She would learn the others later, instead content with the heavy iron bolt that had always served as protection enough in the past.
Satisfied, she turned around, trying to decide on her first course of action. The chill in the air made it rather obvious, and she hurried over to the fireplace that stood proudly at the far wall. There was a large alcove cut from the stone, filled to the brim with cut logs, a basket of tinder and kindling nestled below, but even those would not be necessary, everything needed for her first already neatly arranged within.
She made quick work with the fire-starter, blowing gently to urge the gentle flame to catch and burn, to offer some measure of warmth in the otherwise draughty place. It flickered, uninterested at first, but finally acquiesced, and she felt a momentary bolt of triumph.
And to her great embarrassment, found herself turning to tell Grimult of her success.
But of course he was not there, and the loneliness came back tenfold.
Another shiver, and she stood, bringing her lamp to light others throughout the space. She would have to be modest with the use of the oil, but later. For now she needed the illumination, needed to inspect her new dwelling, for however long or short it might be hers.
She felt the whispers of disgust remembering how many had likely lived and died within these very walls before her, and shoved the thought away firmly. It would do her no good to dwell on such revulsions, and she had nowhere else to go. The bedding was fresh, and she was gratified to see that the only red that was within the fabric more resembled the quilt Edgard’s wife had made—a natural complement to the more subdued hues rather than overwhelming the piece simply because of who it was for. An inspection of the wardrobe almost brought a bubble of laughter from her, so elated was she to see a swathe of greens and blues, even some as plain as brown.
Her time should have been finished, a Lightkeep no more. She was to live in seclusion, yes, but she was also to keep from drawing attention to herself. If any were to stumble upon her cottage, they could not return home with tales of seeing a glimpse of crimson, of a forbidden meeting, perhaps even an illicit conversation.
She bit her lip when she caught sight of more familiar offerings, folded at the bottom of the wardrobe. Sturdy boots that had already seen a Journey, now polished and mended as best as they could have been. And the red cloak that had been hers. She had never asked what happened to them once she had changed into those provided by the Keep, but had cared little for the answer. They had served their purpose, and she had felt no great attachment to them. Except now, to see them, to imagine all that had occurred while she was wearing them...
She stupidly found herself blinking back tears.
She was overly tired, that was all. And even her few meagre sips of the wine were too much for her. Her head felt heavy, and she found her fingers going to the elaborate style Mara had concocted, pulling free first the metal-work that had been her adornment, then the pins that held her hair carefully in place. She shook her strands free, knowing she would need to find a comb somewhere in the dwelling, but not yet willing to seek it out. She found a nightdress, not in the wardrobe itself but in a chest of drawers close beside it, a pouch of herbs nestled inside giving a sweet, subtle scent to the crisp linens. She smoothed it out on the bedspread, irrationally pleased at the prospect of wearing cloth the colour of cream, of getting to be just herself, if only for a little while.
The dress proved more of a problem that she could have imagined. When Mara had constructed it, she clearly had intended on being there to help her out of it again, and Penryn regretted not taking the time to seek her out for a proper goodbye where Mara might have related such information.
She was near tears of a very different sort, wondering if she would have to resort to cutting herself out of it simply to be free, lest she have to spend the rest of her days confined to the garment, and she began a mad search through the dwelling for just such an article, when a noise outside stopped her short.
She wiped at her eyes, ashamed to realise that a few errant tears really had escaped, and already her heart pounded nervously. She did not dare hope. She simply could not. Already she had half-convinced herself that she had not seen Grimult at all, that it was her desperate mind’s solution to the agony of thinking she had to do the rest of what must come next entirely alone.
It was an animal, that was all. And because of that, she would not open the door the peer out, to hold one of the lamps and invite a dangerous beast to notice her.
Grimult, wherever he was, would not have been pleased at her foolhardy display, and the thought of him disappointed in her kept her riveted to the floor.
She heard nothing else, which likely meant the creature had lumbered off, and she forced herself to open a drawer in the kitchen area and take out one of the knives she found there. There were only a few, and she was surprised to find them dull upon her inspection. Was it an oversight, or done purposefully? She thought again of the Lightkeeps before her, and the queasy feeling returned to her belly. If it was intentional, then it was possible that such tools
