Rays of blue light stretch and travel over the thick logs that make up her roof.
Her eyes take a second to adjust to the morning, her lashes fluttering drowsily. Her blanket feels warm and safe around her feet and she digs into its folds, wondering what would happen if she took a day off, stayed in and did nothing but eat and read and not exist. The world would have to make do without meat pasties and apple butter for today–find its breakfast elsewhere.
The thought is enough to scare her straight, the thirty-eight Krounen she earned every day her most effective motivator. She kicks the blanket away decisively, static clinging to her skin, popping silently as she separates herself from the all-too comfortable bed.
She ambles slowly towards the kitchen, seizing a loaf of bread, carving two thick slices and laying them directly over the stove. She turns, grabbing the tea pot that hangs over her head, filling it with ice cold water and placing it next to the slices. As the bread warms and the water boils, she heads back to her room, pulling her nightdress over her head and throwing it onto the bed. She stands naked for a second, her eyes scanning for a skirt, a blouse, and some socks. Once she finds them, she grabs a corset and wraps it around her torso, tying the laces before heading back to the kitchen to add some tea to the boiling water.
When she returns to her room, she moves towards the wooden basin located at the corner and uses the cold water to splash her face, combing her long locks afterward. She finishes dressing up quickly and walks over to the kitchen once more, pulling a plate and a teacup from the cupboard above her stove and lathering the toast with butter and jam. She sweetens her tea with honey and cream.
Her feet carry her outside, plate and teacup in hand, boots in place. As she strolls past her garden, delicate drops of dew slip down the laden leaves, shimmering like diamonds.
When she sits down on her rogue chair, it creaks and sinks as usual, and she feels silly when relief floods her chest. She sets down her cup and her plate, pushing her chair forward slightly. She looks around and watches the bees and the birds and the flowers continue their early ritual, her presence unnoticed. The forest pathway looks as ethereal as ever, with its bright green moss and its swaying trees. She breathes in, thankful for a peaceful morning.
She finishes her breakfast and heads inside, dumping her plate and teacup on the sink and heading for her closet to look for something to wrap around her shoulders in case the frigid gusts that haunted her the day before return today. She finds a shawl of rich, dark evergreen and lays it over her basket, its contents ready for delivery.
She pauses by the mirror before stepping out of her cabin. She nods her head once and hears her boots march over the porch and down the crunching gravel. She walks in relative silence, the woods never one to be quiet and in the stillness she allows her thoughts to mingle and come forth. Her arms feel the added weight of the stuffed game pies she has included to the Blacksmith’s order, hoping they will make up for her slight yesterday.
What she could have possibly said that aggrieved the poor apprentice so, she wonders. A low groan rumbles down her throat as her brain flashes the mortifying scene over and over again, wishing she had done things differently, wishing she had asked someone else about that wretched knight, wishing she had never asked at all.
And a wretched knight it was, if it even existed, she thinks with a heavy sigh.
She decides then and there that it would no longer present a problem for her, this knight. In fact, she would henceforth consider it as an atypical occurrence in an otherwise perfectly typical life. A passing stranger, not unlike the travelers that walked down the main road with her now, going about their life in a path that ran next to but never overlapped her own.
Such was the way of life, she thinks philosophically.
The three white arches loom over her head as she exits the main road and enters the wakening market. The haggling and the hanging produce remind her of Gródur Un and she wonders if her small gift still lay atop the makeshift counter. The tart probably sat covered in ants and she held no hopes for the Krounen left under it, but a faint wish lingered regarding the brew she had designed especially for the wise woman.
“Will today be the day, miss?”
She smiles at the well-known greeting, her attention shifting immediately to Bast and his gorgeous ring. She steps forward and exchanges the usual pleasantries with him, pretending to think over his once in a lifetime offer and waving it away nonetheless. The thought of asking Bast regarding the sighting of a knight crosses her mind but the words do not form, resolute on not wasting any more mental space on the intruder.
