12th of Winter, 514 AV
Wright Manor
----------------
Her tablet was still there. That had been what had surprised her most.
The manor itself, of course, had little changed. She had been frightened that the bookcase of Kenabelle's journals would be gone, but she had thought so long about the possibility of them being gone, and wished so hard in the hope that they wouldn't that it hardly stirred her to find them in their place, there in Kena's office, lined up neatly. The spines still gleamed, the leather clearly oiled and dusted regularly, still, by the keepers of the house.
And the rest of the house - well, it had always felt so other-world, so much like a place beyond the bounds of things as petty as time and circumstance, that its unchanging nature was of a piece with its identity. She had heard stories when she was a child, silly throwaway tales of water-creatures who would draw sailors into deep caverns filled with jewels and fine foods, and the sailors would come back to find that in the space of their one dinner, fifty years had passed in the outside world. That was the Wright House felt like, and if she were to admit it to herself, it was part of what drew her to stay there, for she needed a place to rest, to find sanctuary.
But it was her little wax tablet that brought tears to her eyes. The last night she had spent in this study, she had had it on the desk, penciling notes into it with her stylus. She could not remember, she realized, what she had written. Something to do with deconstructing a letter in the script of the journals, but nothing she had made any real progress on. And, of course, time DID exist, and the warmth and cool of the intervening time had melded any writing on the tablet back into a regular pool of dry wax, again. But it lay open at just precisely the angle she had left it, her stylus set just above the first line in the way she alway set it when she had to stop for the night. It was... a piece of her, frozen into the place. She had, somehow, in that small way, woven into Wright Manor. It made her feel more real. More welcome, perhaps, too.
She had lowered herself to the ground. The house was chilly, and she did not stoke up the fire, leaving it at the low smolder that the housekeeper kept the empty rooms at, simply to keep the cold from creeping into the book spines. But, to stir it higher would be to send more smoke up the chimney, to signal to the world that someone used the fireplace. So she sat on the flags of it, now, gingerly undoing the toggles of her blouse, then unwrapping the bit of rag she had picked from a rubbish heap.
The bruising looked awful, where the broken shackle had torn the skin, and the laceration itself would, she imagined, have been much better served with a few stitches. But it was, slowly, healing. She felt, on reflection, not so much worse than she had as a child, when she'd been beaten for Lanie's sake in the jam-jar incident. Older, though, there was that, and it still hurt a great deal simply to move about. If she had felt she warranted extra blessing, she would have asked for a feather bed. She had slept in Mara's, several times, and now, she felt, if she could have crawled into Capinsal house, she could have lay abed, there, for a month without opening her eyes. And wool stockings, good stout ones.
But, the flags of the fireplace were warm, at least, and oh, how Qalaya had blessed her! She cleaned the wound gingerly, clumsily, with a bowl and a bit of the rag-corner. She'd set the bowl just by the coals, and the water was hot, which was simultaneously torturous and heavenly on her skin. She wrapped it again, and looked down at herself. The sogginess about her belly was, mostly gone, along with much of the muscle - in truth, she looked much older. Partly, a good long bath and a few days of real cooking, she imagined, would help, but partly, she had spent a long time chained to a floor on poor rations. For a moment, she felt a sort of motherly tenderness for her body, a kind of pity. The poor, clumsy thing had worked so terribly hard. Her skin was still painfully pale, her eyes tired from all the light, as well.
She slowly and painfully crawled, still open-bloused, to the desk, and opened a drawer - a pot of ink, still, and well mixed, and there, yes, a rabbit hair calligrapher's brush. She'd found it before, before, so long before. She slunk weakly back to the flags and slouched against the mantel with a deep exhalation, letting the sharp crackles of pain in her rubs calm, before struggling to open the ink, and dipping the brush in. She still wrote a steady hand, and she murmured softly to see it, "Mother Qalaya, for your gift of the pen and book, again, I thank you, oh mother... oh mother, how deeply I thank you."
The feel of the rabbit hair and the cold, thick ink across her breast bone made her shiver, and she realized, that just a little bit, she wept. It was a nice crying, though if she had considered it, it likely made her look a wreck - she never had been an attractive weeper. She wrote slowly, wishing Mara was still alive. Mara, with her bold, beautiful strokes of ink, who could write with the steady hand of an artist on her. She did her best, writing out the words of her skin's bible: Lanie, first, Then Qalaya, in a gentle cascade of round letters, pregnant with compassion, that began in a rich dark Q over her heart, and fell like a bundle of grapes along the curve beneath her breast...
She wrote only a few simple words, before she grew tired, and closing her eyes, drew the book and the quill into them, letting the ink on her dry in the warm air, as she wrote.
Mother Qalaya,
I am recovering. The books are safe, and I shall have my notes soon. It is so much! To be here. I can imagine, somehow... I feel as if her ghost is here tonight, or Bethany's, or... Hannah's perhaps? I do not know. Perhaps its simply having a fire and your love, and freedom all at once again. We must to work, again, Mother. I have not forgotten...
x
Wright Manor
----------------
Her tablet was still there. That had been what had surprised her most.
