She wakes.
A single groan escapes her throat as she stretches her arms upwards, her hands touching the cool, stone wall above her head. Her fingers follow the uneven surface, her palms and wrist resisting against its stability, tips instantly covered in the ash-like dust of the old rock. She inhales once and uses the momentum to bring herself up, legs swinging to the side before she can think twice about it. Her feet touch the rug beneath and she spreads her toes, welcoming the warmth of the woven fabric.
Wrapping a blanket around her shoulders, she walks towards the kitchen. With eyes half-closed, she toasts a slice of bread, and boils water for her tea. As she makes her way to the back door, she spots her brown boots, calves flopping to the side. With plate in hand and a teacup dangling from the other, she inserts a foot into each shoe, wiggling her ankles to facilitate the process.
When she finally steps out, her cheeks take the brunt of the chill and she can already feel them flushing at the change in temperature. She ambles through the garden slowly, watching for any new growth, any shrubs ready for the picking. The sprigs of thyme look particularly lush today so she makes a mental note to grab some on the way back. She catches the fluttering of tiny, white wings beneath some of the leaves and sighs in frustration, having already dealt with this particular pest before. She would have to ask Gródur Un for whatever remedy she used for her own garden.
The brew she prepared for Gródur Un lays expectantly by her basket – a prune, mulberry and beetroot cure known to help with the relieving of fatigue. While the woman had seemed oblivious to her outburst yesterday, she hoped she would convince her to accept the remedy. She thinks throwing in a small tart might help sweeten the deal, so she adds one to her basket.
Drops of scalding tea land on her thumb and her mind returns to the present. She moves to take a big bite of her toast, lathered with leftover apple jam and fresh butter but stops, teeth sinking but not chewing. Her eyes are fixed on a white, frail garden chair. A white, frail garden chair she remembered falling behind her when she left for town the day before.
A white, frail garden chair which now stood perfectly placed next to its matching table.
Her lips part, the sweetness from the jam and the saltiness from the butter muted in her confusion. She looks around, towards the forest path, towards the garden, and sees nothing – sees no one.
She approaches the chair slowly, placing the teacup on the table, toast still at hand. She sits down carefully, and when the piece of old furniture releases its customary precarious creak she rolls her eyes at her foolishness, the thought of her garden furniture being arranged by a metal man being about the most ridiculous thing she could imagine.
But the feeling of mild apprehension never quite leaves her, and while she does not allow herself to rush through her meal, she stands up as soon as the last bit of toast has disappeared from her plate and heads inside.
Once again, the sight of travelers and farmers eases her heart somewhat and as she joins the morning caravan she wonders if they too have had odd encounters with armored men but the conversations do not travel beyond this year’s harvest, the need for new carts, and the exorbitant price of dried goods. The absence of knights in their stories brings comfort to her and, in the spirit of getting on with her day, she downgrades the morning incident to no incident at all.
By the time she reaches Bast’s stall, all thoughts of fallen furnishings have left her mind and are replaced by the hushed glow of a golden ring and its gorgeous black opal. Her hand waves away the empty promises and offers of the persistent Merchant as she continues her route.
Desire for unattainable jewelry is soon replaced by the acrid smell of the Apothecary’s shop and his uncanny ability to smell olives where there are none. Under the gaze of the many eyes perched above his head, she thinks perhaps she should slip an olive into his pie. She could already imagine his weak chin shaking with indignation, his long fingers removing his eyeglasses ceremoniously. She could hear his condescending tone rising, never yelling, asking her to leave his shop and never to return again.
She would never do it, of course. He was a regular patron, a paying customer, and gods knew she needed the Krounen.
Instead she smiles and quips and pockets the five golden coins before taking her leave, the sound of the silver bell releasing her from the sour grasp of the bitter man. She takes in the fresh, morning air and the sweetness of it relaxes her, the same cold that warns of a brutal winter nipping at her heels. The chilled breeze pushes her to walk faster, the exercise warming her chest and her feet, the small jars in her basket tinkling with every step.
Once she turns towards the Old Maid’s alley, she slows down her pace, unwilling to lose her day’s earning to the wet mud. She steps aside as large men roll barrels of ale up the alley and towards the tavern, the name Alba Custodia stamped atop each of them. As she watches the men go about their work, the delivery boy has already spotted her and she catches the end of his coat as he disappears up the steps to fetch her next patron.
She waits for him to come back down, Krounen concealed in his tight little fist. He tips his hat once as he sprints past her and heads for the market. She watches him disappear, wondering whether she should also tip him, given that he spares her a trip up a flight of perilous stairs every day.
“Coming!” Miss Mirah shouts as she makes her way down those same steps, each footfall a warning. Her body is once again covered in overlapping fabrics of varying patterns and textures, the many crystals sewn on her bandana swaying, a few tendrils of thin, strawberry blonde hair escaping its hold. Her hands, which wisely hold onto the walls, are bedecked in old rings.
“Good morning, Miss Mirah,” she greets the Old Maid with a smile.
“Oh my sweet, are you quite alright?” She spares a worried glance towards the alley as she tightens her grip on the bright, periwinkle stole wrapped about her shoulders. “These outsiders, I tell you. Never a thought for those around them.”
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“I am perfectly fine, Miss Mirah,” she responds amicably, already searching the contents of her basket for the Old Maid’s tarts and jar of jam. “He missed this time around.”
“It’s all take, take, take I tell you.”
