Five days later, Fiona strode through the streets of Ravensholm, her bag over her shoulder. The snow hadn’t fallen here, so far south; instead filthy rainwater lay in the gutters and the depressions between the pavers. Leafless trees, the famous lindens lining Center Street, reached bony fingers toward the blue winter sky. The afternoon sun cast long gray shadows pointing Fiona’s way down the street. She caught a whiff of hot roasted chestnuts and veered to one side to buy a paper cone full of the delicious nuts. She smiled at the woman ahead of her, who ducked into her coat collar and just shrugged in reply. Well, Fiona was in a good mood, and one sour woman wasn’t enough to ruin that.
She accepted her cone with another smile and juggled a couple of chestnuts—too hot to eat, yet. Ahead, she saw a wooden sign with a spiky crown painted lopsidedly on it. The inn was tall and elderly, but its windows were clean and reflected the sky, and it didn’t look very expensive. It was as good a place to stay as any.
Ten minutes later she sat on a lumpy bed in an interior, windowless room and took a deep breath, inhaling cool dampness the heating Device on the wall couldn’t dispel. It had been the last room in the Crown Inn, but she’d opted not to look for someplace nicer. It wasn’t as if she’d be there long. The wooden walls were stained dark brown and were bare of anything but a small oval mirror just big enough for Fiona to see her face. She scuffed the soles of her boots across the woven rug, streaked with marks that showed she wasn’t the first to do so, and looked her reflection in the eye.
“I’m Fiona Cooper,” she told herself. “I was Fiona Kent until I came to my senses.” Though no one needed to know this. Divorce wasn’t unheard of, but people did look at you funny if they knew your marriage was dissolved, like there was some flaw in you. The idea that a divorce might be best for everyone concerned seemed not to occur to some people.
She left her bag on the bed and went down the stairs, nearly running over a young woman coming up. “I beg your pardon,” Fiona said. The young woman was dressed casually in trousers and a heavy knitted sweater, and her boots looked new, as if she’d only just bought them. She had hair nearly as red as Fiona’s that she wore loose around her face, which was narrow and sharp-nosed. Fiona took a step to the right to get out of her way. The young woman nodded, not meeting Fiona’s eyes, and hurried on up the stairs. Fiona shrugged and continued down the stairs. Someone here must know where she could buy a newspaper.
She put up the hood of her cloak against the rising wind and set out. This part of the city was old, and showed its age in its worn wooden walls, in the cracked paving stones and old-fashioned gutters, but everything was brightly painted and clean. It reminded her strongly of Kingsport, though the roofs here were shingled with wood and not slate. A handful of children rushed past her—on their way home from school, possibly? Or just racing the sun for a few more minutes of playtime.
She bought her paper from a grubby urchin on a street corner, then returned to the Crown Inn, took a seat in the taproom, and opened the newspaper. Nothing exciting was happening in the world. There were the usual tensions between Tremontane and Veribold, the usual gossip about people in the capital. Prince Douglas, youngest of Queen Genevieve North’s four children, was once again the center of scandal, this time involving the daughter of the Count of Waxwold. How embarrassing for the Queen. At least he wasn’t the heir to the throne, though by all reports Crown Prince Landon was as pleasure-loving as his youngest brother. How tiring to do nothing but have fun, all day long. Fiona had never been indolent and couldn’t see the appeal.
She turned a page and ran her finger down the list of business announcements. There, a trading consortium was putting together an expedition to Dineh-Karit. They were looking for investors, but might be persuaded to accept simple labor. They were leaving in a week. Perfect.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?”
A young woman stood beside her table, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. After a second look, Fiona identified her as the woman she’d nearly run over coming down the stairs. The woman’s red hair was tousled, as if she’d been outside and had it blown by the wind, but she was still only dressed in trousers and sweater and her cheeks lacked the ruddy look of someone who’d been standing in the cold for too long. Fiona glanced around the room. Most of the tables were unoccupied. “Crowds a bit much for you?” she said with a sidelong smile.
The woman flushed. “I just…don’t want to be alone…and you looked…I thought you wouldn’t mind.”
The woman’s embarrassment made Fiona feel bad about having been sarcastic, even gently. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Have a seat. I’m Fiona Cooper.”
“Lucille,” the young woman said. “Lucille Paget. Thanks ever so much.” She waved over the serving girl and ordered the same meal Fiona had. It was the only thing on offer.
Fiona folded the newspaper and set it aside. “You passing through Ravensholm?”
“I’m on my way to Magrette. I have work there.”
Magrette was the capital of Barony Silverfield. “Looks like you’ll have fine weather for traveling tomorrow.”
“Yes, but I wish I could move on right now!”
“You in a hurry?”
Lucille shook her head. “It’s not that. I—” She shook her head. “It’s not important. I just don’t want to stay in Ravensholm any longer than I have to.”
