There's a new story, wherever you go. I've realized that in the hushed years I've been alive.

Everyone has a new story for you, everyone has their own story, everywhere has their own story, on and on. I have yet to find them all. My plan is to find a certain story.

As, of course, that story was what killed everyone dear to me.

I stood over the edge of the rocks, shining and glittering with the rain that had appeared a bit earlier and was here to stay.  The sea growled and foam formed at the caps, like a wild dog chasing you into hiding.

A creak of wood sounded behind me. It echoed in my head until a voice was introduced. 

"Victoria, what are you doing?" The sweet, warm voice asked.

"Not now, Mr. Wisenfeld."

"Don't give me that, little girl. You can't sass me." I felt the shake of footsteps approaching me.

"Mr. Wisenfeld, I am not doing anything," I said, my voice steady but soft.

He chuckled. "You know, I remember your mother when she was young."

I turned to him. "And?"

He smiled, placing his staff on the ground. "Have I got your attention now?"

I sighed. "Yes. Now, what?" 

He handed me a list. "I have to take care of Emma, the sweet girl. And Jeremy. Would you mind going down to town, and getting all the things I need?"

I looked down the small sheet. Just errands. "Why can't Oliver go?"

He gave me a look that told me to shut up. "You know why, now stop complaining and go."

I rolled my eyes and nodded. "I'll be back at half past eight."

He smiled and walked back into the little creaky house over the ocean.

See, I live in an orphanage, next to a town named Andon. Andon and my orphanage lay on Celadon Bay, a very quiet, run down bay over the North Sea.

It is always raining, with a frigid cold hitting us.

I slipped into my room to get dressed. I rolled white stockings onto my legs and then my dress.
My dress was a black one, with layers of lace and simple fabric on the skirt. There were no shoulders, and it had calypso style sleeves. 

And my crowning gem, the black veil I wore.

After my mother's death, the only color I knew was black. It comforted me. 

Black and darkness were the only things that would never leave me.

My mother left me at a young age, I don't even know a single thing about my father, and if I have siblings they're very, very dead. I had nothing joyous in this world.

Therefore, black. 

I stepped into the main room with the two curtained-off beds for Emma and Jeremy. They had to stay in the main room where Mr. Wisenfeld slept and worked because of the nightmares and illnesses. 

Jeremy and Emma came from the poorest of families that live in our fairly average town. Jeremy's mom weaved cotton and his dad sold fish on the corner of Willow and Walt street. Emma's parents were both cobblers, and neither of them was medicated properly as children. 

Both of them were born with diseases, for Emma, kidneys, for Jeremy, lungs. Poor little guys, Emma was only 7 and Jeremy wasn't even 5.

Oliver was on the couch, reading the newspaper. "Dad's sent you off, Vic?" He said without a tone of concern.

"Yes. I assume you brought it up to get something from me?"

He nodded. "The treatments for Jerry and Em haven't arrived yet, go ahead and check Mr. Pollings' store."

"Alright. Mr. Pollings, got it. Make sure Jeremy and Emma know where I'm going, you know how they are." 

A quick flash of a smile crossed his face as my shoes clicked out the door, a basket in hand.

"Alright, what does Mr. Wisenfeld need?" I scrolled through the list and saw some odd things.

Two sprigs of lavender, dried. 
One bay leaf.
As much thyme as there is on market. 
Rosemary as advised by Mary. 
A quart of rose water.
Two bottles of peppermint oil.
A mica stone.
A carved stick, like the picture, included. 
Eggs. 

Really? After all that, eggs? He wanted eggs? 

"Jesus, what is that man planning on brewing?" I  sighed and clicked my way down the cobbled street.

Heads turned. I felt a prick on my neck. The prick of being watched.

It was always like this. Once I was out of the doorframe of the little orphanage, I was the oddball.

Dark clothes. Always wearing a veil. Holding a basket with red fabric, as rich as blood. I was scary, intimidating. 

I got used to it very soon. Most people would snicker and cower in my sight, even after an entire year. 

