Braids:

Diary entry:

I'm perusing the cinnamon and lavender today, and there's a special selection available. Saffron, a new addition, has piqued my curiosity—I can't wait to see how it will complement my recipes. My notebook hovers above my head, a sentient companion that flits about with the crows, transcribing my thoughts directly into its pages. You see, we share a profound connection, bound by life and a junction spell. It's constructed from black raspberry, citrus chamomile, and all the while, it's been consecrated by the flames of my candelabra. Naturally.

My pockets chime softly, the sound of my treasures jingling as I navigate through the congested pedestrian traffic, bartering and trading my coin for goods. Everyone around me appears so mundane, drab in their gray attire and top hats. Who are these people? They remain oblivious to the world that surrounds them. It's as if they don't see what's right in front of their eyes.

In this labyrinth of gray, I find solace in my peculiar pursuits, an island of curiosity amidst the mundane. And as I delve deeper into the realms of possibility, I can't help but wonder—what other hidden truths lie beneath the surface of this seemingly ordinary world, waiting to be discovered by those who dare to look?

I'm midway through the spice stalls, indulging in the sensory delight of saffron, and relishing the feel of various spices beneath my fingers, much like Amile does. Suddenly, I raise my gaze, and there he stands—what a twisted twist of fate. It's the man from yesterday, the one who had been lurking around my pawnshop, inquiring about my possessions. And now, he's here, standing right before me.

"Ah, Adelia..."

What a nuisance. "Call me Braids," I retort, correcting him. The dandy, the intruder. I wonder if he truly comprehends what he's seeking. One can never be too cautious. I have no idea how much he truly knows about his grandmother, who might have also been a witch.

***

Another day had unfolded in the vibrant town just outside my hometown. It had been about an hour's walk or a swift ten-minute ride on horseback to get there, where the heart of the usually quiet city had pulsed with life—Saturday markets had been the reason. The bustling streets had been filled with the animated presence of men, women, and children, all eager to replenish their shelves and seize a rare bargain. This market had stocked everything, from local treasures to imported wonders.

Colorful silks and linens had beckoned, fresh meat and fruit had beckoned, and raw metal and last year's fashions had awaited. Even homegrown llamas had graced us with their presence. Whatever your heart had desired, it had likely been found there at some point. Yet, discovering those treasures had been a game of chance. Some items had flown off the shelves, while others had remained one-of-a-kind.

Damian's weekly return to those markets had been no doubt driven by the allure of the unexpected and the promise of exotic goods. Herbs and spices, reliable staples, had always beckoned to those seeking to trade.

Curiously, our paths had never crossed before in that crowded marketplace. Perhaps it had been because one didn't tend to notice just another unfamiliar face amidst the bustling crowd. However, once a face had become known, it had had a knack for appearing everywhere you turned, whether you had welcomed it or not.

That day, as always, I had stood by the spice table, gathering my stash of ingredients for both common recipes and the secret spells I had concocted. With one eye perpetually open for new and exotic foreign spices to fuel my candelabra, I had embraced the opportunity to unlock hidden combinations and unseen spells. An old, well-worn ironbound notebook had rested in my pocket, reserved for recording any novel discoveries at the market. This had been distinct from the list I had maintained at home—a catalog brimming with experiments involving those spices.

Saturdays had been my appointed market days, a time to observe the ebb and flow of prices and witness the arrival and departure of potential new ingredients. The shifting seasons had ushered in predictable choices. Yet, I had had to be mindful of my limited coin and resist the temptation to snatch up every novelty in sight.

Patience had been a virtue, and it had often led to more favorable prices in time. But I hadn't been allowed to betray any hint of desperation or excitement when new ingredients had surfaced. If the vendors had caught wind of my consistent purchases, they would have surely exploited the opportunity by inflating their prices. After all, higher perceived value to a customer had equated to higher prices. Thus, I had mastered a few tricks of my own.

One potential approach had involved assuming different identities each week, using a hint of magic to create a myriad of disguises. I had always been alone when I had ventured to the market, but on those leisurely weeks, I could afford to be myself on occasion. Furthermore, I hadn't been obligated to buy from every stall. Competition had naturally driven prices down, and I had played my part by occasionally favoring one vendor over another.

However, there had been a fine balance to maintain. Loyalty could also benefit me, as certain vendors had granted me favorable prices in exchange for consistent patronage. Yet, I had had to ensure that I hadn't always been seen as the eager seeker of every new and exciting thing on offer. It had been a delicate dance of appearances.

One strategy had been to have my alter egos make appearances. As "Braids," I had been a familiar face at Jack's stall, reaping the benefits of a regular arrangement. But if Jack had ever procured something new, I, as "Braids," had had to feign disinterest. Instead, a new persona, "Barbara," might have paid a visit later in the day. Barbara, with her long, curly blonde hair and her attire that had remained a mystery, had been a simple farm girl with a penchant for gardening. She had found delight in experimenting with new spices as plant food.

