Raisa had taken to research like a woman on a mission.

In a way, she was. She wanted to find a clue about the strange happenings that had plagued her since coming to Gwaywe. Maybe there was something she could find about the thing that had almost killed her the other day. Raisa had gone to the hospital and got sutures for that cut on her chest. The nurse had given her a judgemental side eye when she lied that she had fallen down and got injured.

That was why on that morning, three days after Indira Mukherjee had brought the news about her father and that thing had mauled her in the living room, she was in the library. Weird choice, perhaps, considering she was not sure what exactly she was looking for. In the hour she had been here, she had gone through two books of myths and legends, a few obituaries, and newspaper articles. They were nothing much, especially those two books. It had the story of Blodeuwedd like her great grandmother’s old book, but nothing about the thing that was after.

Raisa didn’t believe that the creature that had attacked her was Blodeuwedd; why would someone made from flowers itself be averse to the thing that made them?

The obituaries were equally elusive; she had found aunt Catherine’s obituary, but it did not mention that it was a suicide. It was brief, impersonal, and hardly touched on the topic of the cause of death. She had half-heartedly browsed the newspapers, not expecting much. Though she noticed a pattern of people going missing in the forests and dying, none of it felt substantial enough to catch her interest. Maybe she was missing something, so she had jotted it down in her Notes app.

“Damn my luck…”

Raisa sighed, leaning against the headboard of the library chair. It was hard and grainy, making a creaking noise if she leaned too much to the left. The day was warm and very humid, which made Raisa wish that there was an air conditioner here. But like the rest of the building, all it had were ancient ceiling fans that made more racket than cooling the room. She was sweating so much that her low-cut grey dress stuck to her skin. A satchel sat beside her containing a bouquet of roses straight from the newly revived rosebush. She had brought them because once she was done with her work at the library; she was going to the cemetery. Indira had invited her to be present for Renee Holmes’ funeral.

“Please come along,” she had told Raisa over the phone when the latter was hesitating about intruding on something that was supposed to be very private. “Everybody in Gwaywe will come to pay their respects. Since you are also here, why don’t you come too?”

Maybe she too had noticed that I hardly go outside. Raisa smiled, running a lazy finger down the wooden surface of the table. Being out felt good, too. It almost made her forget about the things she had seen and the house. Almost. Also, the library was not so bad if one ignored the lack of proper cooling facilities. The ceilings were high; the walls painted a soft mossy green with a huge collection of books. She had spied many newly released horror thrillers, romances, and literary fiction books while coming inside the library. Its chair and tables were old but sturdy enough to hold her weight. It was clear where all their funds went. Raisa couldn’t be mad about that.

“Hey, miss!” The chirpy voice brought her back from the land of reveries. She looked back to see it was the librarian who had greeted her when she came in and lost her cool and started fangirling when Raisa told her she was the great granddaughter of Alice Reed. Her great grandmother was a frequent visitor to the library and one of its most prominent donors.

“Hi.” Raisa greeted. “Is something the matter?”

“Nah, just wanted to talk,” said the librarian. She seemed to be a few years older than Raisa, with a shock of fiery red hair. Dye or natural, Raisa couldn’t tell. “Nothing is catching your attention, is it?” She blinked conspiratorially, pointing at the stack of books and printouts on the table.

Please leave me alone? “No. I guess I am in a bit of a slump.” Raisa’s smile was too stretched to be genuine.

“Oh, don’t worry. I think I have just the thing for you.” The librarian fluttered off towards a few shelves away from Raisa. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her plan was to check out whatever book this librarian was about to give and go to the funeral. This little trip to the library was not super useful, apart from stretching her legs.

The librarian was back in a few minutes with a slim mauve coloured book in her hand. “Here you go. Your great grandma wrote this collection.” She was positively beaming.

Raisa raised an eyebrow. “My great grandmother used to write poetry?”

“Yes! Long before I worked here, she had published a few collections of beautiful poems. I think you might like them.”

Raisa glanced at the book in her hands. It was a hardback with a clothlike texture for the cover. ‘Flowerful Fancies’ read the title. The letters were silver and done in a gothic type of font. The author’s name was right below it. Peony flowers emblazoned in white peeked at her from the four corners of the cover.

“I’ll take it.” Raisa said, a far off expression on her face. “How long can I borrow it?”

“A week. After that, you’ll have to pay an extra fee every day you keep it.”

“Great. I’ll be back later than.” Raisa smiled. She grabbed hold of her satchel, her book in one hand, and was out of the library with a thudding heart. She was not sure why, but a part of her was sure that this thing will have answers. Not straightforward ones, but there ought to be something in there, right?

Poetry is but the soul of a poet, lain bare in ink and blank pages.

***

Raisa had just come out from the local cafeteria when Michael ringed her.

She had taken a small detour to grab a breakfast sandwich and a cup of coffee. It was a good sandwich made of fresh bread and filled with salmon, red onions, cucumbers, capers and a bit of dill. That herby taste made it ten times as flavourful. The sandwich was still in her hand when she felt her phone vibrating against her thigh. Taking a big chunk out of her sandwich, Raisa swiped the answer icon with her free hand.