She continues her path towards the Apothecary, holding the door for an exiting patron, a regular so it seemed, as they always seemed to run into each other at the same time of day, their parcel neatly tucked under their arm. Placing her basket over the counter, she waits for Mr. Tarpeius to finish his sniffing, and his peeking, and his whining before collecting her five Krounen.
“I thank you for your patronage,” she says, her smile straining against her cheeks. He clicks his tongue once as she opens the door to leave.
“Not a single olive! Or you will be hearing from me.”
“Do not threaten me with a good time, Mr. Tarpeius,” she says before the silver bell rings. Unwrapping the shall from her basket, she ties it around her torso in anticipation of the ruthless wind. One day, she thinks, one day he would choke on a blasted olive and she would have put it there.
Restraining a dark grin at such morbid thoughts, she turns left and walks carefully up the sodden alley, her boots two-inches deep in a mix of mud, ale and gods knew what else. She nods her head once at the boy and he jumps off a barrel of ale, muck flying everywhere, and runs to fetch the Old Maid.
She hears his tiny steps as he makes his way back down and side stepping his hasty retreat, she snaps her fingers once and a single Krounen flies across the air. The boy catches the golden coin dexterously and stares up at her, mouth agape, his feet never pausing. His eyes remain fixed on her when he turns the corner, disappearing behind the large men rolling up barrels of ale to the Alba Custodia.
When she turns around, Miss Mirah is already standing by the doorstep, puffing her chest and eyeing everything and everyone that passes by.
“All they do–”
“Is take, take, take,” she repeats after the Old Maid, as Miss Mirah resumes her daily monologue, handing over the seven Krounen owed and handling the parcels with her bony fingers. The jar of apple jam rests dangerously against her cheek as she bestows upon her the customary handkerchief blessings. Miss Mirah retires up the stairs and she stays to make sure the Old Maid drops nothing before letting out the air in her lungs.
The twelve Krounen jingle in her pouch as she forges ahead, onto the cobbled street that leads to the town square, making sure not to get in the way of any carriages or well-meaning coachmen. Her eyes do not shift at glinting silver nor do her feet falter, instead she walks purposely towards the Forge, already practicing the speech she had prepared the night before. It had been difficult imagining the Blacksmith’s response, given that she had never heard his voice before, but she hoped he would at least accept the peace offering.
She ignores the faint voice in her head that demands the apology be reciprocated, seeing as she was left standing there, eyes wide open and blushing like a schoolgirl. In fact, now that she thought about it, she had simply asked wh– no, she stopped herself.
An apology would be given, and her relationship with the hard working men would be preserved. And fourteen Krounen consequently pocketed.
As she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin, she marches towards the Blacksmith’s Forge, ready to make amends. But, as she walks past the stables, something seems to be amiss. While the number of horses and men walking about has not lessened, the cacophony of noise that usually accompanies her stroll through the town square is made noticeable for its absence. She looks around to see if perhaps some form of entertainment or assembly is being held by the locals but everyone seems to be going about their business.
The question of the quiet town square is promptly answered when she finally makes it to the Forge, her eyebrows rising in realization.
The Forge is closed.
There is no heat coming from a hungry hearth, no chattering from demanding customers, no clanging of a mighty hammer against white hot metal. No apprentices. No Blacksmith.
She stares at the tightly shut, black doors, no sign notifying of a quick return or a seasonal recess. For a second, the ludicrous thought that her query had somehow caused the closing of the Forge crosses her mind, the apprentice so shocked by her approach that the business had been rendered inoperable. She brushes it off with a roll of her eyes, finding it unbelievable that the heart of the town square would meet its match with a baker.
This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.
She glances to both sides, seeking any other patrons who find themselves in need of the service of a new smithy but the e town life continues around her, the same way the bees and the birds and the flowers buzzed around her only this morning.
Turning to look at the Forge once more, and deciding against leaving the meat pasties for them to find tomorrow, she tightens her grip on her shawl and hoists a heavier basket than usual onto her hip.
