6 – 6

The bed on which I lay is comfortable and warm, as it always has been. My pillow is cool beneath my cheek, and full. The blankets and sheets I cocoon myself in are clean and smooth on my skin. The little stove in the corner casts a barred glow from its pot-belly mouth, staining the wooden floor in orange light and filling the room with warmth. What amount of the autumn night's cold that seeps through the window's glass panes is kept at bay by that little iron stove. The sky outside, peering in through a slice-thin gap in the curtains, is clear and studded with silver-soft stars. There is no sight of the distant and callous moon. If ever there was a perfect place and time for rest, it is here and now.

Yet, I find my grasp on sleep to be tentative and prone to slipping. What little of it I am able to catch is shallow and restive; broken by stretches of wakefulness in which I measure the retreat across the floor of the stove's glow and the advance of the dark it once kept beneath my bed. I should think it ironic that one of the few times I haven't a single question in mind is one that I dearly wish I do. It would be better if the why of my tenuous grasp were unknown. My eyes flutter closed and I manage to find some of that which so fiercely eludes me.

The glow of the stove-light has gone when I wake. All that remains to illuminate the room is the silver-soft glow of stars, a pale reach through the slice-thin gap in the curtains resting gently on the ceiling. No, I know full well why. There is a tumult in my heart, a clangor of such strong feeling that it will not be ignored. In the drum-and-tap of my fingers on my arms I find anticipation and excitement. I have been in this one place for long enough. The open road beckons to me.

In the sout twist in my belly I find that there is guilt. Valdenwood has been, with two exceptions, kind in its welcome and hosting of me. I should not be so eager to be gone. In the weight on my chest I find sorrow. Come morning, Clarke and I will leave, and widen the rift between us and Edith when we do. I could have stopped its forming, and lament that I didn't.

There, in the chilling vastness spread before me, I find uncertainty. There is already much I don't know. Now, I add more: what we will find on the road to Fort Tanner, what consequences there will be for turning my back to my people, and whether or not I have made the right choice in doing so. It is this, I should think, above all the rest that wakes me over and again. I watch that pale reach of silver-soft light, the long finger of those distant stars, bend like a sheep-herder's crook as night rolls towards dawn. Somehow, I miss myself falling asleep.

When I wake, it's to sunlight, and the sounds of Valdenwood-in-morning. There's grit in my aching eyes and my feet are cold. I scrub the sand out with the heel of my palm and look down the bed to discover my cocoon has unraveled. The seep of warmth into them as I roll back into my sheets and blankets is delightful. The fact that I am still tired is not. Once my feet are warmed I leave my little nest and ready myself to face the day. Hair is untangled and pulled into a horse-tail at the back of my head. My clothes, chilled from their night away from me, warm quickly from the heat of my body. I wash the last of the grit from my face with a handful of water from the washing basin on the table.

Now, to breakfast. I've little and less of an appetite, so soon after waking, but this has not stopped me before. I see no reason it will now. I leave the room that I've come to call my own since the night of the fire and make way to the stairs, pausing at their summit to see what I might hear down below. A small murmur of conversation, the sort of grumbled talk that comes from a voice seasoned well by fatigue. The clatter of cups and cutlery accompanies it.

Not Edith, then. Or Clarke. I've no wish to face either of them right now. The faint smell of fish confirms it: night-fishermen, enjoying what must be dinner for them before going to their homes to sleep the day away. I go down the stairs and see them, a group of weathered and tired-eyed men circled around a table piled with empty plates. They pay me no mind, a courtesy that I return. Apart from us, the room is empty. The front doors are open, letting sunlight and fresh air spill in.

The door to the kitchen is not. I hesitate to open it, my hand flat against the wood. It's strange to feel conflicted about doing something I've done every morning since the fire. Would I still be welcomed? Would Agnes pretend that nothing has happened between me and her granddaughter, saving her cold looks for inattentive moments? Would she do away with pretense and toss me out entirely?

It would be the last, were it to happen at all. The trouble is that I don't know. Uncertainty is what keeps me from learning. The horizon of that chilling vastness from last night pushes further away from me, adding this to its great size. Behind me, the scrape of chairs and dull clatter of coin-on-wood heralds the departure of the night-fishermen. They leave behind me, the empty room, and this closed kitchen door. There is someone beyond it, I can hear them.

There is only one I am going to learn. I find that place in my heart from which courage wells, where I drew from so deeply to walk miles in agony, and push through the kitchen door. There is a kettle on the small table in the center, two chairs awaiting. Agnes at the stove turns upon my entry. She says, “It'll be ready's in a bit. Have a seats.”

- - -

Judging by the rich, oaty smell coming from the iron pot on the stove, my last breakfast in Valdenwood will be a porridge. I watch her back as she stirs a large through, curling clouds of rich-scented steam rising in its wake. Has Edith told her about last night? If so, will she have anything to say about it? I dislike not knowing. That Clarke and Edith are involved only makes it worse. Soon, a brim-filled bowl is set before me, a spoon clattering to the tabletop alongside. Agnes drops into her seat with a grunt and starts eating. I follow suit, one slow mouthful at a time. When she sees, Agnes asks, “Ye all rights?”

Without thinking or looking up, I nod. Another mouthful of exceptional porridge goes down. I don't know why I lied, and I don't know if it's curse or blessing that she seems to believe me. She hums and the scrape of spoon-on-bowl returns. Why did I lie? I had no reason to. I put my spoon down, put my hands flat on the table, and say, “Actually, I don't...think so.” Agnes hums again, this time to show she's listening. “Last night,” I say, “after dinner, there was – we were sitting by the fire, and talking about me taking the message to the Fort myself.”

