A Sunday drizzle would not let up, laying a sheer veil over cold, grey Essex. Rain stitched at the rims of umbrellas and the awnings of the stalls, a steady susurrus. Even so, the antique market in the central square was alive: people drifted from table to table; cabinet doors thudded and clicked; glass chimed against glass; the rise and fall of haggling voices braided with the smell of old brass and damp timber, with a thread of roasted nuts and wet earth. On blue-and-white checkered cloths lay rings, old stamps, sun-faded books—and ranks of rust-kissed clocks whose wet crystals drew down long streaks of light.
Mondena, umbrella tilted, stood at a stall of glassware, scanning the crowd. She had come early: after enduring another dispiriting service with her parents, she'd fled the church on the first excuse she could frame. It wasn't the church she loathed nor the Scripture; it was her father—the way he prayed at full volume, the way he snubbed and needled people in public—that made her want to sink into the floor.
"Sorry I'm late." Eliza tapped her shoulder, breath light. "Half the county decided to shop today. My phone died the moment I stepped in—none of my messages went through."
"It's fine, I was just wandering." Mondena fished a packet of tissues from her canvas bag. "And it's been raining all morning—no umbrella?"
Eliza took the tissues and pressed them into her as-yet uncombed hair. "Seen anything?"
"Mmh. I was looking at this. What do you think?" Mondena carefully received a small vase from the elderly vendor and offered it to Eliza.
"You like René Lalique too?" Eliza's fingers skimmed the blue-green flowers in relief along the glass, delight running under her voice. "Look at the carving, that opalescent bloom. People used to care about detail and beauty. Beats today's factory jars by a mile."
"René… Lalique?" Mondena scratched at her temple.
"A nineteenth-century French artist," Eliza said, smiling as she returned the vase. "Glass and enamel jewellery. He was famed in the Art Nouveau and Art Deco periods. This one's from around the 1920s—his opalescent collection."
"I kept staring at the way the light sits in the glass," Mondena murmured, tracing the crisp petals. "How do they make that?"
"In those days," the vendor said, pushing himself up with quiet pride, "workers added opacifiers to the base batch—arsenic or antimony compounds, fluorides like cryolite and fluorite. Those set the chemistry so the glass could bloom milky and blue later. After firing, fine crystals precipitate in the thicker areas. They scatter blue light; deeper paths turn warm gold or amber. Tyndall, or Rayleigh scattering if you like: side-view looks blue, transmitted looks gold. Classic Lalique."
"I see." Mondena bent lower, breath misting the glass. "May I ask the price?"
"Rain's got me thinking of packing early," the vendor said, unscrewing his thermos. "If you like it, I'll let it go for thirteen hundred."
"Thirteen… hundred?" Her hands trembled; her gaze slid. Eliza felt the flinch and lifted the vase back to the table with an apologetic smile.
"Thank you—we'll look around and come back if we decide," she said, shaking the vendor's hand before drawing Mondena into the flow of people.
"I didn't expect it to be that expensive," Mondena whispered.
"Antique art glass never is cheap—especially in good condition," Eliza said, offhand but kind. She stopped at a drinks cart. "Since I'm late, first round's on me. What'll you have?"
"I'm fine. Get what you like."
"Two hot chocolates, please." Eliza passed a few coins, took the paper cups, and pressed one into her friend's hands. "Nothing better than hot chocolate in the rain."
"Thank you." Warmth soaked through the thin cup and into Mondena's fingers, then into her chest. They lifted the umbrella, sipped, and drifted on—past brass buckles and moth-nipped lace, past tray after tray of time.
"Hey, look." Mondena pointed to a circular clock resting in a carved wooden casket. Eliza leaned in. The dial was not the usual twelve hours but a ring of twenty-four—figures and fantastic beasts spaced between the numerals. The Roman numbers, gilt over brass, gleamed in the pearled light.
Eliza bent closer. The instant her fingertip met the glass, something inside her strung tight and plucked—ding. Breath caught. The fear she had only just managed to tamp down rose again, cold and exact.
