Wilhelmina's quill paused mid-notation. She leaned so near that Alicia caught the faint cedar scent of her hair tonic. "Show me ink batches," she murmured, glass catching the eerie light, turning her eyes into twin moons.
Alicia extended her left hand, fingers curling in a sigil that coaxed the mist to thicken. The whorls condensed into a single droplet, hovering like a crystal bead between her thumb and forefinger. She whispered a separating charm; the droplet split. Treated silver in the ink drifted to one half, violet dye to the other, revealing the unique chemistry of royal scriptorium stock. Only scribes sworn to the crown could access such pigment.
"Unique blend," she said, voice barely breaking her trance, "only mixed in the royal scriptorium."
Wilhelmina exhaled through her nose—not a gasp so much as the hiss of figures misaligning in her mental ledgers. "Court access," she stated, as though the words were a minus sign slashing through her accounts.
