The grinding sound of stone against stone, the crack of dried seeds being turned into a fine powder, the gentle bubble of the bitter, brown liquid in its small copper bowl, the oil fuelled flame beneath it causing a pleasant warmth at her work table. Business as usual, at least in regards to one aspect of her work. Using forceps, she lifted the copper bowl and tipped its offering upon the powder, a bitter scent quickly wafting up into the air. Her work gave her joy, satisfaction, for she knew what to expect, in this instance, something rather unpleasant for whomever found her current concoction within their blood. If the blade did not kill the poor fellow, the mixture most certainly would. It needed to cool, and with her work completed, she found herself drawn to her thoughts and her diary. Closing the workroom door, she ventured to her writing desk, her book already in place, her inkwell, quill and an empty goblet, also a swatch of the finest, deepest, red fabric. Filling the goblet with wine, she began to write.
I wonder, when did I first court the idea of marriage to a man? A child? When did I abandon the teachings of my mother to follow such a foolish path? Such thoughts prey on my mind, more so since speaking with the maid of my business partner. An odd notion to some perhaps, to speak with a maid as if an equal, though she has never brought me reason to dismiss her, rather I find her behaviour quite refreshing. We are both aware of Gerlofs ways, though for her to speak so candidly about him in my presence? Disrespectfully? I wonder if she is satisfied in his employ? Her mood was rather dour, and without surprise, it was caused by a man. She did not elaborate on what exactly occurred, though feels he would be avoiding her at this time. Amusing really, I have caused all manner of mistakes and chaos in my romantic dealings, yet she feels I have men fawning at my feet, well, perhaps, for there are indeed some, though not nearly as many as there once was. I have had them steal for me, kill, fight, and yet..
Laying down her quill, she took hold of the red fabric, her thoughts drifting as her thumb rubbed over the heavy velvet like material. Laying it at her wrist, she looked upon it a long while, the crimson playing beautifully against her pale skin. Eventually though, she returned to her book
...I have decided upon one. The most infuriating of men, one who has driven me to madness countless times and yet I can never seem to cast him out of my heart. I have accepted my fate, I have accepted his proposal. The bard and I are to wed, and rather sooner than anticipated. Why do I wed a man who has treated me so callously? He has burnt his book, he has seen a life without me is perhaps less interesting, maybe I am like an arm, it is difficult to function without one, not impossible of course. Though, he says he loves me, and I believe him.
What do I know of weddings? Nothing. My mother did not wed, my brother I do believe has never wed, I laughed at such an occurrence happening to me. Yet, it shall happen. It shall be done as per custom to the locals, though a private little affair, and then another intimate ceremony in following with our peoples traditions. Our people...that sounds strange to me. I have dismissed the birthland all my life, only using its tongue, given it being my mothers language. Oh mother, whatever will you say?
Laughing under her breath, she quickly quashes it with a mouthful of her wine, though is suddenly alerted to a light knocking at the door. Leaving the book open for the ink to dry, she went to see who it might be, only to be met by a very pregnant woman. Inviting her in, she made her visitor comfortable, welcome, and proceeded with her more respectable line of work, a healer, an apothecary, primarily to the women folk of the town.