"You okay?" Mondena asked softly, catching the change in her eyes.
"I'm fine. May I open it?" Eliza drew a breath, steadied herself. The stallholder—a woman in a tweed cap—nodded.
Eliza set her left fingertip to the tiny latch and lifted. Click. In the heartbeat the cover sprang free, heat broke over her palm—an itch that was almost a burn. It felt as if something had rushed out of the clock and into her skin. She snapped the glass shut, jaw tight, air coming thin.
"What happened?" Mondena leaned in. Eliza didn't answer right away. She was scratching at her left palm—reddening, flaking—the itch, the burn sharpening. She dug into her bag and found a silver-capped glass vial, twisted it open, and poured the contents over her hand: sweet almond oil infused with agrimony, valerian root, and costus. A cool, faint wind seemed to pass over her skin. The redness eased; the itch sank.
"Hold this a second," Eliza said, passing the bottle across.
Mondena reached out on instinct. The moment her fingers touched the ring of oil slicking the glass, her body jolted. Pain like a spray of needles shot from fingertip to palm; her breathing tumbled out of rhythm. The vial slipped. Crack. It hit the blue stone and burst.
"I'm sorry!" She recoiled, hands shaking. Eliza caught her wrist. The skin that had touched the oil was already flushing fast—down the palmar lines, in little tongues that looked on the edge of blistering. Sweat beaded at Mondena's temple. She gritted her teeth and dragged for air.
"That shouldn't—" Eliza muttered, frowning. "It doesn't react like that on anyone else."
"Are you allergic to oils or herbs?" she asked, urgent.
"I don't know—I hardly use them," Mondena said, colour draining.
"Could be contact dermatitis. I shouldn't have had you hold it." Eliza pressed the shards into the paper the vendor offered, then took Mondena's arm. "Come on. The pharmacy's at the corner."
The rain thickened. They all but ran into the corner pharmacy. The bell on the wooden door gave a bright little chime.
"Good afternoon—how can I help?" A soft voice drifted from the back. A woman in a tweed dress with dark braided trim came to the counter with a tray of supplies. Metal-rimmed glasses framed her calm eyes.
"My friend looks like she's having some kind of contact reaction," Eliza said, catching her breath. Worry pushed through the words. "Could you take a look?"
The pharmacist nodded, snapped on a pair of sterile gloves, and lifted Mondena's palm—red, a few tiny blisters budding along the lines—then turned her hand over to check the back.
"Any known allergies? Anything that reliably triggers you? Family history? Have you handled any common irritants or unusual substances lately?"
Mondena shook her head.
Eliza leaned in, worry plain on her face. "She just came into contact with an oil I compounded for myself—sweet almond as the base, with costus, valerian root, and agrimony. Foxglove is toxic; could the reaction be an allergy triggered by that?"
The pharmacist's gaze hardened at once. "Why on earth would you use foxglove in an oil? If it's ingested—or touches broken skin—it can cause poisoning."
"I know. The foxglove I used was dried," Eliza said, keeping her voice steady. "I'm aware of the risks, but it helps my condition, so I use it in measured doses and a fixed formula. This time my friend touched the oil by accident. Her skin wasn't broken, yet she had immediate pain. That's why I rushed here—to ask whether this is contact dermatitis or something else."
Hearing that, the pharmacist's tone eased, though she continued her careful exam of Mondena's hand. "At first glance it reads like an allergy, but the details don't track. If it were a straightforward allergic response, it wouldn't be confined to the palm. With immune-mediated or contact dermatitis you often see a wider field—up the arm—and in severe cases even respiratory or cardiac stress. Here the pain is burn-like, more pain than itch, and there's no weeping. I doubt this is an allergy from contact through a wound."
