A Curse Upon Thee 33 - Epilogue 2

Chapter 33

Epilogue Two: Flowers

Wealth could do a good deal.

It was, in its own way, a magic that persisted even while all others were forgotten under the rigors of age and the stressors of life.

Two of those things were comfort and quiet. As such, Springmeadow Rest Home sat in the kind of luxurious intersection of both that money bought and kept buying. The place was nothing more than warm woods and soft lighting, along with a staff that smiled like they meant it because the pay was simply good enough to buy sincerity.

In one of Springmeadow’s many sizable rooms, the sound of clicking and clacking could be heard in a rhythm quick, quiet, and steady. No different than the heartbeat of a child still in its mother's womb and yet to be removed.

An old woman with hair completely silver and a pair of oval glasses perched on her nose sat by a window in that same room, knitting needles between her hands and thick red yarn pooling in her lap. The glasses weren’t necessary, of course, her eyes as good as they were in the days of her youth 

Even with that, the needles worked through a pattern she could do in her sleep.

Had done in her sleep, actually, more than once.

Outside, the freshly-manicured lawn stretched out green, clean and perfect, residents on their evening constitutional around the walking path. Sunset slanted in through the window, the angle of it causing dust motes in the air to dance like the little flickering things borne from a baby’s laugh.

"Ms. Hawthorne?" A knock at the door came, soft and polite.

What else would it be, in a place like this?

“Come in, dearie.”

A head of dark hair pulled back in a neat ponytail, a face young and cheerful with a smile as precious as any. "They're playing bingo in an hour. Do you want me to come get you?"

The old lady lifted her head, needles never stopping their rhythm, and a small smile formed on her face. The kind of smile grandmothers gave when they were humoring the young. "Thank you, Lina. I'll be there on my own, dearie."

The nurse — Lina, sweet girl, put herself through nursing school on loans and grit — smiled back and nodded before leaving, the door closing behind her with a soft click.

The needles kept working.

Click-click-click-click.

Red yarn, the color of fresh blood or ripe apples depending on the light; making something specific, something that would be needed soon, though she couldn't have said exactly what or wh-

The needles paused.

Just for a second.

Mid-stitch, the old woman froze as something shattered in the distance. Not a sound, nothing so crude as that. More like a vibration in the air that only certain people could sense; magic worked with great power and sacrifice, a structure decades in the making, shattered like fine crystal.

Ostara Hawthorne turned her head toward the window, sharp eyes looking out and not seeing  the lawn or the walking path or the residents shuffling along in well-knit cardigans and comfortable slippers.

She turned in her comfortable seat, facing the northeast.

Her gaze turned to Maine, toward a little town on the coast that shouldn't exist but did anyway because curses were funny like that.

"Oh, Regina…" A breath as soft as any carried the words out as she shook her head slowly and carefully. "Someone broke your little dollhouse, didn't they?" A tsk sound, tongue against teeth, sounded off; more amusement than annoyance.

"Ah, well. You'll learn."

She turned her head back to her work, the matter of that town none of her business.

Not yet, at least.

Daughter of Cora and student of Rumplestiltskin; she would have to handle her own messes for now. The girl had made her choices, cast her curse, and now got to live with the consequences of both.

That was fine too.

The old witch had time.

She had all the time in the world.