Chapter 5 Five

It had barely been ten minutes since I opened the shop when I noticed a woman hovering outside, lingering near the door as though she were trying to gather the courage to come in. I could tell she wanted something, although whether it was a potion or simply the courage to ask for something else.

I walked towards the door and reached for the handle, only to find a face I had absolutely no desire to see standing on the other side.

I opened the door and did my very best to ignore the unwanted visitor, but apparently, the man had never been introduced to the concept of taking a hint.

“Pleasant morning to you, Miss Nellie,” Orson said, his voice carrying that irritating confidence of his as the morning sunlight fell across his face, making him look even more handsome than any decent man had a right to be.

What a lucky, blessed bastard. I ignored him completely and turned my attention to the woman standing a little way off, half-hiding her face as though she feared being noticed.

“Hello, Miss,” I said softly, offering her a welcoming smile. “Would you like to come inside with me?”

The woman slowly lifted her head at the sound of my voice, and the moment I saw her face properly, I could tell she had been crying. Her eyes were red and swollen, with tear stains still faintly visible upon her cheeks, and there was something so miserable about the way she stood there that I softened at once.

I reached out and gently touched her arm, offering her a reassuring smile. “Come along, darling. You’ll be much warmer inside.”

She hesitated only briefly before allowing me to guide her through the doorway. I stepped aside to let her enter, only to hear footsteps behind us a moment later.

Of course. Orson followed.

I turned and gave him a cold, dead look that should have been enough to freeze the kettle, but the man merely ignored it as though my displeasure were nothing more than a slight inconvenience. He stepped inside and calmly reached for the door, closing it behind him with an infuriatingly polite little click.

I stared at him, and he smiled.

I rolled my eyes and decided there were some battles worth fighting later. For now, I had a crying young woman to tend to.

I guided her towards one of the comfortable chairs near the fireplace and helped her settle into it before reaching for a thick knitted throw and draping it around her shoulders. She accepted it gratefully, pulling it closer around herself as though she had only just realized how cold she was.

I went behind the counter and poured her a cup of the hot tea I had made earlier, then carried it over and placed it gently in her hands. “Here, darling. Take your time.”

She nodded and wrapped both hands around the cup, letting the warmth seep into her fingers. I stayed nearby without saying anything, giving her the quiet she seemed to need while she slowly gathered herself. There was no point asking questions while she was still fighting back tears, and I had learned long ago that a warm drink could sometimes accomplish what a dozen comforting words could not.

Once her breathing had settled and she seemed a little less shaken, I pulled the chair opposite her closer and sat down, studying her properly.

She looked terribly young, no older than nineteen, perhaps, with soft features that made the sadness in her eyes seem all the more out of place.

“What’s your name, darling?” I asked gently.

She hesitated, lowering her eyes to the tea in her hands as though the answer were somehow hidden beneath the steam. Her fingers tightened around the cup, and I noticed the slight tremble running through them before she finally lifted her gaze to mine.

“Amelia,” she whispered.

“Amelia,” I repeated gently, offering her a small smile. “That is a lovely name.”

Her lips twitched as though she wanted to smile, but whatever little courage she had gathered seemed to disappear almost immediately, and she lowered her eyes again.

I leaned back in my chair, giving her the time she needed. There was something about the way she sat that made me think she was afraid of saying the wrong thing, as though every word had to be carefully chosen before it left her mouth.

“What brought you here, Amelia?” I asked softly.

She said nothing. I waited.

Her fingers tightened around the cup again, and when she finally spoke, her voice was so quiet that I almost missed it. “I need a potion.”

I nodded slowly. “What sort of potion?”

She swallowed, glancing towards the door before looking back at me. “One that can make me forget.”

My heart sank. “Forget what, darling?”

She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her eyes filled with tears instead, and she quickly lowered her face, wiping them away with the back of her hand.

“You do not have to tell me everything at once,” I assured her. “Whatever happened, you are safe here.”

She looked at me then, and there was such raw fear in her expression that I felt a quiet anger begin to settle beneath my ribs.

“My stepfather sold me,” she whispered. I stared at her, then glanced towards Orson, who stood nearby with his hands folded, his expression giving nothing away

“He said we needed the money, and that I should be grateful because the man was willing to marry me.” Her voice shook as she spoke, each word seeming to cost her something. “He took me to Larking and left me there.”

I set my cup down slowly. “Amelia…”

She flinched at the sound of her name, and I softened my voice at once. “What did the man do to you?”

Her eyes dropped to her hands, and for several seconds she said nothing. Then she pulled the blanket more tightly around herself before slowly pushing back the sleeve of her dress.

My breath caught.

There were marks along her skin, some already healing and others still angry against the softness of it, but it was the sight of the burns that made the warmth drain from my face.

“He did that,” I whispered. I stared at the marks, and suddenly every muscle in my body felt painfully tense. “He burned you?” She nodded, tears rolling down her cheeks. The anger that rose inside me was so sharp I could barely keep it from showing on my face. My hands trembled beneath the table, and I had to curl them into fists to stop myself from reaching for the nearest bottle and hexing a man I had never even met.

How could he do this?

She was barely nineteen.

A child, practically, and some man had decided that because he had been given permission to marry her, he had also been given permission to hurt her.

I took a slow breath and forced my voice to remain gentle when I spoke again. “How long were you in Larking?”

“Two months,” she whispered through her sobs.

“And you ran away?”

She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “Last night. I waited until he was asleep, and I left. I walked until I reached Merribell, and then I found your shop.”

I reached across the table and gently covered her trembling hand with mine. “You did the right thing.”

She looked at me uncertainly, as though she had expected me to say otherwise.

“You are not going back there,” I said quietly, feeling that same anger burning beneath my skin. “Not to him, and not to anyone who has ever hurt you.”

Her lips trembled. “I just want to forget him,” she whispered. “I want to forget everything.”

I squeezed her hand gently, looking into her tear-filled eyes. “Then I shall take all the bad memories away.”