She frowned, crossed to the cabinet, and returned with a chill pack and a plain anti-inflammatory ointment. "Rinse with clean water first. Cold-compress for ten minutes. Then apply a thin layer of this over the palm. If it's a simple contact reaction, that should ease it. If there's no improvement in a few hours, get a blood panel at the clinic tomorrow. And don't handle those foxglove again—This might drag you into irreversible trouble."
There wasn't much else to do.
Eliza paid, asked for an extra pair of sterile gloves, thanked her quietly, and drew Mondena outside. They sat on the bench under the awning. Ten minutes of cold and a careful smear of ointment later, the redness hadn't faded. The blisters on the fingertips bit harder. The pain seemed to rise from somewhere deeper than muscle.
Mondena's breath came in short, cut-up pieces. She kept her jaw tight to keep the sound small. Fine sweat beaded at her brow.
"This won't do." Eliza's eyes moved once, as if a decision clicked into place. She caught up her canvas bag. "Come to my house. I'll dress it properly. I started this—I'll see it through."
"That's too much trouble," Mondena said, lifting her head. "Maybe we wait a bit. It might ease."
"We shouldn't wait," Eliza said, already standing. "Trust me. I know what to do."
She eased an arm under Mondena's and they set off.
They shouldered through the crowd beneath the umbrella. The market still hummed. Rain fell off the rim in a steady hem, darkening their shoes and the edge of their skirts. Passing the stall with the clocks, Eliza couldn't help turning. The twenty-four-hour dial lay exactly where they'd left it, glass closed, rain sliding over the crystal as if polishing some hidden light within.
At home, Eliza guided her into the sitting room. "Sit for a moment. I'll fetch the kit."
"Mother? Are you here?" No answer. Sigrún must have gone out.
Eliza scrubbed her hands clean at the basin and went to the household altar, taking down a small silver tray. On it she laid fresh gauze, a slim bottle of spring water, and several jars of the ritual oils she had cooked down earlier in the week.
Mondena sat, a little stiff, cradling her sore hand and looking around. An iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, antlers forming its arms. A lace runner lay across the tea table; silver candlesticks caught the dim light. Along the wall, wooden cabinets held old books, bronze vessels, rolled parchments. Her eye snagged on a case of glass vases. Their surfaces flashed with a blue-and-gold sheen. She drifted closer without quite meaning to.
Eliza came back with the tray. "My parents aren't in. Let me dress it. Something to drink?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Oh—your vases are beautiful. The sheen is just like the ones we saw at the market. Are these…"
"René Lalique," Eliza said. "They've been there forever—grandparents, then my father. Mother used to keep fresh flowers in them; later she gave up on the fuss and set dried ones instead. Come—your hand first."
She set the tray down and pulled on the sterile gloves from the pharmacy. Mondena glanced back at the vases, tugged at the frayed hem of her dress as if remembering it was there, then came to the sofa and sat.
"Don't be tense. Closer." Eliza lifted her hand and, with warm water, wiped away what remained of the ointment in small passes. She wrapped the fingers and palm in gauze to keep the fields tidy.
"It might sting a little—only for a few seconds. Breathe."
She opened a brass jar. A clean scent rose—mint, chamomile, and something she couldn't name. With a silver spoon Eliza drew out a measure, mixed it in a shallow bowl of silver etched with the World Tree, then loaded a glass dropper. She touched the oil to the reddest places—across the fingers, the center of the palm—so lightly it was almost ceremonial.
The first touch pricked. Mondena's hand gave a small involuntary tremor. With the next drops, the coolness seemed to thread along the lines of her palm. The pain—sharp, exposed—blurred around the edges and sank.
Her shoulders loosened by a fraction. She let a breath go. She closed her eyes for a count, then opened them again.
"It… doesn't hurt as much now,Oh my god,You did it" she whispered.
"Wait a moment longer. Nú gefr þessi andi þér aptr líf þitt ok sál þína;at boði mínu veri þat hold læknað, er sært er, ok hætti blóð þess at renna[The aura now restoreth thy life and soul;By my command, let that wounded flesh be healed and still the flow thereof · English Version]."
