Chapter 9 - Settling In, Spiralling Gently

The little apartment above the apothecary was smaller than she was used to, but the creaking floorboards and crooked windows gave it character. There were flowers in the window box, though they were half-wilted from last week’s sun. She made a note to ask the shopkeeper below if she could water them. Or just do it and pretend it was a favour.

The kitchen was barely more than a stovetop and a sink, but it was enough.

Neia stirred the bubbling pot one last time and ladled the stew into a chipped ceramic bowl. It was a simple thing: carrots, wild mushrooms, and thick root vegetables stewed with lentils and herbs she’d foraged on the road. She’d added a splash of vinegar and a drizzle of oil to finish it, which brought the sharpness and earthiness together just so. Steam curled up with the scent of thyme, roasted garlic, and something subtly sweet. Maybe from the yams.

She sliced a hunk of bread she’d bought at the market stall that morning. It was crusty on the outside, soft on the inside. She rubbed a clove of roasted garlic over it before dipping it in the broth. The first bite made her hum, involuntarily. Hearty. Nutty. Comforting. The kind of meal that reminded her she was alive. And more than that, she was safe.

After dinner, she washed up, humming faintly under her breath. The tune was something from home, one of the old lullabies her father used to hum when he was still well. The shower cleared away the dust of the day, and by the time she stepped out, her body felt lighter, her mind quieter. She slipped into a soft, flowy muslin dress, off-white with frayed hems. The kind of dress that moved with her when she walked and held warmth just long enough after she stepped away from the bath.

Standing in front of the mirror, she began untying the small orange ribbon at the end of her braid. Her fingers worked through the strands slowly, brushing out the long waves of dark brown hair. She parted it to one side, tugged it forward over her shoulder, and set the ribbon carefully beside her brush. A small glass jar of balm came next — a gentle herbal salve she’d made herself back in Candlekeep. She dotted it onto her skin with practiced ease, massaging it into her cheeks, her brow, the corners of her jaw.

Somewhere between the second pass of the brush and the last swipe of balm, the memory slipped in. The tea. The man with the sweet drink. Her face dropped into her hands with a groan. “Ughh… Oak Father, strike me down.”

”She peeked through her fingers a second later.

“…except maybe not before I try a different tea.”

She wasn’t a stranger to nerves or new places. But there had been something extra embarrassing about how casually she’d barged in. She wasn’t even sure why she sat down at his table. It had felt safe. Familiar. Like she’d walked into a memory.

Which was absurd.

Still, he’d been polite. Intense, but not unkind. And definitely her type, if she were the type to still have a type. Broad shoulders, tall, a strong but gentle aura, ears that flushed so red you could probably track his heartbeat through them.

“Stop,” she told herself. “You have a job to do.”

And she did. In a few days, she’d start her first day as a researcher at Morgrave University. New routines. New colleagues. New texts to chase down and catalogue, especially anything that might help her continue what she started back at Candlekeep.

But for tonight, the stew had been good, the night was quiet, and the world, for once, didn’t feel like it was ending.