I crossed behind the main shops on Cherrywood, the main street. Behind the broken down but still standing shops was Mary's Merva. 

Mary was the crazy woman who ran the crazy shop. Potions, herbs, remedies, spices, everything.
No one knew what Merva was. She claimed it was a magic woman in the mountain. What crap.

The little bell on the door jingled as I stepped in. The wood on the shelves and tables creaked and Mary turned to look at me.

"It's Victoria! Fancy seeing you here, do you need some food? What do I mean, we have none!" Her laughter followed her incoherent rambling. 

Crazy, indeed. 

I shook my head and lifted the list to my face. "Well, I actually need-"

She pulled the list from my hands. "Ah, dried lavender, a bay leaf, thyme, and rosemary?" 

I gave her a nasty look. "Yes."

"Hmm....hmm hmm hmm!" More mumbles and shambled words came from her mouth. "I see! I see I see, I see! That man has a notch in his head, these are the wrong ingredients!" 

I was almost tempted to say "I think you're the one with the notch in your head", but I kept my posture up. "Alright, what does he need then?"

"Fresh lavender!"

I choked up in laughter and annoyance. "That's it?"

"Yes!"

"His entire list is wrong because of one mistake?"

She pats my head and turned around, shuffling through shelves and crates of herbs. "No, no, child, one day you will understand all of the crazy mischiefs in this town and all will make sense. Maybe you'll stop causing crazy mischief, too!"

I sighed and pushed my basket onto the counter. "Can I have my list back now?"

She nodded, humming a crazily fast tune and handed it to me, still scrambling around for the items.

Two sprigs of lavender, dried.
One bay leaf.
As much thyme as there is on market.
Rosemary as advised by Mary.
A quart of rose water.
Two bottles of peppermint oil.
A mica stone.
A carved stick, like the picture, included.
Eggs.

Everything was still in order, good. That is perfect. 

She turned around and plopped a tiny crate with lavender inside, a bottle with many bay leaves, and an extremely large bunch of thyme. 

"Where's the rosemary?" I asked, the trust leaking from me.

She handed me a white rose, but the tips of the petals were turning red. 

"No, not 'Rose, Mary', I need rosemary!" My anger rose to my throat, she was so pesky!

She smiled. "The Rose, Mary, is already there."

"But my name isn't Mary! You can't just call me 'Rose, Mary'! My name is Victoria!"

She pointed to my heart. "You sure have a lot to learn. Now, money!" 

I scowled and put five pounds in her hand. "What do you mean I have a lot to learn?" I asked with the coldest tone I could muster without screaming at Mary.

She turned me around and pushed me out the door. "Everything." The little jingle of the bell followed me out as Cherrywood Lane approached my view. 

I took a quick glance at the list and knew where I needed to go.

A quart of rose water.
Two bottles of peppermint oil. 

The Peteralago. Run by an old Italian man, Mr. Peteralago. He had "everything potion-and-bottle", as his slogan said. He was just as crazy as Mary. 

I appeared from around the corner and landed on Cherrywood. Backs were turned, children where shuffled off, babies would cry.

I frowned. "Oh, what a pity. Am I really all that scary? Just a girl in black."

A boy, no older than Emma, pointed at me and said, "It's a witch!" Wails followed and I turned to him.

I lifted my hands to my face and spread out my fingers. "Boo."

He screamed and touched his face. "She put a curse on me!"

I laughed and kept walking. "Children these days. Can't afford school."

I saw a thin man with long, gangly legs and fingers, holding a cigarette. It was Mr. Peteralago. He was very...strange looking.

I pulled at the edges of my veil and walked up. "Uh...Mr. Peteralago?"

He glanced my way and I saw him jump, ever so slightly. "My, you did scare me. And your name?" His Italian accent was thick, like the blood in his veins. 

"You should know who I am. Victora. I'm from Malum Orphanage." 

He puffed a ring of smoke and smiled. "Victoria the witch, eh?"