Eliza let the drops fall along the paths of Mondena's palm lines and the swell of each blister, then held her breath and blew softly across the skin. Her fingers were steady—movements precise, clean, exact.
"What were you chanting just now?" Mondena asked, curiosity bright beneath the faint wince that made her hand pull back on reflex.
"Our mother tongue," Eliza said. "A blessing for your swift recovery. How is it now—does it still hurt?"
"Much better…"
Ten minutes later, Eliza lifted the gauze. The redness had faded by more than half, and the blisters had already shrunk. Seeing this, Mondena finally unclenched; colour returned to her face. "Thank you." She studied her palm and tried flexing her fingers. The pain was still there, small and needling, but it was easing. The tightness and panic she'd been holding began to let go.
"At first I thought it was just an allergy… but remembering the moment at the market when the oil touched my skin—I truly felt as if I'd been burned," Mondena said, voice dropping.
"Mmm. I started thinking it wasn't only allergy either," Eliza replied. "Foxglove and valerian root do have toxic properties; I've handled them since I was young, so I don't react when I'm dosing myself. But you may not have been exposed before—so your skin flaring so sharply all at once is possible. I've used only gentle, soothing herbs just now—cooling and anti-inflammatory. Since it's already improving, I think two more changes of dressing should do."
She peeled the used gauze away, folded it into a paper bag, and began the second clean and dress.
"I'm not usually this sensitive," Mondena murmured, watching Eliza's careful work. A shade of embarrassment crossed her eyes—something she hadn't noticed in herself before—as if apologising for the near loss of control back in the pharmacy. "Your hands are so steady. Oh—and your family—do you study herbs and history? You treat wounds and mix oils like a professional. And your shelves—there are so many old books."
Eliza laughed under her breath, light and quick, and kept working. "Practice. Ever since I can remember, my parents were always tending strange flowers and grasses in the back garden. If you're steeped in that long enough, you end up loving it. As for the books—we're very keen on old cultures from everywhere. Our family's been collecting texts from different eras since our ancestors' time. I didn't expect it to become… so many."
Mondena turned to the array of spines. A lover of stories and fantasy, she tried to find a volume she might have read herself. In the end she gave up; not one was in English. The book-backs were lettered in a script she couldn't read. "You can understand all of these?"
"Most of them. A few are dense even for me, but I've read the rest." Eliza paused.
"Runes!" Mondena brightened, suddenly excited. "I borrowed the Poetic Edda the other day and saw a script like that! No wonder you were so at home in that book."
Eliza nodded, smiling. "Yes. Our forebears came from the north, so we've kept and studied the script through the generations. Wait here—I'll get you some water." She pulled a cushion over and set it beneath Mondena's hand, then went to the kitchen and returned with two cups of honeyed water.
"You're the most interesting person I've met in this town," Mondena said, accepting the cup, cheeks warm.
"You too. When I saw you on the field that day, I thought the same… Only—you seemed a bit low. Those girls were awful, but even after they left you still looked… heavy." Eliza finally asked what she'd been holding back.
"Actually…" Mondena exhaled, lowered her head, and gripped the hem of her dress. Eliza saw it and realised she'd pushed too far. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry."
"No—it's fine. You're the first person at school who's shown me any kindness." Mondena's voice shrank; awkwardness pricked at her. "Because of my family, and my father… most people in town don't want to be friends with me. They avoid me, even mock me. They call me a freak." Her head sank lower. A few tears fell onto the blurred flowers of her dress.
"That's not right," Eliza said, anger catching. "People turn what they won't understand into what they hate—and then blame it for their fear and mess. That isn't your fault or your family's, and it's not an excuse for anyone to mock you. Long ago, people doubted and even hurt my family, too—but that wasn't our fault either. I know how it feels. You shouldn't shrink yourself because of their gossip or their clumsy malice."