“I see.” Fiona didn’t see, but it didn’t matter. Lucille struck her as one of those highly-strung young women for whom any small setback was a potential catastrophe. Or maybe Lucille had a good reason, and Fiona was just being insensitive. “You don’t have to say anything more.” She leaned back as the serving girl set a plate of roast pork loin and sautéed chunks of winter squash in front of her.
Lucille nodded, and waved at the barman to bring her a beer. “Do you want something? I’m buying,” she said, and Fiona, after a moment’s consideration of her plate, nodded and asked for fresh cider. They drank in silence, Lucille’s attention darting in every direction. She squeaked and twitched every time the wind made the door rattle. Finally, Fiona’s patience gave way.
“You seem worried about something,” she said.
“What? Me? No, I’m not—” The door banged in its frame again, and Lucille gasped. “That is—”
“Why don’t you just tell me?”
“Oh, I don’t want to involve you!”
“Nothing says I have to be involved just because you’ve told me your problem. Go on. Maybe it’ll help.”
Lucille drew a deep breath. “I’m being followed,” she whispered.
“By who?”
“Two men. They’ve been following me since I left Sharpesford. I thought I’d escaped them, but I saw them watching me when I went down the street to the shops.”
“What do they want?”
“I don’t know!” Lucille’s voice went shrill, then dropped to a whisper again. “To rob me, I think. I’m carrying my whole savings so I can start over in Magrette.” She patted the leg of her trousers, and Fiona heard the muffled clink of coin.
“Haven’t you ever heard of banks?”
“My granfa’ says not to trust them. Besides, I need some of it to pay my fare.”
Fiona stifled a few choice comments about Lucille’s granfa’. “Well, so long as you stay where lots of people are, you should be fine.”
“I’m afraid because I have an outside room, though. They could get in easily.”
“No one’s going to break into the Crown Inn. It’s in the middle of town.”
“But they could!” Lucille was shrill again.
“Then ask for a different room.”
“There aren’t any free rooms.”
Fiona sighed. Lucille was young, and dramatic, and oversensitive, but Fiona couldn’t help feeling sorry for her—alone in a strange city, on her way to a new beginning. Or maybe it was envy she felt. “Why don’t we switch rooms?” she said. “My room’s on the inside and you should feel safer there.”
Lucille blinked. “Would you? That would be so kind of you!”
“It’s the least I can do,” Fiona said drily. “Come, I’ll show you where it is, and maybe then you can relax. But I really don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
Having stowed her bag in Lucille’s room, which was a nice big one on the corner with plenty of windows, Fiona sat on the bed and wrote a few lines in her journal. Not sure if L. is exaggerating, but it hurts no one to be kind. Something it took me far too long to learn. She put the little book away in her bag, thought about going back to the taproom for more cider, then decided she was ready for the day to be over and a new one to begin.
She put on her nightdress and turned off the lamp, then curled up in the slightly damp bed. This room was warmer and drier than the one she’d given Lucille, but still chilly despite the heating Device she’d turned to full. Time for her nightly routine.
She closed her eyes and pictured a bonfire, blazing hotter than the noon sun at Midsummer, bare ends of logs sticking out all around like a fringe. In her mind’s eye, she took hold of a log and pulled it away from the fire, smothering it and tossing it aside. The bonfire burned less brightly. She repeated the trick until the fire was no bigger than a breadbox, then embraced it, pulling it close to her and pinching off the flames until it was extinguished and all that was left was a head-sized lump of char. She pictured it dissolving in rain until nothing was left.
She didn’t know if this ritual actually prevented her from igniting a fire in her dreams, or if it just calmed her mind enough not to sleep too deeply, but it had been over a year since she’d woken to the smell of smoke, and she was just superstitious enough not to break with tradition and forego the routine. The few times it had happened during her marriage, she’d had to do some fast talking to convince Roderick it had been the lamp. She dreaded the day she slept so soundly she burned the bed, the room, the house, and would have to explain walking unscathed from the conflagration.
Despite her mental exertion, she wasn’t sleepy, but there wasn’t anything else to do but go down to the taproom and not drink. She flexed her toes, then her ankles, and proceeded on up the length of her body, encouraging it to relax, and finally her active mind took the hint and drifted off to sleep.
She dreamed of doors lined up along an endless hallway, banging open and shut, until a final loud slam brought her awake. Confused and disoriented, she tried to sit up, but was restrained by hands gripping her arms. “What—” she began, but a hand went over her mouth, pressing her into the mattress.
She bucked and kicked, and her bare foot collided with something bundled in many layers of cloth. Someone grunted, and the grip around her arms tightened. The hand over her mouth was replaced by one holding a thick, wet cloth that stung her lips and smelled sour and bitingly cold. She sucked in another breath to scream, and the acrid stench filled her nostrils, dizzying her. Suddenly her limbs were too heavy to move, and a gray haze fogged her vision. She heard mumbling, tried to understand the words, and then unconsciousness claimed her.