#apprentice sabine

Calla Lily

Even though Tuesdays weren’t the busiest night at the Rowdy Raven, Sabine somehow preferred it like this – the crowd quieter, more subdued, the regulars drinking and chatting in hushed tones at the bar, couples tucked away into booths, off in their own little worlds. Of course, Sabine was never one to shy away from the crowds, the raucous revelry of the busy weekend nights, especially when the little quartet played and she could dance and dance and dance, all eyes on her. But tonight, with the candles burning low, the string lanterns flickering in the rafters, the sunset lifting her gentle crimson veil through the windows – it was almost romantic.

From her spot in the back, she could see the whole bar, see when a familiar silhouette, lithe and limber, darkened the doorframe; a single, storm-gray eye, nearly obscured by wild auburn waves, swept over the bar, searching for something, something or someone.

Instinctively, with a soft, curling smile, Sabine let her magic flower from her fingers, petal out around her in silent, shimmering waves. Gone was the thick braid of sable hair, pinned to her crown, gone were her jewel-bright eyes, gone was her flushed cheeks – in their place, tanned, toned skin spotted with sun-drenched freckles, eyes dark as the void, ash-white hair obscured by patterned headwrap.

A soft snort at her side, as Aster set down her drink – juniper liquor, sweetened with lavender syrup, magicked to sparkle and effervesce. “You’re cruel, Sabine.” She purred, flashing the young magician a sly, gap-toothed grin. They both watched as Doctor Julian Devorak swept off his cloak, revealing a bouquet of snow-white calla lilies, their throat the color of dusk. Slowly, slowly, the flush bubbled up on his pale cheeks like rosy wine, and he took a tentative seat at the bar, awkwardly shuffling the bouquet from one hand, to the other, then into his lap.

“Oh, let me have a little fun, Aster.” Sabine crooned. Even her voice was different, normally high and clear and bright, like a bell, but now, it was throaty, sultry.  She took one sip of her drink, and veiled it as well – Prakran cumin ale – before rising liquidly.

“You wan’ fun?” Aster’s chuckle was almost evil as her eyes gleamed. “Ge’ him t’ kiss you, and drinks tonigh’ are on te house.”

“And you’re calling me cruel?” Sabine laughed now, loudly, too loudly – Julian’s head shot up in their direction – he giave Aster a cursory wave, but his gaze fell onto Sabine, his brow furrowing curiously. When she winked at him, slow, deliberate, playful, he flushed even more and turned back to the bar, where Dara was already shaking him up a salty bitters.

And for a moment, he was almost too cute, blushing like that, too sweet to tease like this, the way he bounced his knee with that endless, restless energy Sabine found so attractive, the way he chewed absentmindedly on his thumbnail, trying desperately to avoid looking back at her again, the way he cradled the lilies in his lap, careful not to bruise a single petal. And yet, as she crossed the room on slow, level strides, the backstory was building in her head, the accent swimming at the back of her throat. She was committed to the theater of it now – there was no turning back, not even when she slid into the barstool next to his, and his eye widened visibly, with what, Sabine couldn’t quite say.

“Is this seat taken?” She purred, planting an elbow on the bar, brushing a dense curl from her brow that had fallen out of her headwrap. “Handsome men like you shouldn’t have to sit alone.”

“Ah, I, um...” Sabine had to suppress her laughter, the way he was avoiding her gaze now. “I’m waiting for someone.”

“Are you sure it’s not me?” She placed one long, elegant fingertip onto the mouth of one of the lilies in his lap. “You brought me Calla lilies, after all.”

“They’re… they’re not…”

Sabine raised one eyebrow dramatically now, taking a slow sip of her drink, before cooing: “No Calla lilies for Calla?”  

His flush deepened, a berry-red now, as he finally turned to her, his gaze sweeping over her – he opened his mouth to speak, but when he said nothing, Sabine relented with a gentle laugh, winking at him. “Your date is lucky. A handsome and thoughtful man. A rare combination.”

“Ah, erm – well...” Julian stammered a little, then cleared his throat. “I do my best.”

Here, Sabine tutted. “You need more confidence, habib.” She waved at Dara, just as Aster leaned to him, whispered in his ear – the dark smirk that flitted briefly across his scarred face was as mischievous as his wife’s. “A round of shots, I believe, barkeep. Perhaps your liveliest firewater?”

“That – that’s not necessary, I...” Julian stammered, but Sabine held up a freckled hand.

“You have a little of Prakran in your accent, no? So you know it’s rude to turn down a drink.” She grinned wickedly now. “You might as well call a woman ugly to her face.”

