Chapter 2
The woman's head snaps up, and Maricella winces with sympathy at the twinge this stranger surely just gave her neck.
They stare at eachother, for what feels like hours. Slowly the stranger's breathing stabilizes as she straightens herself out, though still she leans ever so slightly to the left.
Strangely, Maricella feels no danger. The woman has a baffled look on her face, clearly wary, but she takes the time to take stock of herself, prodding her stomach a bit. Weird.
"Are you hurt, miss...?" Maricella ventures, thinking of standing, only she doesn't want to startle the woman into bolting like a startled deer.
Before Maricella can try, the woman sags down the tree until she's sat with her legs sprawled out haphazardly. She squares her jaw, likely gritting her teeth, before answering in a shaky whisper, as though her sobbing has stolen her volume.
"No, shockingly. Who are you? How have you stolen me? Where is my son?"
"My name is Maricella Cruz. I didn't steal you. I don't know where your son is. I think we've both managed to get lost, or kidnapped by spirits maybe?" Maricella grimaces awkwardly, though she's careful to answer the stranger's questions clearly. So far neither of them have been hostile toward the other, and she'd like it to stay that way. The clearing is so pretty, and soothing, it'd be a shame to ruin it.
Not-so-subtly, the woman gropes at her skirts. Her sprawl has revealed the frayed lace hem of a petticoat, or perhaps the bottom edge to a dress as the undercloth is the same beige as her shirt, though this piece is stained with both the same rust brown and a few bright red splotches, getting smaller the further away they are from the woman's hips, and bare feet.
"Merope Riddle." The woman grunts out, sagging further like a puppet with their strings cut at her failure to find whatever she was looking for.
Maricella chooses to ignore the thought that springs forth immediately. She's nerdy, and her bloodline has a history of magic, and sure maybe she sometimes wished she could pick the brain of one of the most nonsensical characters her once-loved now most beloathed author ever wrote... And maybe when she was twelve she might have playfully partook in a ritual with her cousins while their parents were knee deep in tequila to try and fistfight a character she drew from an abandoned hat..
Surely not.
Still, whatever brought the two young women to this misty forest seems to also have tied them together somehow. Something in her chest tugs her toward Merope, faint but insistent, chanting trust-talk-know-bond-trust.
Silence descends for a time.
"My son..." Merope's face twists with deep sorrow. "Oh, our boy. He'll be so alone in that wretched orphanage, I just know it. He wasn't supposed to be alone!" Her breath picks up again as she grasps fistfuls of her skirts, frantic.
Maricella makes the risky choice of scooting closer like a toddler who hasn't quite worked out that they can crawl to get where they want to be, stopping a good foot away from Merope's feet just in case.
"I need you to take a deep breath. Match me?" Maricella begins to take exaggerated deep breaths, the sort that expand your chest after pushing down on the diaphragm, and makes you feel a little winded despite all that air passing through. Slowly their breathing syncs, and though neither notice, they don't fall out of pace.
"There, good." Maricella chews her lip and plucks little pieces of moss as she stews in thought. "What's your son's name? I don't have any kids, but I've got a little list back home of baby names I'm fond of. Maybe we've the same taste?"
"Tom." Merope whispers. "After his father."
Fuck.
"That's lovely!" Maricella titters nervously, beginning to ramble without the consent of her smart-brain. "I've a cousin who's a Junior, though he's ten years older than me with a son of his own on the way. Last I heard his baby was gonna be a third, but his girlfriend is pretty against the idea, says just because he's a Junior doesn't mean there's a tradition to the name Josiah, and besides that they don't really go to mass, they met drunk as skunks under an underpass you see..."
Merope seems to be listening intently, just as curious about Maricella. Does she feel it too?
"I shouldn't be here."
"...me neither."
"I died. Giving birth. I know it." Merope picks at the rust stained fabric. Blood-stained. "But I don't so much as ache. And I don't know why I'm telling you this. Or how. I haven't thought this clearly since I was five!"
"Ah." To hell with it, time to test a theory. "You didn't happen to explore, um, unconventional birthing options did you? A pool in your living room? In a special facility with midwives? I've heard the local St. Mungo's is going downhill rather rapidly, so it wouldn't surprise me."
A sharp inhale.
"You know of St. Mungo's?" Merope leans closer.
"Yes, not through personal experience though. I'm muggle. Is there a problem with that?"