Agnes nods, spoons another mouthful in, swallows it, and asks, “Something happens?”

I nod again. “Clarke said she's coming with me.” Even now, it's still thrilling to hear. Another hum. I keep talking, “I think...Edith was already sad, but – now both of us are leaving, and...” I sigh.

“Guessing she got upsets,” Agnes offered, “and then went and got mads 'cause of it. That the size of its?” I shouldn't be surprised. She's Edith's grandmother, after all. I tell her that this is exactly what happened. She doesn't look surprised. “Sounds right,” is all she says.

“That's it?” I ask, in disbelief.

She shrugs. “What more's should I tells ye?”

“How to – make it right!” I don't shout, but it's a near thing. “It shouldn't...we didn't risk ourselves to that fire for something like...” I wave my hand, “this...to happen!”

Steel-gray eyes, surrounded by crows-feet, laugh-lines, and wrinkles, meet my own. “Why,” she asks, “are ye thinkings there's something that needs fixings?” She's already stunned me, but hasn't the mercy to stop. “Was just an argument, after all,” she says, taking up her spoon, “Happens, sometimes.Give her a bits, and it'll smooths over.” I wait for more, yet it seems there's no more to come. The old dwarf nods decisively and goes back to eating.

What happened last night was more than just an argument. I know arguments well, I'm an eldest daughter and older sibling. Rare was the day that passed without either bearing witness to or being part of some kind of argument. This was different. This was more, somehow. I sigh frustration out through my nose and pick up my spoon. I should eat while there's food. The porridge is thick and creamy, honey-sweet taste on my tongue. It's filling and warm, and I wish I could enjoy it to the extent that it deserves.

It's my fault she doesn't understand. I haven't explained it well enough. Try as I might, I can't find any word fitting to illustrate the gravity of what I bore witness to. “I could have stopped it,” I say suddenly. Agnes lifts her gaze, and just for a moment I can see a glimmer of impatience in her steel-gray eyes. “There was a moment, just before, where I could have said something, and I didn't.”

Agnes asks, “Why not?”

“I wanted to,” I answer, “I just didn't know how.”

She hums, thoughtful, and says, “So, less that ye didn't, and more's that ye couldn't?” I nod, and she shrugs, “It happens sometimes.” It's clear that I'm meant to be reassured by her words. I don't think I am. Mother would have understood. She would have known how to help.

This is going nowhere. Unlike me. The rising sound of wooden wheels on cobbled stone draws my attention. The roll-and-clatter comes to a halt at the kitchen's back door. The axle creaks as whoever's driving it steps down from the seat. There comes a knocking at the door; once, twice, before it's pushed inward. With his wide-brimmed hat in hand, fraying edge poking between his fingers, an old, graying man steps into the kitchen.

“Hear you're lookin' for a cart,” Harlan says, “Like t'volunteer mine.”

A pleased smile stretches across my mouth, the handle of my spoon held securely in the corner. He twitches an eye, barely a wink, back. It's good to see him looking better. His skin isn't quite as gray, and he stands talls without having to force himself. Through the door he left open I can see his cart, but it is not his old, graying donkey in its traces. A horse, broad and brown, tosses its long-snouted head.

He's also picked up a passenger. She's found herself a hat, just like his, worn atop a spill of ink-dark hair. Her eyes, blue like the open sky, glitter with excitement in the shadow of her new hat's brim. The silver-trimmed piece of ice at the hollow of her throat shines in the sunlight. Clarke catches my eye, and she smiles.

Coda

They're leaving her.

Or, she's staying behind.

In the end it's the same; her standing on the road at the north end of town, work going on all around her, while that cart rolls away. A cart she hadn't bothered to find for them. She was too busy feeling sorry for herself. Still does, if she's being honest. The sight of them just leaving like that, like it's nothing at all, stirs it up in her sore, sad heart.

It's their fault. They didn't listen. She'd tried and tried again to explain it, but every time it just wouldn't come out right. Kept saying the same things and hoping it would work this time. She hated how stupid it made her feel, how small. She sighs and puts her hands in her pockets, letting her shoulders droop. Just this one time. Gran'll understand. If she doesn't, it would just be fitting.

The cart crests the top of that little hill, furthest she's ever been from home, and dips out of sight. She could've been there, sitting between them and trying not to laugh at them figuring out how to flirt. Wouldn't have been easy, but fun? Would've been that.

Would've been that.

She hadn't been brave enough to come say a fare-thee-well. Not after last night. She'd hidden nearby and watched half the damn town have more courage than her. Mallory Knott had given them a half-dozen pies, ones she promised would travel well. With Zira around, they would. Not far, though. Old Harlan made them promise to look after his cart and did his grouch-and-grump routine about it all. Gran refused the coin Zira tried to pay for her room with, as if it weren't hers now, whenever she needed it. There were others; people Clarke had healed up and who'd worked the day away with Zira.

They'll come back. They have to. There's a cart to return, and Port Viara's south of here. She'll see them again. She will. Knot in her throat, burning and sharp, stings her eyes until they spill over. They won't stay, not now or ever. But her? She will. Has to. Someone does.

Edith turns her back on the road and the ones who travel on it, walks back to the Rest, and shuts herself in her room for a bit. Always felt safe in here before, and still does. Only now, she feels trapped, too.

Just a little, though. Just a little.