In the midst of the market's bustling activity, I had pondered the intricacies of my own existence, a solitary island of curiosity amidst a sea of monotony. As I had delved deeper into the potential hidden within these aromatic treasures, I hadn't been able to help but wonder—what other secrets had remained concealed beneath the surface of this ostensibly ordinary world, waiting to be unveiled by those brave enough to seek them?

As I had stood at Jack's stall that day, I had still been "Braids" in the familiar ensemble that had concealed my true identity. Barbara had already scoured the other stalls in search of novelty but had found nothing worth acquiring. However, that day, a new arrival had graced Jack's wares, and Barbara had decided to bide her time. After all, it had been months since regular Braids had bought anything unusual from Jack's collection. Other alter egos of mine had indeed acquired from Jack's oddities in the recent past, but now it had seemed safe for me, in my true form, to employ the trump card—the special prices occasionally bestowed upon familiar customers. So long as I hadn't revealed my interest too frequently, the tactic should have worked in my favor.

I had examined the selection before me, white-gloved hands on my hips, leaning forward with intent. Adorned in my customary attire—an elegant silky dark blue flowered top hat, a black corset-laced jacket, a frilly black skirt, tights, and black laced-up boots—I had cast my large, discerning eyes over the table once more before meeting the gaze of the stall's owner, Jack. With my body still slightly bent, I had made my choices. "Ten grams of cinnamon, three grams of paprika... a bottle of vanilla... and vegetable oil, please."

Meanwhile, Damian, coincidentally present at the market, had suddenly caught sight of me at the spice table from across the bustling marketplace. He had seized the opportunity to observe me further, his curiosity piqued. It had seemed peculiar, considering his recollections of his grandmother's extensive use of spices, always present for her candelabra. He had decided to approach.

"Hello there, young madam. Do you remember me from the other day, at the pawn shop?" Damian had extended his hand for a second introduction. "I am Damian, by the way." I had acknowledged him with a polite nod and a tip of my hat, then turned to continue my transaction.

Undeterred, Damian had inched closer to the table and initiated a conversation. "You know, it's curious... my grandmother used to buy all kinds of interesting spices here. I would go with her sometimes when I was a boy. She always had a lot around the house. What is it you do with such a vast array, if you don't mind my curiosity?"

Though Damian had tried to appear nonchalant, I couldn't help but feel immensely uncomfortable. This chance encounter, where he had stumbled upon me in the act of buying my ingredients, had been a twist of dumb luck. Yet, I had been well-practiced in crafting alibis for my spice-related habits since childhood. This had been nothing new.

"I just have a fondness for cooking," I had replied with practiced ease. "All kinds, from roast chicken to pastries. Cakes are a real specialty of mine. I dreamt of one day becoming a master and opening up a pastry shop of my own." These had been the generic phrases I had relied on when questioned. They had rolled off my tongue effortlessly, my shield against revealing too much about myself. "I'm here to restock for this week's baking. I buy my spices here because they are the freshest, and I always need to restock. Trying new recipes a lot... really leads one to use up a lot of ingredients."

Damian observed me curiously, attempting to discern any hidden motives or emotions beneath my monotonous voice. Though my face remained concealed, there wasn't much for him to grasp onto.

"With so many experimental dishes going on... there must be loads of cakes and pastries going uneaten then?! My word," he remarked.

I couldn't help but suppress a wry smile. "Well, I would love to stop by and have a taste sometime," Damian proposed.

To maintain appearances, I bowed and cordially curtsied. "Yes, you really should come over some time and taste my baking..." I replied, trying to sound sweet.

"Right then! I shall be seeing you around!" Damian and I arranged a quick exchange of schedule times, agreeing to meet for afternoon tea in the upcoming week. "How exciting," he concluded, winking charmingly before trotting away. There was a noticeable absence of any backward glances or farewell waves from him, but no one could outplay the nonchalant game better than I. To anyone observing, it would seem as though I couldn't care any less. In reality, I was feeling quite smug, confident that this man and his inquisitiveness would soon be out of my hair. Once he tasted my cakes, he would lose all interest in me and my candelabra.

The spice table's owner was accustomed to my peculiar demeanor. I had been a loyal customer for years, and he knew from personal experience that I was, indeed, a great baker. I had even brought him some cake in the past—a gesture that most would perceive as sweet, a token of gratitude for the ingredients. However, in my unusual mind, it served a different purpose. It was my way of allaying the paranoia that people didn't believe my story. During my adolescence, I struggled to understand others' thoughts, their knowledge that differed from my own—an aspect of "theory of mind." So, as a young girl, I baked and handed out cakes to anyone in my life, creating a diversion that no one was following and ridding myself of surplus homemade cake.

The spice stall owner saw nothing peculiar in my interaction with the peculiar newcomer. In fact, he commented that Damian seemed a bit odd. I couldn't help but snort in agreement. "Thank you! I'm glad somebody gets it!" With that, I lifted my hands, clapping them together before paying for my groceries and casually walking away.