She pauses, starting at the Old Maid for a fraction of a second before fishing out the remaining meat pasty. The woman’s disdain for all things foreign was no surprise to her, but she wondered why, then, was the Old Maid generous enough to tip the boy a whole Krounen every morning. Perhaps it had been a habit of her wealthy family – or perhaps she wasn’t apprehensive of foreigners themselves, as much as she was frightened of the change they seemed to bring about with them.
“Oh, but you’re nothing like them,” Miss Mirah continues, interpreting her silence as annoyance, her tone slightly apologetic. The Old Maid proceeds to complete her now daily ritual of spitting onto her handkerchief and swatting around her head. She then hands over the seven Krounen, the air around her smelling of dead roses and dampness.
“As always, I thank you for your patronage, Miss Mirah,” she replies, followed by her customary deep curtsy.
Turning around, basket thumping against her side, she heads towards the town square.
Clang!
She feels the warmth of the hearth almost immediately, the deafening blow of a falling hammer reminding her of her next stop. The knight would have to wait, the intimidating Forge as busy as always. She walks up to the apprentice, who is working on the same brown mare she had seen before. The owner stands next to her, speaking to the animal in hushed tones.
Clang!
She waits for the apprentice to acknowledge her with a curt nod before she makes her way inside. The Blacksmith’s imposing figure is illuminated by the blazing fire in front of him, the rest of the forge darkening in comparison. The flames crackle and spit at him but he remains unperturbed.
Clang!
She begins to lay down the contents of her basket, including her little jar of honey and thyme mixed with a bit of aloe plant, on one of the tables. Looking around for the other apprentice, she spots him making his way to her, his apron tied around his waist, removing gloves from calloused hands.
Clang!
She receives her fourteen Krounen and watches the young man walk towards the Blacksmith to notify him of her arrival but she turns around, bringing her purse forward and watching the coins slide from her fingers to join the others.
Clang!
Her ears pick up the sound of hot metal being submerged in ice cold water as she moves towards the exit. Basket in hand, her eyes fall upon some discarded scraps of metal on a nearby table and her eyebrows rise. She remembers then that she meant to ask Bast about knight related sightings but had forgotten completely. But, who better to ask about an armor-clad individual, than the makers of armors themselves, she thinks.
Once she leaves the heat of the Forge behind, she walks past the worried owner, the mare at his side swishing her tail about. She waits for the apprentice to notice her, his attention still engrossed on the task at hand. When he finally turns to search for a stool, she steps forward slowly, inching closer to the horse.
“Excuse me,” she calls to him. The apprentice looks up at her but seems confused. “May I ask you a question? I promise I won’t be long.”
The apprentice says nothing as she nods back at his customer apologetically.
“Has the Forge, by any chance, been of service to a knight recently?”
The apprentice continues to stare at her, his large gray eyes unmoving.
“I saw one by the main road, you see. By the meadow’s path, “ she says, pointing at the general direction of the woods with her basket. “He seemed lost and I wondered if by chance you knew anything about the ma–”.
The apprentice stands up suddenly, the stool clattering loudly behind him. She watches, dumbfounded, as he walks off and away from sight, sidestepping a large figure as he enters the forge. She can’t see a face but she knows the tall build unmistakably belongs to the Blacksmith.
She moves to apologize for disturbing his apprentice but the Blacksmith ambles away and into the blazing darkness of the Forge without uttering a single word.
Her cheeks color a bright pink as she steps back, flustered. When she looks at the customer for reassurance, he is brushing the mare’s mane, seemingly unaware. She stands there, unsure of whether she should head inside and make amends or if she should simply walk away.
She decides for the latter, vowing to add extra meat to their next order and doubling the honey-thyme salve as an apology for her apparent rudeness – fourteen guaranteed Krounen not being something she could easily find elsewhere.
Still shaken, and pondering other ways she could have insulted the poor lad, she makes it to Qadahl Road, feeling a sense of relief, knowing she was nearing an end to her day. Her mind craves the simplicity of her cabin, the smell of cinnamon, and the enduring peace that came with her quaint life, rude customers and hovering giants notably scarce.
With thoughts of herb buns and hot mint cocoa, she delivers her strawberry tart, keeping her interaction with the cook adequately civil and swerving Ketevan’s antics listlessly, climbing the stairs two at a time. She hears the family’s carriage but does not stop to gape at them today, marching determinedly down the street instead. She stops at the corner, waiting for a gap between carriages, looking at both sides of the road before deciding to cross.
Just when she’s about to do so, she catches sight of the family’s carriage as it turns the corner, the coachman swerving into traffic proficiently. The carriage’s velvet curtain seems to rustle and open momentarily before the horses drag it away. She stares at the carriage for a while longer before crossing.
Having one final stop before she can depart, she carves a path through the market crowd, lifting her basket above her head to avoid hitting any of the townsfolk. Other merchants are less considerate, and an umph escapes her lips when an elbow slams against her rib cage. She hears an apology said far away but she does not stop, her objective already in sight.
Except her boots do come to a halt, the swaying of her basket ceasing, her lips slightly parting.
In all her years living in the town, she had never seen it closed, crates empty, hangers bare of garlic braids and onions. The windows behind the stall are tightly shut, a lock in place, and she hears no noise coming from inside.
She steps forward slowly, expecting Gródur Un to jump from behind the wooden slabs to surprise her. When nothing happens, she gazes back at the crowd to see if any of the locals were as confused by the old woman’s absence as she was but they all seem to be going about their day as they usually would.
She moves to head home but turns back, taking another look at the stall’s surroundings, and decides to leave the balm behind the stall, hiding five Krounen beneath the small tart.
With exhaustion weighing on her temples, and Gródur Un weighing on her heart, she heads home.