business could be conducted.

The exchange was brief, but it left both Morgaine and Henrik with smiles so wide one could believe they had visited heaven for a moment. It was a wonder how wrapping herbs, bones, and bugs all day could lend the hands of a man the skills of an artist of the human shape, a sculptor no less.

As a man of deep reciprocity, Henrik ended up giving Morgaine so many tokens of his appreciation in the form of herbs, flowers, and other ingredients he knew she used often that he finally handed her a basket to carry the provisions home. Morgaine at times feared she might bankrupt her friend, but she trusted in his good judgment.

After the much-needed respite from the long journey, and having paid a visit to the butcher and baker as well, Morgaine was ready for a night of rest. By then, the rain had already claimed the cobblestones, and mud was beginning to gather at every corner she took. Having been so well treated already, she found herself in a generous mood, and thinking of Elise, Morgaine decided to walk the inns in the northern part of the city.

She knew that if the owners of those wicked places figured that the girl was from Falaine, they would likely raise their fees to an outrageous sum in hopes of deterring any foreigner from staying in Metz for long.

“That dress,” Morgaine sighed. “She’s going to fool no one with that.”

The fashion of the Falaine lands was a serious affair. In Bromheim, women tended to display a bit more of what God had given them: low necklines, laced bodices, and heavy practical fabrics that only made the softness beneath more appealing. The Falaine people, by contrast, wore their restraint as plainly as their clothes: more layers, ruffles, ribbons, and even coverings for the hair. The colors differed as well. Where Falaine favored brighter shades, the people of Bromheim leaned toward muted tones, simple colors meant to draw attention to the person rather than the clothing.

Everything was more honest in these beautiful lands. Even the men hid nothing from the eye, strutting about in those tight leggings Morgaine liked so much. One wasted no time following false leads, though she had to admit that even in the most straightforward of places, some still found ways to improve upon what nature had seen fit to provide.

Anyhow, Morgaine figured Elise had already found her way into trouble. The people of Metz could smell a foreigner from a league away. Elise was neither accustomed to the local lore nor to the more sincere dealings of the people here, and Morgaine suspected the dress alone had done the rest.

The city of Metz was much like any other in Bromheim, a place of stone and trade. People of Falaine liked to look down on the famous Bromheim gossip, but Falaine could rival the entire kingdom in the same art.