Frost cracked underneath my feet as I dragged my starving body closer. The twilight chill breathed down my neck and the wind played with the nearby store signs. What was written upon the splitting slabs of wood, I could not tell you, but the architecture made it apparent enough which buildings were inns and which were restaurants.
A wide dirt road divided the settlement into two rows. One row was littered with stores and tourist traps; the other was decorated with lively homes and houses. What was interesting to me was that each building seemed to live in a different era.
There were stone buildings that creaked with age and rested heavily on thick wooden beams, and there were inns with vaulted roofs so tall they looked like witch’s hats. Hidden in pockets of shady corners were buildings resembling popular architecture from before the Purge. Their pearly white finishes were scarred with years of grime and nature had long reclaimed their surfaces, but the beauty of technology now lost to time shined within their walls.
Next to one such aged structure was a ranch-style home with yellow siding and drooping grey eaves. A wooden deck wrapped tightly around the building’s face and two large posts presented a staircase mightily before me. Warm light gathered around a gas lamp hung next to a single windowed door. Through that window, rather than a living room or hallway, I saw glass shelves filled to the brim with baked goods.
I practically ran up the staircase and was deaf to the chiming bell when I opened the door. Jars of honey and nectar sang on the shelves. Rolls and sticky buns swam in towel covered baskets. Cakes and cookies danced in glass displays. Oh, what edible heaven! I thought.
The sound of music knocked me from my trance. Somewhere nearby, a sombre melody floated in the air and lent itself to the amber atmosphere and warm lamps. The calming cadence arrested my mind. For a moment, I forgot all about my childish fatigue and hunger. It seemed insignificant now.
I walked along the wall trying to pinpoint the sound until I came upon a familiar sight. Much like the one at Grandfather’s mansion, a grand piano stood gallantly upon the floor. The half-open lid blocked the pianist from view, so I walked around until I could see who it was.
With eyes of the sharpest sky-blue, an aged woman painted her soft melody. Her wrinkled face was adorned with glasses of the thinnest frame. Her greyed brown hair was pulled back tight in the smallest of buns. Her gentle hands struck a chord that echoed with the most tender note of finality.
After the chord had long faded, her clear voice chimed in my direction. “Hello, little miss. How may I assist you?”
I couldn’t help the frown in my heart. She had spoken Alairan. I don’t know why I didn’t expect it, but I still felt disappointed to not hear the familiar charm of Rendischean. I wasn’t in the Territory of Rendische anymore. I needed to get used to that fact. As best I could, I attempted to form my words and prayed I didn’t sound too broken to her.
“Wondered. . . if could assist. How much. . . food?” Thinking my words over and finding a mistake, I reiterated, “Ah- how much. . . for food?” With a half-hearted smile, I rubbed my fingers together in what I hoped was the universal gesture for money. To my excitement, the light of understanding lit her face.
“A-a-a-ah,” she smiled. “A traveller, yes? Forgive me if it seems rude, but do you happen to speak Rendischean? Your accent seems . . .” she trailed off with a questioning tilt of her head.
I immediately lit up. “Ah, yes! Yes, I do! I-I was wondering if I would be able to purchase some of your items here. My journey was long, and I haven’t had a proper meal in . . . uh, well,” I trailed off bashfully.
I don’t think baked goods count as a ‘proper meal’, my thoughts interjected as I looked around the store again, but bite me! I’m hungry.
The old lady’s face softened into a smile, and I was not prepared for the thick accent that marred her Rendischean speech.
“Gi’me a sec. I be right ovah ta the registah in a jiffeh. Grab what ya want. Most o’ these here items cost abou’ta coin’r two for the small’ns. The larger’ns go abou’ five’r seven dependin’ on what type.”
The long-tired gears of my mind ground to a stop. Wait. . . what is that? Is she speaking in an accent? Where did she learn Rendischean to be speaking like that?
I smiled and nodded to show her that I had understood her, but . . . it would be a lie to say my curiosity wasn’t peaked.
She doesn’t look like a native Rendischean. She looks more. . . Youldern, almost. More northern and rough-looking.
No, it’s not my place to question her ethnicity. With a mental shrug, I started perusing her stock of sweets. The breads and cakes on display immediately recaptured my attention. I loved baked goods, and I would take in the sight of every crumb twice before choosing what to eat.
But then I heard a curious sound. Behind me, the old lady was walking away from the piano. No. . . it would be more accurate to say she was rolling. With an unreadable smile, her tender hands pushed the tops of thin, little tires and a wheelchair came into view. She sat with the poised posture of a seasoned pianist, but rolled the wheels like a veteran warrior who knew not when to give up—her strength could not be hidden by her aged form.
As she passed by the aisle I was in, I could see the shadow of what used to be her left leg while her right leg laid lamely on the chair’s footrest. She didn’t look me in the eye as she rolled by. She simply headed toward the register like she said she would.
I couldn’t explain it, but I felt sorry for her state. Like I was somehow the one responsible. After giving it a thought, I realized that may not be far from the truth. A lot of horrible things were caused by the Nightshades, and I was contracted under them. In a way, if she had been afflicted by the Nightshades, her state was my fault.
Bitter bile rose in my throat.
Bottling up my thoughts and pushing them deep into the back of my mind, I selected an apple crème cake I fancied then joined her at the register.
“Will that’a be all?” The lady asked.
“Yes, this is fine,” I mumbled a reply.
The lady looked at me curiously, then smiled as she opened the till. “That’a be one coin and,” she paused as I handed her the money from my satchel, “if ya be needin’ any further help, don’ be afraid ta ask, my young Sylver. I be more than willin’ ta aid ya.”
Something felt off with what she said, but I simply nodded, no longer in the mood for conversation, and left the building with a weight dragging at my feet. Convincing myself to ask the whereabouts of the University elsewhere, I started walking around the settlement once more. It was only after the sweet flavour of apple crème soaked my tongue that I realized with a jolt. I never told her my name . . . did I?
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