Isabella crossed her arms but said nothing. Ophelia wasn’t even looking at her anymore—she was staring into the invisible past, completely caught up in the memory of her luxurious bath.
"And then—THEN—I remembered what you told me about bubbles..."
At that, she paused. Her excitement faltered into a sheepish, guilty smile.
Isabella’s expression went blank.
"Oh no," she muttered.
"Right," she deadpanned, as the realization hit her like a flying rock. "My fucking fault."
She remembered the night so clearly now—sitting by the fire, explaining soap to Ophelia like she was teaching sacred art. She had gotten so carried away talking about the wonders of foam and lather and how to blow bubbles into shapes—she even demonstrated!
She’d basically handed Ophelia the keys to a bubble amusement park and told her to have fun.
"I got carried away and made sooo many bubbles and shapes—it was so fun!!!" Ophelia bounced on her toes, practically glowing with joy, her hands flapping like she was about to lift off. "I made a snake, and a bird, and then I tried to make your face but it popped!"
Isabella stared at her.
Then slowly—too slowly—she smiled.
It was the kind of smile that said: I’m proud of you. I’m also plotting your death. I’m impressed. I also want to ban you from soap permanently. All at once.
"It was?!" Isabella chirped, voice laced with dangerous enthusiasm. Her eyes were too wide. Her tone? A little too sweet. Luca tensed like a jungle beast sensing danger. Something in the air shifted.
But not Ophelia.
Nope. Oblivious and radiant, she nodded with wild abandon. "YES! I didn’t know bubbles could feel so... ALIVE!"
Luca blinked.
He actually took a full step forward, contemplating whether he should step in and physically separate them for Ophelia’s safety.
But then.
Oh no.
Then she added—
"I even wanted to ask you for more, but then I thought, nope, that’s enough for today!" she said proudly, beaming like she deserved a medal for her self-control.
Isabella’s eye twitched.
Just one.
A slow, menacing twitch.
For a split second, she seriously considered dipping her face into the dregs of the gourd just to cool off. Or maybe scream into it like a tiny cursed cave.
Luca cleared his throat loudly. "Ah, I think that’s enough now, Ophelia."
He glanced down at the two of them—one smiling like sunshine and sugar, and the other smiling like a snake about to bite.
"Mm?" Ophelia looked up at him innocently. "Okay." She nodded, then turned back to Isabella and blinked, completely unaware that she was five seconds away from getting smacked with a spoon.
Isabella sighed.
A long, pained, soul-leaving-her-body sigh.
What was she supposed to do with this girl?
How do you scold someone who turns your precious soap into bubble art and then tells you about it like it’s the highlight of their day?
She rubbed her temple. "Ophelia..."
"Yes?" she chirped, batting her lashes like a woodland creature.
Isabella gave her a look that screamed: You lucky you’re cute.
Then muttered under her breath, "You’re paying me back with your next three lifetimes."
"Okay!" Ophelia agreed without hesitation.
Isabella paused. "Wait, you didn’t even ask for what."
Ophelia tilted her head. "Well, if it’s you, it’s probably worth it."
Luca choked on air.
And just like that, Isabella lost the will to stay mad.
She groaned and handed the empty gourd back with a grumble. "Go. Shoo. Before I make you bathe in a puddle next time."
Ophelia giggled and scampered away, and Isabella crossed her arms and turned to Luca. "You saw nothing."
"I was never here," he nodded solemnly.
She rolled her eyes. "Smart man."
"Okay, before I give you yours," Isabella said, tying her hair back with a leather strip and rolling up her sleeves, "we’ll make the whole batch I’m giving out to the villagers tomorrow."
She turned back to her soap-making station—a broad slab of polished stone she’d turned into a mixing counter. Nearby, clay pots, bundles of herbs, and various vials of rare essences were neatly arranged. The air around the area smelled like burnt honey and cold herbs.
Behind her, Luca crossed his arms like a sulking wolf.
"But you sent Ophelia away," he grumbled, pointing unnecessarily at the empty spot she’d last been in. "And when you gave her soap, you didn’t even tell her to wait first!"
Isabella didn’t even turn. "Luca. Stop sulking. You’re a man."
That did the trick. Luca straightened immediately, face snapping into the usual warrior-mode expression he wore when hunting boars or facing down angry council elders. His chin lifted. His jaw clenched. His ego rebalanced.
"Good," Isabella muttered approvingly, and without warning, shoved a woven basket of crushed herbs into his arms. "Hold this."
She handed him a smooth clay pot with swirling silver liquid inside. "You’ll start by pouring Moonwater into the stone cauldron—slowly. Don’t spill it. That stuff evaporates like gossip in a palace."
Luca stepped up to the flat-bellied stone cauldron, which was already warm thanks to the system’s heat stabilizer. He took the cover off the clay pot and frowned at the Moonwater, watching it shimmer unnaturally like liquid moonlight. "Is this stuff safe?"
"Only if you don’t drop it," Isabella said cheerfully, crushing some Glowroot in a small mortar behind him. "If it touches fire, it explodes. So be gentle."
Luca froze mid-pour.
"Keep going, tough guy," she said without looking. "This is the easy part."
Once the Moonwater was in, Isabella handed him a small clay jar sealed with hardened tree sap. Inside was a thick, blackish resin that glistened faintly in the light, like cooled lava mixed with oil.
"Add the Molten Ash Resin—carefully," she instructed. "Then stir it slowly, clockwise."
She passed him a stirring rod carved from pale Crystalwood, its surface smooth and cool to the touch.
Luca dipped the rod in and began to stir. The mixture thickened almost immediately, and a soft, low hum rose from the cauldron—more a vibration in the air than an actual sound.
Isabella leaned over and watched the swirl. "Good. Keep it slow and steady. Let the Moonwater and resin bind fully."