As she walks up to the infamous Qadahl Road, she watches fine carriages roll past, and wonders if she could perhaps find her next patron in one of these grand houses. Most already employed highly skilled chefs with experience running large kitchens for hotels and, if one could afford it, nobility. She knew she was no match, but perhaps she could cater to the help, meat pasties and bread for breakfast an affordable dream. And while asking Ketevan for another favor was not something she particularly cared to do, she mulls over ways to approach the matter tactfully.
One of those same highly skilled chefs ignores her presence as she delivers her strawberry tart and collects her twelve Krounen from the same apologetic maid. She fishes around the basket, searching for the raspberry-orange jam meant for Ketevan and pauses, the Blacksmith’s order taking up considerable space in her basket. She looks around at the maids, the servants, and delivery men rushing about with purpose and makes a quick decision.
Placing the basket back on the kitchen table, she unloads the meat pasties two at a time, the smell of buttery pastry and seasoned meat filling the kitchen. Sensing the cook is just about ready to kick her out, she raises her hands defensively and then gestures at the moving mass of people around them. “Free. For everyone.”
Before she shrivels under the glare of the mighty cook, she retrieves her basket and nods curtly, taking the lack of shouting as a sign that the meaty gift would be accepted.
“Ever the optimist, my friend.” Ketevan’s voice slithers and finds her where she stands, clear over the constant clattering and bustling of the kitchen. She sighs in annoyance before turning around to face him, masking her relief at having an ally in an otherwise openly hostile environment.
“Good morning, Ketevan,” she responds once she is close enough to hand him his due, her arm extending forward. Ketevan’s smirk widens as his hand wraps around the glass jar.
He pulls the jar towards him and her with it, leaning forward slightly. “You’re no fun.”
She looks up at his looming face, her face impassive as she extracts her hand from his grasp. “And you now owe me ten Krounen.”
“Ah,” he responds. “But what is a Krounen between friends.”
“Ten Krounen,” she repeats as she walks away, hoisting her basket against her hip and rewrapping her shawl around her torso. She feels Ketevan’s gaze on her and she rises to meet it, gesturing at the pile of pastries to her left. “Help yourself.”
“Have I ever told you,” he begins as he saunters his way towards the kitchen table, winking at the cook for good measure.
“Watch it,” she interrupts him, her voice rising slightly as she glances momentarily at the cook who is giving anyone who approaches the pastries her nastiest glare. She looks back at Ketevan who is enjoying her discomfort tremendously.
“Come to the Alba Custodia tonight,” he repeats his daily invitation to the tavern, but his attention is otherwise engaged with the meat pasties, his hands searching for his late breakfast. “I’ll make it–”
“Worth my while? I doubt it.” she finishes, cutting him off once again. “I’m already operating at a loss. The Forge was closed today.”
Ketevan's hand freezes for a second, barely perceptible, before he places his selected parcel back on the table. When he looks up at her, his expression is indecipherable. His gaze travels around the kitchen, following the help as they rush from one place to the next before returning to her.
“You don’t say,” he finally responds, his smile intact.
“Do you know anything about the matter?”
He shakes his head slowly, stepping away from the table and stuffing his hands, and the jam jar, in his pockets. She expects him to ask her about it but when he does not, she takes the hint.
“Right.” Her eyes do not leave him as she nods, not entirely convinced. Ketevan knew everything that happened in that little town of theirs, and the closing of the Forge was something that would have received some notice. But she decides not to push, unsure if she is overstepping a line. She shrugs her shoulders once, basket bobbing next to her. She forces her lips to stretch into a parting smile and makes her way up the first few steps. She turns around and points at him. “Ten Krounen!”
Ketevan remains unmoved. His own smile sparks but never quite catches, some warmth returning to his chocolate brown eyes. His head angles slightly. “You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime.”
Thunder rolls overhead.
