Chapter 2: Chapter 1: The Mirror
My mother was a great beauty. Any creature with eyes could've told you that .She had beautiful dark brown hair that naturally laid in ringlets effortlessly down her back with wisps of silver interwoven, not from age but from some rare family trait. I had them too but they weaved through my fire red hair like a pair of vipers rather than gracefully like hers. I remember her best in front of the gold credenza in her bedroom, standing in the mirror fixing her makeup. The dresser itself made the shabby cottage room come alive, yet it was for sure out of place. The rouge she swiped across her cheeks and eyelids made her glow, literally glow with a radiance that was incomparable. She lined her eyes with kohl making her large lilac eyes pointed and elegant contrasting against her honey tan skin. I used to crawl on the floor beneath her admiring the twists of the the gold dresser knobs and the splintering wood floor that creaked when I stood up. The cottage was old but her light filled hallways and brought life to the crumbling white stone exterior and the splintered wooden floorboards that lined all the rooms. If sun rays were possible to radiate from her skin, I could have sworn that's what I saw. She would smile down at me as she dabbed her wrists with the thick cologne she wore, that smelled like pine trees, pine trees and juniper.
We would spend the days together. Cooking, sewing, and harvesting herbs from our small garden. In those days father worked as a messenger within city limits for the library of free thought, "Dispersing grains of knowledge across all walks of life", as mother boasted. Even then their love was infectious and vibrant, she admired him even though his work left us doing odd jobs and pinching pennies to make ends meet. She would seamstress sometimes for the brothel across the road, fixing bright lace teddies and bodices for the working girls. They all beamed with red rogue and low necklines. I thought them princess, even after I found out how they serviced men and women . Their smell of flowers and lipstick lingered through my smiles as they gawked over my cuteness.
When She brought me with her the girls fussed over my hair calling it beautiful and unique as they attempted to fix the frizzy mess of curls plopped on my head. The mistress would give me candies while mother repaired knickers and hosiery, worn from overuse. The men and women clients for that matter were seldom seen , rather entered through the back alley door to remain discreet. The women seemed like family and my fondest memories were of them dressing me up in brightly colored gowns and heels that were far two oversized. Sometimes the mistress would take me on errands in main street while mother had large piles of garments to repair. We go from shop to shop picking up spices, herbs and food for the girls. I always noticed how certain men stared at her, full figured and gorgeous even in her middle age. Like she was a piece of meat from the butcher, ready for the taking. Women were not as eager, averting eyes from us like we were contagious . Or hailing curses and insults in various languages.
When the brothel had no use of a seamstress mother was a human healer of sorts. Unlike the witch healers on the east side of the city, she used potions and tinctures to aid minor injuries, not magic abilities. For our small area of the city, money was tight, family incomes were low as such the witch healers stayed far away from customers that could not afford to be mended. Mother would take in the poor souls off the street begging for money and Fixed external wounds, those she could see at least. New Mothers would come on the cusp of birth, many lacking mothers or sisters of there own to help. She was family to them. Charging pennies or accepting a simple thank you as payment for those she "deemed worthy in heart" as she would say. Sometimes I thought when she looked at patients she could see them down to the core. The way her lavender eyes fixed on theirs gave new meaning to the "windows to the soul" saying .She healed everything from broken bones and measles to pustules and boils at the brothel. Her claim to fame was her special mixtures and concoctions of herbs that had fast and miraculous results. She had a knack for growing rare varieties such as fire ferns and lavender-colored basil. The merchants in the town square would always beg for samples and seeds to cultivate their own, with little luck, unfortunately. I could sit and watch her for hours mixing and grinding and treating those who couldn't afford more skilled hands.
Our days were like adventures, I remember fondly being in tow with her around every corner. Seeing patients, pretending they were my own as I assisted mother with bandages. I would imagine the ladies at the brothel sirens, luring lonely souls to a calm torrent sea. In my world of mermaids and magic and good, I never expected a twist in the road, a hazard in my path.
When she left me and my father I could barley look at the gold dresser, let alone open it to smell her again. To this day Father never told me why she left. I had come home from school to find him sitting at our cottage's small kitchen the smell of ale encircling the room. It pierced my nose as I walked through the threshold. He was slumped over in his seat and wheezing. I poked his face not sure if the drunkard was my happy and whimsical father. Who told stories of adventure and looked with amazement everytime he saw my mother. He awoke with a start and gazed at me through glassy green eyes . After a few audible sobs he told me she had left, most of her things were missing from the house now that I looked around. His babbling trailed on and soon I tuned it out felling nothing but terror . My head whipped around the house. Her candles that she kept on the mantle place were gone,so were her bundle of herbs in the kitchen we harvested a fortnight ago. But it wasn't the missing items I noticed first. Her warmth was gone, her light. What was left was a 10 year old girl and her father, to drunk to sit upright. That dresser haunted me ,called to me like the hymn she used to hum when she baked in the late afternoon. I ignored the weird calling and cried in a fit of rage, only to fall asleep in a fetal position soothed by a lingering pine odor.
Gifts
-- Gift
received Weekly Power Status
-- Power
Ranking 
-- Power
stone