Silently, the gypsy woman took the mason jar of the perfume and set it with a soft and gentle clank on the stone shelving. "If it is too strong for your liking, dilute it with water or scentless clear alcohol if you have it." There was nothing she could really say to this woman about her loss, losses. She let a hand linger over the top of the jar before turning back to the woman whose loss Isabella could not very well understand. Regardless, the woman moved to sit herself a respectable distance from the four legged Auxiliary. Perhaps Eris would not like her company or for her to sit her presence, but Isabella could tell that the woman was not in a state to protest too much. If she complained, Isabella would rise and leave. She smoothed her skirt over her legs and coiled her scarf in her hands as she peered at it.
"I'm sorry, ma dame, I am not a magician. Were I one, I could fix a great many wrongs in the world," she said gently, and with honesty in her tones. Isabella was a fortune teller, nothing more than a soothsayer. There was no magic in her work other than the support of the earth. The Mother gave the signs and Isabella interpreted them only. Nothing else. "If I could be so bold as to say that though the pain you feel now hurts, ma dame, you will be made the stronger for it." Isabella understood the pain of loss well enough to remember the numbness her father's passing had caused. But then she remembered the death of the man who dared to claim her as his own without her consent. His blood on her hands had been nothing to her. What was it like to feel such affection for another?
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