“Hello,” she said through a mouthful of food.

“Morning, Raisa,” Michael replied. His tone sounded chipper. “Are you eating?”

“Yep. A breakfast sandwich.”

“Are you in the house, or have you gone out?”

“Am out. In front of the cafe.”

“Mind waiting there for a while?” Michael asked. “I am coming to pick you up.”

“You are in Gwaywe!” Raisa squealed in delight. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“Well, you asked me to come, ma’am,” he laughed. “Now tell me, where is this cafe of yours?”

She detailed him about her location, taking a few nimble bites in between. They shared a few more jokes and small talk before disconnecting the call. Raisa sat down on one of the white chairs in front of the cafe. It was a quaint place with pink walls striped with white. A blackboard stood at the entrance detailing that day’s special menu, offers and discounts. Right beside it was an oval-shaped table with two chairs on either side. A parasol stood in a corner, in the same colours and design as the walls of the cafe. She hummed to herself and took out the book of poetry. The silver lettering glinted in the sun.

To the flower faced, read the dedication page. Raisa did not need to think too much about who it was. Blodeuwedd. That was what her name meant. She knew not why her great grandmother focused so intensely on this figure in mythology, but got to be some connection. Was it because flowers repelled the thing that was haunting her? Then it would make perfect sense to call Blodeuwedd one’s patron saint. Thinking so, she flipped to the first poem, skipping the contents page. Hymn to the Flower-Faced, read the title in bold black letters. It went something like this.

Flower faced, the flower maid
She sleeps beneath the trees
Frolicking with nymphs and faeries
Eyes like stars twinkling bright,
If you heed my words, all will be right.

She’s the fierce lady of the night
Who keeps the forces of dark away from light
A kindred for those lonely and lost
She shields the ones who seek to know
The true tale of the maiden who lost her home.

No matter what happens, don’t take fright
Remember, always the voices ain’t right
Plant a rose and say a prayer
Nothing will seek to dare and harm
She’ll keep you safe and warm.

And if you into the forest must go
Utter her name with every step you take
Listen not to things that dwell
Let the dark hold no sway over you
May your mind be firm and free.

“Goodness, this is the same one I was thinking about!” Raisa gasped. The first verse of the poem had been in her mind repeatedly ever since she came to Gwaywe. She couldn’t place where it came from, but now she knew. Her great grandmother wrote it. Maybe Alice Reed had sung it to her when she was young. She needed time to figure out what this meant. Though she understood the possibility of it being just a poem written on a character Alice loved, it was something more. Something she wanted others to understand.

In that instant, the car honked thrice, making her look towards the road from her seat.

It was Michael in his white sedan. He was dressed in a crisp light brown shirt that flattered his muscular chest. He looked a little weary from the journey, but the wide grin on his lips did something to Raisa. Butterflies fluttered in her belly, urging her to run towards and tug at his lower lip with her teeth. Stop being a horn dog, she berated herself, cheeks red as she walked over to his car.

He opened the door and climbed out of the seat. “Holy hells, Raisa! You are looking so good in this dress.”

“Aww, thanks,” the flush in her cheeks grew redder. “You clean up nicely too, Mr. Reyes.”

“I have got nothing on you, darling.” He said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You okay, aren’t you?” His voice was softer as he said it, brows creasing a bit. It made the tears stinging at the corner of her eyes want to fall down.

“Yes, I am. Now that you are, I am okay.” She smiled, though it was quite the wobbly one. Raisa embraced him tightly. Michael returned the hug with, holding her close to his chest. She could hear his heartbeat below her ear, her favourite sound in the entire world. It was constant, unwavering. She breathed in the scent of ink, cinnamon and something uniquely Michael. All she wanted was to bottle up that scent and never live a day without it. Was that too much to ask for?

“Missed you.” She mumbled against his chest.

“Missed you more.” He kissed the top of her. They stayed like that for a while, holding each other on that warm summer day, unheeding of the curious glances that they received. It was a small town. Of course, they would speak. Raisa did not care. She just wanted to enjoy this one wonderful thing when everything else was refusing to make sense.

Then, she lifted her head and said, “Wanna take me somewhere?”

“Is it a date?” Michael waggled his brows playfully. “Was this a lure all along, Raisa? To lure me into going on a date with you in Gwaywe?”

“Nah, you idiot,” Raisa swatted at his shoulder, giggling. “I want you to take me to the local cemetery. There’s a funeral today and I’m invited.”

“Who died?”

“A local.”

“Fine, get inside the car then, princess.” He mock bowed and pointed at the open door of the car. “Don’t mind if I decide to stay with you.”

“No, I don’t think it will be a problem.” Raisa said, scrambling to get into the seat beside the driver.

“A cemetery date, huh? That’s pretty goth.” He joked, closing the door behind him.

She rolled her eyes. “Whatever you say, weirdo.” Yet her heart leapt every time he called it a date.

And like that, they were off to attend Renee Holmes’ funeral.

~•~