Her back straightens instinctively, her senses on high alert, and she is suddenly glad to be already halfway towards exit. It takes all her concentration to relax the muscles around her neck, to convince herself that she was in no danger. This is Ketevan after all.
And Ketevan is a friend.
She clears her throat and bows slightly. “I thank you for your patronage.”
She does not wait for his response, turning quickly and making her way up the stairs two at a time. When she resurfaces, the sky above is blue and white clouds drift quietly, a truly beautiful day. She opens the black gate swiftly and dashes down the sidewalk, not looking back at the house – or the family carriage for that matter.
Putting one boot in front of the other, she marches down the cobbled street and heads to the square, walking past all the merchants and peddlers. She pauses briefly to look at the Forge for any sign of life but it remains as closed as it was earlier this morning.
You have to leave that damp, little cabin sometime.
She chews on her lip as she continues on, wondering if she has somehow managed to annoy Ketevan as well, her foot appearing to be a habitual fixture in her mouth these last couple of days. She knew she couldn’t afford to lose any more patrons, and a bad reputation in a small town spread like wildfire. And as an outsider, her fire would burn quicker than most.
She enters the market once again and, out of habit, her feet carry her towards Gródur Un’s stall. The wooden window panes remain tightly shut, no noise emanating from the old, timber house. Glancing around first to make sure that no one is watching, she walks behind the stall and notices the tart, brew, and Krounen are gone. Their absence gives her some hope, the thought of her brew making it to the hands of the old woman lifting the dark clouds around her somewhat.
As she steps away from the stall, she realizes that she should have asked Ketevan about Gródur Un as well, but remembering their exchange only moments before, she thinks perhaps it would be best to seek her information elsewhere.
Before she can think twice about it, she dives back into the market, immediately spotting the bearded merchants' brightly colored table in between the thick noon crowd. Bast stands proudly behind his wares, luring passersby with promises of pure gold at the best of prices.
When she steps forward, the merchant’s smile widens.
“Ah,” he welcomes her. “Will today be the day, miss?”
She smiles back at his established greeting and shakes her head. “No, I’m afraid not, Bast. I’m here to ask after Gródur Un.”
The merchant looks at her quizzically, his brow furrowing slightly. “Gródur Un?”
“Yes. You know,” she says, pointing in the general direction of her stall. “Gródur Un.”
Bast’s gaze follows her gesture before returning to her. He seems to think hard about it, his frown deepening before shaking his head. “I do not know such a person.”
“Oh,” she answers, clearly confused. Perhaps Bast had never wandered far enough to meet her, or had arrived little before her, and knew as little of the town as she did. She tries one more time, thinking the name might not be a known one. “She is an older woman. She sells fruits and vegetables by the arches. Surely you’ve seen her.”
The merchant shakes his head and shrugs apologetically, eager to return to his enticing of the masses, the çhances of this exchange being profitable making her less of a priority.
“Her family has lived here for years.”
“And so has mine,” he responds, his attention returning momentarily to her. “And I tell you, I have never heard such a name be used around these parts.”
She opens her mouth to press further but stops herself, unwilling and unable to anger yet another native. Besides, it had been her mistake to assume that the old woman’s presence was a known thing around town. Her investigation would have to continue elsewhere.
She bows, knowing she has wasted enough of the merchant’s valuable consideration before quickly moving out of the way. “I thank you for your time, Bast. May you have a pleasant afternoon.”
“And you as well, Venandi.”
She takes a few steps away from the table before she stops, her body finally catching up to her mind. The basket, which sat comfortably over her shoulder, slides down her arm and she closes her hand around the handle before it falls to the ground. She turns around slowly, busy bodies moving around her, the boisterous market suddenly feeling empty.
“What did you call me?”
“Hmm?” Bast replies distractedly without looking up at her, his eyes already preoccupied with a perusing customer.
“Who is Venandi?”
He spares her a sideways glance and smiles innocently. “How would I know?”