"It isn't the same." Mondena shook her head. "My father—because of his odd nature, his near-fanatical faith, his harsh words—he's offended too many people. They say he's mad. In the end he dragged my mother and me into it…" Her control broke and she began to sob.
A thought flickered across Eliza's face. "Is he the man who walks the streets at dawn on weekends—and reads Scripture aloud at the station?"
Mondena nodded. Her skirt was wet with tears. Eliza sighed and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Then let it out. When something's been sitting in the heart too long, it needs a way out. If you don't mind, I'd like to be your friend. I'm strange in my own ways. With me here, you won't be alone in facing this odd world—or the old darks that trail behind it."
The sobs turned into a real cry. Mondena gripped Eliza's right hand tight, and after a long while she whispered a single word. "Thanks."
The rain came harder. Thunder rolled, muffled and far. "Eliza, is that you?" Mrs. Sigrún and Mr. Ingvar were home. At the sound of the door, Mondena hurried to wipe her face.
"Dad, Mum—someone's here! We're in the sitting room," Eliza called back.
When the couple entered, Mondena stood at once, unsure what to do, and tucked her bandaged right hand behind her. "Hello—I'm Mondena. I'm sorry to trouble you today."
Ingvar smiled and began to lift his right hand, but, catching the wrap on her other hand and the gauze and jars on the table, he quickly offered his left instead. "Welcome to our home. This is my wife, Sigrún."
"The girl's right hand is bandaged, dear—mind her wound," Ingvar said to Sigrún in his inward voice.
Sigrún's brow pinched for a heartbeat; then she smoothed her expression and shook hands with Mondena. In that instant of contact, something like a shock moved through her—but she said nothing, only, "Welcome! How was the market? Eliza said you were going to the antiques fair. Did you have a good time?"
"Thank you. We saw so many curious things—it was… fun." A shy flush rose in Mondena's face.
"Father, Mother—I was just about to ask for your help. I made a mistake today. I got some of my oil onto Mondena's hand. She had a reaction—like an allergy or a burn."
"No, no, it's my constitution," Mondena said quickly. "I didn't expect my skin to react like that. It was an accident; it wasn't Eliza's fault."
"What did you use?" Ingvar's tone sharpened. "Before the herbs—did you speak to the pharmacist? Did you try a medical ointment or antiseptic first?"
"We did. The ointment didn't help and the pain worsened, so I turned to herbs. I used only soothing and loosening plants in the salve—nothing harsh." A trace of nerves edged Eliza's voice.
Sigrún came to sit beside Mondena. "Child, may I look at your hand? And Eliza—how many times have you changed the dressing?"
"Twice. The swelling and blisters are already coming down."
The gauze came away, and Mondena stared. The palm that had been red and swollen, the blistered fingers—under the oil's sheen they were nearly back to normal. Apart from the pale, water-soft surface from soaking, there was no trace of the earlier horror. "What—how?"
Eliza smiled at the sight of the almost-healed skin. Sigrún and Ingvar, however, only grew more grave.
"Eliza," Sigrún said evenly, "change it once more. Half the dose this time. Ingvar—will you bring a cup of hawthorn with elm leaves / honeysuckle tea?"
Ingvar sighed and went to the kitchen. Eliza lowered her head and worked beside her mother.
"I'm sorry my daughter caused you such distress," Sigrún said gently as she dressed the hand again, watching how the finger joints moved. "We will speak to her."
"Please don't blame Eliza," Mondena said, flustered. "This was an accident for all of us. She's been very kind. She's… a careful friend."
Ingvar returned with the herbal tea. "Drink a little. It will help."
Mondena sipped; warmth spread through her at once, washing away the dull numbness. "We'll start supper," Ingvar said. "Eliza, keep her company a bit. Mondena—stay and eat with us."
"Thank you, sir, but I need to get home. My father is devout. If I'm late tonight… with his temper I'll be in trouble." She stood quickly.