I sighed. "They call me that because of my veil. Some people think I don't actually have a face."

"And will you take it off, ever?" He asked, rolling his head towards me.

My eyes flickered, and I paused. "It's nice to chat, but I have things I need from you."

He chuckled. "And what would that be?"

"A quart of rose water and two bottles of peppermint oil," I said, reading from the list.

"An odd combination. But I can tell what that's for. Come inside, that old man has some busy work to pump that stuff out when the ice comes."

"What...stuff?" I asked.

Mr. Wisenfeld was worse than Mary or Mr. Peteralago. He would make these crazy schemes and play them off without even telling Oliver, Emma, Jeremy or I, and he says "We're like his children". So much for that. Plus, I am no man or woman's child anymore, so the saying doesn't hold water.

I called after him, the same again and again, but, along with the secrets of this town and my own self, nothing.

I pushed my basket his way, once I had entered. "Rose water and peppermint oil, like I said."

He nodded. "Yes, yes, I know, piccola ragazza."

I paused. "Uh...little girl?" 

He clapped his hands. "Very good, so you're studying the Italian words and dialect book, I see!"

The little town here, Gilramore, has no formal education, so we have outlets of education wherever you go. Mr. Peteralago has an informal Italian class.

Even if Gilramore did have a school, they're very strict here, so I wouldn't be able to attend, as I live just outside of Celadon Bay, which is outside of Gilramore. 

"Of course. I'm always studying that book, I want to travel to Italy one day."

He chuckled and handed me a large jar, the size of half of my torso, and two small bottles. "There you go."

I laid them gently in my basket and searched around for my money. "How much was this all?"

"None. Fin, the creepy man, sent in a ball of cash earlier. 'Said he was paying for what's coming. He paid off all of this many times over."

I nodded, in surprise. "Mr. Wisenfeld normally doesn't pay ahead. He isn't very smart."

Mr. Peteralago got a chuckle out of that. Adults never made any sense to me. "Odd, you are."

Fin was Mr. Wisenfeld. Finlay J. Wisenfeld, the great friend of my own mother, Charlotte Ferre. He read her will, which he won't show me, but immediately after he took me into his orphanage, the Malum House. 

I pulled my basket back and bent over in a small curtsy. "Nice coming back here, Mr. Peteralago." 

He tapped his cigarette into an ashtray and waved me off. "Always nice having ya, have a nice day Victoria!" 

It was hard pulling off believable lies so often, you start sounding fake after a while. I really hated everyone. Mary Manstingdon, Riccarda Peteralago, everyone other than the people I live with and Drew, the fisherman. 

"Anyways, what's next on my list?" I muttered. 

A mica stone.
A carved stick, like the picture, included.
Eggs.

"And along with the prescriptions, that's two stores. Boring. Let's just get this over with."

After getting all of the things on my list, aside from the prescriptions, I was burned out. "Why does it always have to be me? Isn't Oliver the older one? Why can't he be the one doing this?" 

Knowing that question would never be answered, I walked along and brushed my hand against the stone walls of the shops.

"Excuse me, miss, what're you doing out here so late?" I heard an aching, crackly voice call.

I turned around, a gust of wind pushing against the fabrics of my dress and veil. "I- wait, who are you?"

It was a young woman, maybe in her early thirties, but I couldn't tell. She was wearing white, filthy pants, tucked into her knee-length boots. A black cloak, covering most of her body, hung right under her waist. She had a leather bag and gauntlets that seemed to be made of shining scales. 

I felt as if she was suspicious, grinning under the black cloak. "Ah, so you don't know me. You won't be seeing me around, so I wouldn't worry. Now, what are you doing?"

"U-uh... I'm buying medicine for my sick...siblings." It was a white lie, anyone could tell that.

She pulled two tinted glass bottles from her bag. "These ones?"

One was filled with an ominous liquid, the other was overflowing with small tablets. "Yes, why do you have them?" I heard my voice grow more hostile. Even though they were very annoying, Emma and Jeremy were like my siblings, and I hated the fact this odd woman knew they needed medicine. 

