Page 15 of A Touch of Madness

“I can’t,” he says, his voice rough and raw, each word heavy with self-loathing. His eyes open, and they’re wild, swirling with a storm of emotions—hunger, guilt, longing, and something I can’t quite place. “This… I shouldn’t have?—”

He cuts himself off, shaking his head as though trying to clear it. Before I can say anything, he turns on his heel and strides out of the room, his movements quick and deliberate, like he’s fleeing something he can’t face.

I’m left standing there, breathless and trembling, my heart caught somewhere between exhilaration and devastation. My hand still tingles where his lips touched it, the memory of the moment seared into my skin.

And as the silence settles around me, I realize I’m not sure whether I should feel relieved or broken by the space he’s put between us.

* * *

The lingeringsensations of what had happened earlier with Lucian still buzz faintly beneath my skin as I step into Petals and Potions for my first shift. The wound on my hand, now neatly bandaged, throbs in time with my heartbeat—a constant, subtle reminder of the connection we shared. The memory of his lips on my skin and the way his storm-filled eyes had flickered with an emotion I couldn’t name—hunger, guilt, something else—hasn’t left me since.

I can still feel the ghost of his touch, the electric charge between us that seemed to hum louder with every second we stood close. The intensity of that moment lingers in my chest, wrapping tightly around me like an invisible thread I can’t break.

I don’t know how to categorize the emotions swirling inside me. It wasn’t fear, not exactly—though there was an undeniable edge of danger to everything about him. It was trust, too—a reckless, consuming trust that I had no right to feel but did anyway. And now, as I stand surrounded by shelves of vials and jars, I wonder if the wild thrum of my pulse is something I’ll ever grow used to.

I try to push it all away—for now—so I can get started on my first shift with Ravenna.

The shop looks exactly as I remember it: ivy curling lazily around the edges of the windows, shelves brimming with jars and vials in every imaginable hue, and a faint, calming aroma of lavender, sage, and something earthier that I still can’t quite place. It feels like stepping into another world, another dimension, one I belong in—one that hums with quiet, unassuming magic.

Ravenna looks up from the counter where she’s arranging a new display of colorful crystals. The sunlight filters through the window, glinting off her braids and making her silver streaks shimmer. She greets me with a warm smile, setting down a delicate amethyst point.

“Sylvie, right on time. I knew you’d be dependable,” she says, her voice carrying that soothing yet commanding quality she seems to exude effortlessly.

“I figured it wouldn’t be a great start if I was late,” I reply with a small smile.

She chuckles softly, gesturing toward the counter. “Come over here. Let’s ease you into the day.”

Shrugging off my coat, I drape it over the back of a nearby chair and join her at the counter. A nervous flutter stirs in my stomach, but Ravenna’s presence is as grounding as it is intimidating.

“Before we dive in,” she says, leaning on the counter and studying me with those piercing gray eyes, “how are you holding up, dear?”

The question catches me off guard. It’s not the casual, obligatory type of question people ask in passing. There’s weight behind it—genuine concern.

I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. “I’m... managing,” I say finally. My voice is quieter than I intended. “Some days are harder than others.”

She doesn’t press, but her expression softens, and she nods like she understands more than I’ve said. “That’s fair. You’ve been carrying a lot lately. Just know this place isn’t only a refuge for customers—it’s a haven for you too.”

Her words settle over me like a comforting blanket, and I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“All right,” she says briskly, straightening. “Take some time to settle in and then you can get to work by restocking the shelves over there.” She gestures toward a wall filled with jars of dried herbs and powdered roots. “Everything’s labeled, but I’ll be nearby if you have questions. If you’re curious about the elements of anything, let me know. I can give you a brief overview.”

I nod, grateful for the distraction, and make my way to the shelves. The jars feel cool under my fingertips as I pick them up, reading the faded labels: mugwort, valerian root, angelica, damiana. The simple, repetitive task gives my mind something to focus on, and for the first time in days, I feel a sliver of calm.

The doorbell chimes periodically as friendly and knowledgeable customers come and go. Ravenna greets each of them warmly, answering their questions with an ease that suggests she’s done this for centuries. I overhear snippets of conversations—requests for tinctures to ward off bad dreams, crystals for emotional balance, oils for spellwork. I feel like I’m learning so much just by overhearing different protocols and remedies.

The blend of the mundane and the mystical is oddly soothing, and I can’t help but be fascinated by the small rituals unfolding around me.

By mid-afternoon, I’ve gotten the hang of the shop’s layout, and Ravenna seems pleased with my progress. “You’re doing well,” she says as she watches me restock a shelf with small vials of shimmering blue liquid. “You’ve got a good instinct for this.”

Her words bring a warmth I hadn’t expected, and I can’t help but smile.

A few hours later, after the shop has quieted and the customers have started to trickle down in amount, Ravenna approaches me with a small bundle of herbs tied with twine. “Here,” she says, holding it out to me. “Burn this when you need clarity. It might help you untangle whatever’s weighing on your mind.” She smiles. “Especially things with your sister. We can get more into things with her and your goals with her humanity, but let’s ease into it so we don’t overwhelm you, dear.”

I accept the bundle, the faint scent of rosemary and chamomile reaching my nose. “Thank you,” I say, meaning it.

She gives me a knowing look. “I told you before, Sylvie, you’ve got a spark. You’re here for a reason, and it’s not just coincidence. Trust your instincts.”

The weight of her words settles over me as I slip the bundle into my bag. The gentle words remind me of my mother, how she always said the same thing.Trust your gut, Sylvie. Trust your instincts.

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