“Now, I really must insist –” Julian interjected, just as Dara slid them both two shots of dark liquor.

“What?” Sabine teased. “Am I not beautiful enough for you? Not as beautiful as your date, the one who’s left you waiting?”

Sabine had thought Julian couldn’t get redder, and perhaps that was true – because his face drained of all color as his visible eye widened in mortification. “No, no, that’s absolutely – completely, absolutely not what I meant! You’re… you’re, ah, stunning, and any other night I’d be – well, that’s to say, I do find you quite attractive, don’t get me wrong, but I…”

He paused now, looking down at the bouquet in his hands; for a moment, he was completely silent, his brow furrowed, contemplative. Then, a soft smile crept across his face, warming his sharp features, pale skin twinkling in the gentle candlelight. “I quite like this woman. She’s whip-smart, she’s funny, she’s gorgeous. And I… I’m not lucky in things like this. I tend to mess things up.” He looked up at her now, eye clear. “I don’t want to mess this one up.”

“Oh, Julie, you sweetheart.” Sabine purred, smiling widely now as she let the illusion fall away, like petals dropping from a wilted flower – back again was her dark, milkmaid braid, her “I thought you’d be more fun than that.”

He laughed now, his deep, barking laugh, eye flashing with knowing as he presented the flowers to her. “Oh, cheríe, you gave yourself away. No self-respecting Prakran would call herself ‘Calla’ - it means bathroom.”

Sabine pouted, even as she took a deep sniff of her flowers – she couldn’t hide the satisfied smile that sneaked across her cheeks. “I knew I shouldn’t have gone with Prakran.”

“Your Prakran accent was lovely, though.” Julian said with a wink, one that almost worked, with his eyepatch. “Even you were being a little cruel.”

“I’ll make it up to you.” Sabine murmured, looking up to him, letting her eyelashes flutter a little.

“Oh, you will now?” Julian’s smirk was raffish. “And however will you do that?”

“How about some dancing?” Sabine’s eyes glittered with a knowing mischief. “For starters.”

“It’s a date.” Julian replied, his gaze soft, as he dipped down, meeting her in a sweet, lingering kiss, scented gently with the smell of lilies.

Lavender

Sabine whipped around the little flat above the shop, her blue-blue eyes wild and flashing. She couldn’t keep still – tidying the cluttered writing desk here, wiping down the kitchen counter here – but she kept her gaze pointedly away from Julian, who stood in the center of the room, still as death. He was staring at his shaking hands, clenching them into frustrated fists, unclenching them slowly with the creak of old leather.

“I don’t know what you want from me.” He muttered finally, though his voice echoed clearly, carefully, through the still room.

Sabine whipped around now. “What I want from you? What I want from you.” She flung the dripping rag in her hand down, letting it splat loudly on the worn wood floor, crossing the little flat in barely three long strides. She stopped just short of him, her stance tense, her shoulders shaking. “You know what I want.”

“It’s impossible.” His response was quick, loud, his eyes snapping up to hers – there was a strange, unnatural flash in his eyes, one that sent strange sparks down Sabine’s spine. “I can’t leave her. You knew that when we started this.”

Sabine threw her hands out now, laughed, cold and mirthless. “When we started this. When we started this I was just a chambermaid. But I’m so much more now, Lasha. You’ve… you’ve made me more.”

A flash of an amused smile, nothing more than a curious turn of Julian’s lip, and then he was back, brows furrowed, stony-faced. “It would be war, Lavender. A war between my family and hers. Is that what you want?”

“If it means I can be with you!” Sabine wailed now, turning back to Julian, eyes bright with passion. “You don’t love her! You never did… and what we have...” Her hand flew to her forehead and her eyelashes fluttering dramatically as she heaved a long, labored breath.

“My flower… your weak heart...” Julian began, but Sabine was already dropping. With a graceful dip, Julian caught her easily by her shoulders, tutting softly.

They froze a moment, as if uncertain how to continue, and then Sabine’s blue-blue eyes shot open with a wicked smile. “Who wrote this tripe?”

Julian let out a loud, barking laugh, quickly righting Sabine and brushing off her skirt. “Some aristocrata brat from the Heart District, one of Lucio’s patrons. It wouldn’t surprise me if he commissioned it himself.”  

“Arcana help us.” Sabine giggled. “Does Lucio think people actually talk like this?”

“I doubt he read it.” Julian winked at her now, working much better this time without his eyepatch, long discarded in the quiet moments with just the two of them. “Lucio can barely read Vesuvian.”

