Joyce waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, I’m sure you do. But these things can be so finicky. Especially when you’re working with new equipment, or perhaps… less familiar with the intricacies of large-scale installations.”
Her gaze swept over Cheryl’s setup, lingering on a tray of partially mixed accords. “Is that the ‘Stellar Nursery’ blend? Fascinating. So… earthy. I always envisioned Louis’s nurseries with more ethereal notes, a touch of stardust, perhaps. But then, I suppose everyone has their own interpretation.”
Cheryl felt a familiar prickle of irritation. Joyce’s comments were never direct criticisms, but always veiled suggestions that Cheryl’s approach was somehow inferior, less sophisticated than what she and Louis had once created.
“I’m aiming for a sense of nascent life, the rich, fertile ground where stars are born,” Cheryl explained, trying to keep her tone even. “It requires a certain groundedness.”
“Of course, darling. Groundedness,” Joyce echoed, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on her lips. She then moved towards a table laden with Cheryl’s carefully organized vials of raw materials.
“Oh, these are lovely. So many interesting components. Perhaps if you just… shifted these here,” she said, picking up a vial of a potent, animalic musk and placing it directly next to a delicate floral absolute, “it would create a more harmonious flow in your workspace.”
Cheryl watched, aghast, as Joyce’s “help” subtly disrupted her meticulously organized system. The musk, if accidentally cross-contaminated, could ruin the floral.
It was a small, seemingly innocent gesture, but it was precisely the kind of “accident” that had been plaguing her.
“Joyce, please,” Cheryl said, stepping forward to gently move the vial back. “I have a very specific organizational method.”
“My apologies, dear. Just trying to be helpful,” Joyce said, her eyes twinkling with an unreadable light. “It’s just… sometimes when one is under pressure, one can overlook the obvious. Louis always appreciated my knack for streamlining things.”
She paused, her gaze sweeping over Cheryl’s tired face. “You look quite exhausted, Cheryl. Perhaps you’re pushing yourself too hard. These projects can be quite demanding, especially when you’re trying to fill such… large shoes.”
The implication hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Joyce was not just offering “help”; she was subtly undermining Cheryl’s confidence, reminding her of her perceived inadequacy, and hinting at Louis’s past artistic partnership.
Over the next few days, Joyce’s “coincidental” appearances became more frequent, her “help” more insidious. A critical component for the “Luminous Void” perfume, a rare ambergris tincture, went missing from Cheryl’s locked cabinet, only to reappear days later in a completely different, obscure location, causing a frantic search and another significant delay.
A batch of custom-printed labels for her gala samples, left to dry, were found smudged and ruined, as if someone had carelessly brushed against them.
Each incident was a whisper, not a shout. There was no direct confrontation, no smoking gun.
Just a series of frustrating, time-consuming setbacks that felt too specific, too targeted, to be mere coincidence. The altered formula, the cracked glassware, the clogged atomizer, the failing UV lamp, the misplaced tincture, the ruined labels – and always, somewhere in the periphery, Joyce’s knowing smile, her subtly critical comments, her “helpful” interventions that invariably left Cheryl’s work in a worse state.