3: Intoxicating as Cherryblossom

She was always - in this world and the next - Zehra. And that was the best - and worst - part.

Sweet as honeyed baklava, crisp as the layers of flaked pastry and just as delicate. Her lips an ode to a lost soul, her words remembrance of it.

Live.

One of thousands of thoughts made stronger by the remembrance.

Live.

How?

Another of those thoughts. One that frightened Ela.

How? 

How to live when a part of you only wanted to exprience one thing - something that would only be gained through the hard work she did instead of living?

How?

When her hopes and dreams were so wrapped up in the figure that sat casually nearby, perusing the workshop, unaware of its purpose?

How? 

When her entire career was built around a need she didn't know she could ever fulfil?

Career...existence. 

How to live when every moment brought her closer to a finished product?

Live.

After three years, Ela wasn't sure she remembered how.

After Zehra, did she still live? Was it possible to live after Zehra, even now watching her, the dancer's form curled upon a stool, face a mask of concern.

Live.

Thousands of thoughts, but one stabbed at Ela's core as she made a softly calligraphed note on graph paper 

What if she could, and forgot? What if she forgot the wonder that Zehra was - is - was...what if she forgot the feel of Zehra's hand on hers, the warmth of that smile - the first of the day that belonged to she, Ela - Ela alone?

What if there was more delicate baklava - dressed in the scent of rosewater rather than tulips? What if life were as intoxicating as cherryblossom wine? Would this time be lost? Would it become a memory? Memories are so inaccurate. Indistinct. Ill-defined.

Like love.

Which was the better love?

Do as she wished? Or give her the opportunity to do as she wished?

What do I want?

The thought was neither here nor there.

One of thousands of questions, thoughts, feelings hammering away at her chest as she slammed down a mallet. Fork? No, place the fork gently - just so.

Looking around the table, she saw Georgiana eyeing Kate, an amused tug at the corner of Nehir's mouth, heard the glug of Marcos pouring another glass of wine.

So much of the life she led was kept to herself, was secrets. The things she knew would be of great interest to Bastiano Ferravante...some of it.

She glanced at the empty seat beside her, which was occasionally filled by Cassandra.

The whole affair was confusing - some were behaving as expected, but others...others were so much more than she could have anticipated. They shined simply for being who they were.

And that was terrifying. Ela knew who she was, but there was no real way of guaranteeing that who she was when she last lived was who she was now. 

And what if who she was now seeped into who she was then and ruined the memories of who she was then?

Live.

Thousands of thoughts. Thousands of questions and one statement kept repeating, very, very quietly.

I want to fit in here.