Sabine snorted, but still worried her lip as she picked up her script, worrying over the next lines. “Still, there’s only so much you can do with bad lines...”

“We’ll just have to keep practicing.” Julian purred, dropping a kiss onto Sabine’s temple. “Not that I mind.”

“I’m sure you don’t.” Sabine replied, voice silky as she craned up for another kiss, and Julian obliged. “From the top?”

“From the top, Lavender.”

Sabine smacked him on the shoulder with the rolled up thick of her script, smirking as she scrambled back to her place.

Night-Orchid

Julian didn’t even know what time it was when he finally locked the door to his Southside clinic behind him, the sky above him swirling and inky black, blotted with rain. He threw his cloak over his shoulders, cheeks flushed from the cold, from the creeping heat of his exhaustion that simmered over his shoulders, his neck.

It had been a normal day in his clinic – salty coughs and kids with runny noses, the occasional scrape from a barfight – until it was nearly time to close, when his clinic was suddenly swarmed with a crowd of the violently ill. An entire wedding had been served spoiled food in a nearby hall. Even after all his patients had been treated, he and his apprentices had been scrubbing the clinic until well into the night.

Even worse – Julian’s cheeks burned even brighter – he was supposed to meet Sabine for dinner, a dinner she had prepared herself (and Arcana knows Sabine wasn’t the type to cook.) He’d waffled for only a moment before regretfully sending Malak after her with a note of his condolences. He only hoped now, at this late hour, he wouldn’t disturb her sleep when he returned home.

The familiar path from the Southside to the Market blended in front of Julian as he zoned out, thinking of Sabine – he’d been imagining her all day, her long hair tied up in a cutely hectic ponytail as she pored over Asra’s recipes, nursing some cursed but delicious concoction of curry, or maybe soup – he barely let himself dream of anything more complex, like the flatbreads and braises with rice from his homeland, or even the rich roasts of Prakra. But even more than the food, he’d imagined her eyes, the way her brows cinched with concentration, the way she laughed at herself when she made a mistake, the way she sang as she danced around the kitchen on her graceful feet.

But the shop was dark when he reached it, the lamp long-extinguished – he let himself in with his key, careful to step over the one creaky floorboard on the stair as he slipped up to the flat he and Sabine shared, divesting himself of his cloak and waistcoat in the crowded wardrobe on the landing. A faint light flickered under the curtain that separated the stairs from the flat – no doubt a single candle, left for him to find his way when he finally returned home. He lifted the curtain, still as silent as he could – but he could barely stifle his gasp.

The room was fragrant with orchids, strands of them woven together and strung from wooden rafters holding up the adobe brick ceiling. Some had been magicked inky blue, some the color of sky, and some a silky, snowy white, the petals now flame-orange in the light of three candles, magicked to float over the crowded kitchen table. There was the feast Sabine had promised him – a whole roast chicken, skin still crisped and luscious, studded with Vesuvian oranges and whole sprigs of rosemary, roasted potatoes and carrots glistening with butter. Crepes folded daintily like napkins on dessert plates, ringed with supremed orange slices and drizzled with sticky caramel. It was all still steaming, softly, magicked to keep warm for him for whenever he may return.

And then, there was Sabine – curled in her favorite reading chair by the kitchen, in her sleeping robe, an open book nestled over her knee. Her hair was still up in a delicate chignon, her cheeks still dusted with a touch of powder and rouge, even as she snored gently, her full cheek pillowed against the arm of the chair. She’d waited up for him.

He crossed the room as quietly as he could, trying his best not to startle her when he knelt in front of her, placing his gloved hand gently on her knees. And yet it wasn’t until he leaned forward and kissed her that she stirred, groaning sweetly as she came to.

“Julian –” She began, her voice sweet and heavy with sleep, but he pressed a finger to her lips.

“If I’d have known this was this kind of special dinner, I’d have come sooner.” He murmured. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You’re out saving the world.” She purred, reaching out to gently touch his face. “Dinner can always wait.”

Julian flushed, just a little, but still smiled warmly, his one-eyed gaze roving over her. “What was the occasion?” He smarted, a little, to think he’d missed a milestone. An anniversary, of something? A birthday? For a horrible moment, he wondered if he’d forgotten hers – or, perhaps worse, his own?

Sabine giggled now. “No reason. Other than that I love you.”

“Oh, cherie. I love you too.” Julian muttered as he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.

“Are you hungry?” Sabine asked. “The food should still be warm.”

“I am...” His voice was low and smoky now as his kisses traveled down her neck. “But not for any kind of food.”