She smiled, putting the bottles in my basket. "Hey, I'm pretty good friends with Lachlan Pollings. His wife just handed them over to me, that crazy woman."

I threw her a nasty glare. I don't like you, woman.. was the only thought, clouding my thoughts.

She walked towards me and patted my head. I slapped her hand. I felt her recoil, in shock. "Well, I do have to be heading off. Good-bye." I said, spitting venom.

I turned on my heels and my pace sped up, as my heart seemed to jump through my chest. 

Wait. If she knew Jeremy and Emma...and I didn't know her....

what could that mean?

I felt a cold wave hit me as the rain sped up with the wind, shaking me out of my trance. I looked up into the sky and saw the moon starting to rise.

"I have to get home soon!" I said, turning and dashing over to the Malum House.

Thunder struck the bay, like it did almost every night. Even though I was used to it, it sent chills up my spine. I fumbled around for the golden key and unlocked the door with white paint, chipping off. 

My clothes were already dripping wet, and I saw Oliver glance over at me. With not a hint of shock, he handed me a towel as I placed down my basket full of the items on the table next to me.

"Thanks." I pulled off my veil and shoes and walked into my room. I looked out my cracking window and sighed. "Another gloomy, boring day, huh?"

I felt a shadow start to loom over my bed. I looked in the direction of the door and saw Mr. Wisenfeld. 

He smiled and lifted the basket. "Thanks for all of this. You hungry? Dinner's ready."

I shook my head, pulling off my socks. "No. I'm fine."

He walked over to me and gave me a little pat. I scowled up to him. 

"C'mon, don't be so negative and cold!" I sighed.

"Well, what do you want me to do? Paint rainbows on my face and dance around in tutus?" I said jokingly, throwing my socks in the hamper.

He chuckled. "Well, yes, actually." I looked at him like he was crazy.

"Excuse me?" Did he seriously want me to act like that?

Turning around, he waved back at me. "You know, you and your mom could never be more different." Ugh. This again.

He had a tendency to talk about my mother, but vaguely. He'd never say much, just drop off little comments about her and me.

I hear the door close and laugh silently. "I hate you, Mr. Wisenfeld." 

At that, I looked around my very small room. A door with white paint chipping off of it stood on the wall furthest from me. A white table and dresser sat on the front and side wall, with my bed pushed against one of the open walls, extending close to the middle of the room.

On the right wall was a large window, taking up most of the wall. There was a little ledge in front, where I kept some flowers, books, and sketchbooks. 

Pulling off the rest of my clothes and dressing into a nightgown, I unlatched the window, letting some of the rain in. I remembered my books and sketchbooks were on the ledge and moved them over. 

I climbed up to the ledge and dangled my legs out the window. I saw a sheet of paper and pencil and started to write. This was a usual routine of mine, to write something absurd and tuck the paper away in my drawer. 

Dear mother, 

Why did you leave me here? Life is boring, nothing excites me. I wish I could tell you of all the wonderous things I thought of as a child, alongside you, but now that you are gone, I had to contain the feelings of neverending adventure and wanderlust to become tougher and to survive. Sometimes I wonder if I am slowly killing myself this way, but I will never know.

                                                                                                                    Carpe Diem, 
                                                                                                                           Victoria, your loving daughter

I sighed at the note. I was going mental. "Wonderous things"? I lost those a long time ago. "Adventure and wanderlust"? I didn't even know, myself. I was about to shove the shameful paper into my drawer when my body took me elsewhere, finding a bottle holding some water I was drinking. I dumped it out of my window and dried the insides, rolling the paper neatly and sliding in inside, putting a cork in it, and running out to the rocks by the water, barefoot.

I clambered down to the rocks and gently placed the fragile glass to the white-capped water, snarling and clashing with the clear drinking glass. I let go of the neck and watched in silence as the bottle bobbed through the sea, dissapearing from sight. 

"Why did I do that?"