The manor itself, of course, had little changed. She had been frightened that the bookcase of Kenabelle's journals would be gone, but she had thought so long about the possibility of them being gone, and wished so hard in the hope that they wouldn't that it hardly stirred her to find them in their place, there in Kena's office, lined up neatly. The spines still gleamed, the leather clearly oiled and dusted regularly, still, by the keepers of the house.
And the rest of the house - well, it had always felt so other-world, so much like a place beyond the bounds of things as petty as time and circumstance, that its unchanging nature was of a piece with its identity. She had heard stories when she was a child, silly throwaway tales of water-creatures who would draw sailors into deep caverns filled with jewels and fine foods, and the sailors would come back to find that in the space of their one dinner, fifty years had passed in the outside world. That was the Wright House felt like, and if she were to admit it to herself, it was part of what drew her to stay there, for she needed a place to rest, to find sanctuary.
But it was her little wax tablet that brought tears to her eyes. The last night she had spent in this study, she had had it on the desk, penciling notes into it with her stylus. She could not remember, she realized, what she had written. Something to do with deconstructing a letter in the script of the journals, but nothing she had made any real progress on. And, of course, time DID exist, and the warmth and cool of the intervening time had melded any writing on the tablet back into a regular pool of dry wax, again. But it lay open at just precisely the angle she had left it, her stylus set just above the first line in the way she alway set it when she had to stop for the night. It was... a piece of her, frozen into the place. She had, somehow, in that small way, woven into Wright Manor. It made her feel more real. More welcome, perhaps, too.
She had lowered herself to the ground. The house was chilly, and she did not stoke up the fire, leaving it at the low smolder that the housekeeper kept the empty rooms at, simply to keep the cold from creeping into the book spines. But, to stir it higher would be to send more smoke up the chimney, to signal to the world that someone used the fireplace. So she sat on the flags of it, now, gingerly undoing the toggles of her blouse, then unwrapping the bit of rag she had picked from a rubbish heap.
The bruising looked awful, where the broken shackle had torn the skin, and the laceration itself would, she imagined, have been much better served with a few stitches. But it was, slowly, healing. She felt, on reflection, not so much worse than she had as a child, when she'd been beaten for Lanie's sake in the jam-jar incident. Older, though, there was that, and it still hurt a great deal simply to move about. If she had felt she warranted extra blessing, she would have asked for a feather bed. She had slept in Mara's, several times, and now, she felt, if she could have crawled into Capinsal house, she could have lay abed, there, for a month without opening her eyes. And wool stockings, good stout ones.
But, the flags of the fireplace were warm, at least, and oh, how Qalaya had blessed her! She cleaned the wound gingerly, clumsily, with a bowl and a bit of the rag-corner. She'd set the bowl just by the coals, and the water was hot, which was simultaneously torturous and heavenly on her skin. She wrapped it again, and looked down at herself. The sogginess about her belly was, mostly gone, along with much of the muscle - in truth, she looked much older. Partly, a good long bath and a few days of real cooking, she imagined, would help, but partly, she had spent a long time chained to a floor on poor rations. For a moment, she felt a sort of motherly tenderness for her body, a kind of pity. The poor, clumsy thing had worked so terribly hard. Her skin was still painfully pale, her eyes tired from all the light, as well.
She slowly and painfully crawled, still open-bloused, to the desk, and opened a drawer - a pot of ink, still, and well mixed, and there, yes, a rabbit hair calligrapher's brush. She'd found it before, before, so long before. She slunk weakly back to the flags and slouched against the mantel with a deep exhalation, letting the sharp crackles of pain in her rubs calm, before struggling to open the ink, and dipping the brush in. She still wrote a steady hand, and she murmured softly to see it, "Mother Qalaya, for your gift of the pen and book, again, I thank you, oh mother... oh mother, how deeply I thank you."
The feel of the rabbit hair and the cold, thick ink across her breast bone made her shiver, and she realized, that just a little bit, she wept. It was a nice crying, though if she had considered it, it likely made her look a wreck - she never had been an attractive weeper. She wrote slowly, wishing Mara was still alive. Mara, with her bold, beautiful strokes of ink, who could write with the steady hand of an artist on her. She did her best, writing out the words of her skin's bible: Lanie, first, Then Qalaya, in a gentle cascade of round letters, pregnant with compassion, that began in a rich dark Q over her heart, and fell like a bundle of grapes along the curve beneath her breast...
She wrote only a few simple words, before she grew tired, and closing her eyes, drew the book and the quill into them, letting the ink on her dry in the warm air, as she wrote.
Mother Qalaya,
I am recovering. The books are safe, and I shall have my notes soon. It is so much! To be here. I can imagine, somehow... I feel as if her ghost is here tonight, or Bethany's, or... Hannah's perhaps? I do not know. Perhaps its simply having a fire and your love, and freedom all at once again. We must to work, again, Mother. I have not forgotten...
x