The encounter with the impoverished man was strange, to say the least. As he took one long glance at her, she caught sight of his features beneath the looming hood he wore- a round face, a pointed nose, shimmering green eyes- and before she could say another word, he bounded off, disappearing amidst the streams of people. Isabelle stood gazing after him for a long moment before passing by the alleyway, continuing down her path. She had more pressing matters here.
The rest of the trip was short, past a few more alley turns and climbing a small set of crooked steps. The house she sought was soon visible, three layers stacked haphazardly upon one another and with the appearance that it would soon topple over. How it remained standing was a marvel. A stumpy hitching post sat outside, to which Isabelle tied the mare's reins before stepping up the steep porch steps and entering the eerie house.
Keeping her head down, she passed quickly up the stairs to the second floor- though not quickly enough to avoid the scent of some horrible steaming broth. Holding her breath, she reached the top stair when a lanky figure stepped in her way.
"You lookin' a bit ou' o' place, ma'am," sneered the man through rotted teeth, beaming at her with an intolerable grin.
Sure that the hood covered her face, her grip tightened on the hand rail and replied, "Madam Tolleraugh is expecting me."
The man only chuckled, giving her a long, hand look before wandering off. "Yeah, aint she expec'n' us all." Unnerved but still determined, Isabelle passed the final step and ascended the next staircase to the final floor. Ahead stretched one lone hallway, a door at the end dimly lit around the edges by a faint orange glow. Slipping the hood off of her head, she twisted the bland brass knob and pushed, creeping into the room.
"Come in, my dear. I was waiting for you. Please, sit down. Make yourself comfortable."
The witch-doctor sat in a comfortable-looking, yet ragged chair at the far end of the cramped room. Walls and desks were overflowing with knick-knacks and vials, yet every interesting device paled to her appearance. Distracting jewels and bands hugged her large form, while a mess of black tattoos coated her dark brown skin. She watched Isabelle enter and seat herself with wide eyes, knowing eyes. She smiled, revealing a long row of crooked teeth.
"You know you only delay an inevitable truth, darling," said the witch, shaking her head yet looking oddly amused. With great effort, she rose from her seat and waddled toward a chest filled with unlabelled vials. Still, she seemed to have no trouble discerning which content was which, and began to pull a few free with her pudgy fingers. Isabelle watched, silent, her face hard, breath still.
"But, you know how it is... We're all so rough to change. Some day soon, your father will die, and you will then need to marry. I don't have enough potions to give your duke a second life. Keep stalling death all you like, dear, but the man will still topple like a sack of potatoes."
"I'll ask you not speak of him in such a manner," Isabelle replied breathlessly, her voice low, expression dark. The witch-doctor had been present throughout much of Isabelle's life, but her tactlessness was hard to endure in such personal strikes.
But the woman relented, offering a sad smile. "It's only my condolences, miss. I'm sure you would be a pleasant duchess. But a duchess would not make a pleasant you."
---
Gritting her teeth, Isabelle lead the mare swiftly back through the alleyways, the vials she had purchased now sitting safely bundled in her saddlebag. The nerve of the woman! She might speak truths, but for those who could not read the future, the burden was almost too heavy to bear. She knew that her father was approaching his final hour, but there was still time to stall. Time to figure out how best to deal with the oncoming storm...
Without even noticing, Isabelle had stepped onto the street once again. The sun was lower in the sky and the crowds had noticeably thinned, enough so for her to see a familiar figure step in her path.
The same man she had encountered earlier.
I'm not being followed, am I? "Sir?"
