elia kneels next to the bathtub, rests her slender arms and right cheek on its cool edge. she peers at the willowy figure resting on the bottom of the white porcelain like a tired fawn. her matted black hair is strewn around her, a pool of ink. poor adella. this happens every now and then. it could be a shortage of sung praises. an absence of violets to eat. a lack of pretty faces to cheer her. to this day, she is not certain whether or not it will truly kill her poor mistress. but it is true her perfumed scent fades, and her hair becomes dull and tangled, and she stops painting her pretty eyes with that signature liner. bury me shallow, i will be back.

with the patience of someone accustomed to these theatrics, elia gently disentangles the heap of slender limbs, hoisting the willowy girl upright. it's a start. " oh, i'd dislike very much to bury you. surely you are far too beautiful to die, adella, even if only briefly. and the earth covering your pretty face! no, that surely wouldn't do. what if instead... i maybe soaked your hair in that black tea mixture, and combed it for you with your favorite whale bone comb, and arranged it in your wonderful braids with pearls? i have jars of dried rose petals just waiting to be eaten. and so many songs to be sung. doesn't that sound so much more delightful than crusty, damp earth, hmm? "

it is a pathetic attempt. half-hidden behind a chair, knees tucked close, peering at the stranger standing five feet from her. the sheer silk fabric of the dress strewn over the chair did very little to hide her. but there is a part of elia that wonders if she meant to hide well at all. there is something about the swan-necked, gracious creature, with eyes that somehow remind her of those of a doll, too large, too blue, the lashes too long, eyes that make her feel feverish, like she's stuck in a dream or nightmare or something in-between. she is beautiful in an uncanny way, like the infinite heavens and the depthless sea. suddenly elia realizes she's gawking. still she cannot stop herself. she does not know whether she should be in awe of the pale, willowy stranger or terrified.

she drops her gaze and her mind clears. the hot flush that had colored her cheeks pink disappears. elia breathes in deeply ( breathes in the smell of rosemary and lavender and the hundred other herbs she has hanging dried from the beams of her cottage ) and scrambles to her feet, pats the dust off her velvet dress. she knows better than to look at the stranger again. that sort of beauty is magic. she'll starve right where she stands. " you're strangely good at finding. no one is meant to be here. this cabin and i are hidden deep in these dark woods for a reason. but at least you're not a man. why are you here? "