It smelled of dried lavender and rosemary from the bundles hanging from the rafters, undercut by the sweet, waxy residue of burnt candles and the earthy steam from a hissing kettle on the iron grate.
Shelves groaned under the weight of glass jars filled with swirling potions, ancient tomes with cracked spines, and a few unlit lanterns that caught the light like sleepy eyes.
It was orderly in that meticulous way of hers—everything in its place—but lived-in, with a half-finished embroidery hoop on a side table, a crumpled blanket on the settee betraying a restless evening alone.
This was Silvia's sanctuary, built from years of caution after whatever ghosts haunted her past, and being here uninvited made Lor feel like an intruder in more ways than one.
"Sit," she murmured, her voice a soothing balm as she brushed a scatter of parchment notes off the worn armchair by the fire—herbal recipes, from the look of them, smudged with ink.
