The sun over Old Oak Row danced like a child on a sugar high—wild, unbothered, and bright enough to turn every puddle of gold water into a mirror. A thousand scents curled through the market like gossip—spiced jam, fried things on sticks, something suspiciously like wet socks, and
clover blossoms shaken loose by laughter. The street had taken on the air of a storybook prank: buttons the size of shields, tiny tea kettles singing rude limericks, and cobblestones that sometimes shifted when you weren’t looking.
The chaos of Old Oak Row welcomed her like a riotous embrace—lanterns swinging from clotheslines, invisible fiddles playing merry tunes, and the scent of warm treacle mixing with something that might have once been turnips and regret. The canal shimmered gold beside it all, rippling with laughter and the occasional bubble that rose and popped into confetti.
And then—like the hush that follows the crackle of static, or the breath before a spell—she stepped into the festival.
Aurelie Dankworth did not so much arrive as appear, like a scene already mid-bloom. Light caught in the copper spill of her hair, which tumbled in thick, soft waves down her back, aglow with streaks of sunlit bronze and a few stubborn petals that had hitched a ride from the garden. Her off-the-shoulder gown fluttered like cream poured over honey, stitched in curling golden thread that traced ancient flora around her neckline and cuffs. And her eyes, enormous and gently luminescent, scanned the chaos with a calm curiosity—as if mischief itself might be studied, categorized, and perhaps steeped into tea.
She moved like a vision dreamt by moonlight and woken by a breeze—barefoot and unhurried, with a loose fall of ivy-threaded curls and a single star-flower clinging like it belonged. The trailing hem of her gown whispered secrets to the cobblestones. She wore the quiet majesty of someone who had never been told to be less.
Eyes the color of deepwater moss glimmered as she drank in the scene, wide and unguarded—not in surprise, but in reverence. She didn’t laugh at the upside-down hats pouring hot cider, nor did she flinch at the booth where every customer walked away with a moustache (regardless of gender or age). She simply let her lips tilt into a knowing smile, as though Saint Clover himself had tugged her by the hand and whispered,
“Look.”
She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
Aurelie moved from stall to stall, touching nothing at first, watching everything. Buttons big enough to use as dinner plates. Tea sets that insisted on arguing with one another. A chicken-sized dragon selling tiny umbrellas. With each oddity, her expression flickered through amusement, awe, and a careful curiosity, like she was tasting the air, deciding whether the magic was playful or hungry.
A pause before a booth boasting ‘Bakery: Guaranteed to Do Something Strange to You’ brought the faintest smirk to her lips. A tray of Bird Call Biscuits caught her attention, and she bent slightly to breathe in their sugar-spun mischief. Her fingers hovered over one, just brushing the edge—
tweet! it chirped softly, and she tilted her head in delight, unstartled by its defiance of logic.
Still cursed. Good.
And then she found it.
Tucked between two louder booths—one hawking jumping scones and the other something that exploded in a puff of musical frogs—was a humble stall draped in mossy cloth and soft green silks. No sign, no barker. Just bundles of herbs dangling like wind chimes, each one labeled in fine, curling script:
larkspur for laughter, sage for second chances, marjoram for remembering joy.
Aurelie approached like one might approach a memory. She ran her fingers just beneath the bundles without touching—familiar names meeting her in their quiet perfume. Her gaze softened, lids lowering just slightly, as if listening to some very old story they were still telling in leaf and stem.
She leaned forward to inhale the lavender, then paused, noticing a sprig of lemon balm that had been bruised at the edge.
With gentle hands and the solemnity of ritual, she reached into the pouch at her hip, withdrew a small vial of healing mist, and spritzed the herb like one might soothe a child’s scraped knee.
“There,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You’ll mend.”
The golden water of the canal rippled again behind her, laughter rising, spells misfiring, hats catching fire and being politely extinguished by rainclouds on leashes—but Aurelie stayed where she was, quiet and still for a moment longer, tending to magic the way others tended to flames: not with spectacle, but with reverence.
Then, with a satisfied little nod and that same faint, sideways smile, she turned and continued down the lane—no particular destination in mind, just letting Saint Clover lead.