At that, Sigrún glanced up, something like puzzlement and surprise flickering in her eyes. "Ah—Sunday. Families who keep the faith often eat together tonight. You mentioned your father's temper? Parents love their children; I expect he'll understand a few minutes' delay. May I ask—what's your surname? Essex isn't large. We might even know one another."
"Um…" A touch of awkwardness crossed Mondena's face. "It's… Redeemed."
The word left her mouth and Ingvar and Eliza merely blinked. Sigrún, however, went taut, as if something had cinched around her. Her pupils trembled once. She closed her fingers over Mondena's hand. "I see. You're a considerate child." Then, to Eliza: "Invite Monde—Mondena over often. This time your carelessness hurt someone; look after your friend from now on. Go on—walk her home. You've made enough trouble for one day."
"I will. I'll be right back." Eliza took Mondena's hand. "Thank you for looking after me. I hope I'll see you again." Mondena nodded, eyes bright with damp.
The rain had stopped. They walked, talking and laughing, down streets still slick with wet. The evening wind came cool and damp. Near the corner by Avon Way, Mondena slowed. "I'm almost home. You should go back."
"It's not far. Are you sure I shouldn't see you to your door?"
"No need. I had a wonderful time. And my hand doesn't hurt. Look—I even slipped the wrap off while you weren't looking."
"What?" Eliza startled and caught up her hand. The redness and blisters were gone; the palm was whole. "You're too hasty. What if it hadn't healed?"
"It's fine. Today had a few surprises, but it's the happiest day I've had in years. Thank you for taking me to the market." Mondena blushed.
Eliza didn't answer—just pulled her into a hug. "Thank you for trusting me. Colchester isn't big, but have some good and true friends are rare. I'm glad I met you. I hope you sleep well tonight and recover quickly. When you're free next week, let's meet at the library. I found some books you'll like."
Mondena nodded. A single tear fell onto Eliza's shoulder. "See you next week."
"See you next week."
She turned into the narrow, familiar, cold paths of the housing blocks. Near her building she looked back at Eliza's blurring figure and smiled. "See you next week, my friend." Then she lifted her eyes to the door marked with a great cross. With a complicated sigh, she climbed the steps.
Bang.
Before the door swung shut, Eliza had already walked half the way home imagining the scolding to come. What had to come would come. She lowered her head and took a seat at the dining table.
But what came first wasn't words. It was a bowl of steaming broth.
"It's just rained," Ingvar said, turning a steak in the pan. "If you like, add some pepper. It'll warm you."
"You're not angry with me?"
"If blame solved everything," Sigrún said, setting down a dish of potatoes roasted with sea salt and rosemary, "there would be no speeches, no debates, and no even wars."
"Dear," Ingvar added mildly, plating the steak in front of Eliza, "when you do wrong, take responsibility. You did—though that's nothing to celebrate. And don't forget: your actions nearly exposed our world. Mondena's hand is healed, and she likes you—but her father is an extremist. If he seizes on this and makes noise across town, who knows what trouble he'll bring down on us."
"I know. But I don't think she'll tell him." Eliza bent lower over the bowl; steam printed a thin veil on her face.
"You believe she won't. Even so—prepare for what might be," Ingvar said, calm as ever. "We've kept our peace for centuries. You need to understand and keep the rules." He nodded at the plate. "Greens?"
Eliza shook her head.
"Blaming you won't fix anything," Sigrún said. "Eat. If you call that girl a friend, be careful in all things. Everyone needs a different kind of care; don't let carelessness cause harm. The child's background is… a little hard. With her father, and other reasons, she's likely had few peaceful days. I—"
She paused, a sentence swallowed back. "In future, share what delights you find. Look after her."
Eliza and Ingvar both glanced at her.
"After today," Sigrún said, eyes fixed on the bowl, "making amends is the least we can do."
Supper lasted a long time. Near sleep, half in dream, Eliza saw again the antique clock she had touched that afternoon. Beneath the tick-tick-tick, a low voice—male and female braided together—seemed to say:
"Under the vault of all Realms, the world will soon dance in fire and blood..."