You can read the previous chapter here!
“Okay, I’ll admit it: that was better than I expected,” said Wanda, patting her stomach appreciatively. “That one bread with the nuts in it–that’s, like, an all-the-time food?”
Asp cocked an eyebrow at her as they walked down the quieting streets. “An all-the-time food?”
Wanda smiled and began to gesticulate with abandon as she spoke. “An all-the-time food is food that you eat whenever, just any old time. Like, for dwarves,” she said, absorbed in explaining her thoughts, “we eat this one bread all the time. It’s dense and grainy, and it’s basically made for sausage gravy. I ate it probably every day for my whole childhood. But then there’s special occasion foods. Like, there’s this dwarven bread that has ground beets in the dough. It makes the bread so flavorful and almost sweet, and you just eat it plain. But we really only make it for weddings and sometimes on high holidays. Everybody loves the beet bread, but we don’t make it all the time because it’s a special occasion food.” Wanda let her last words hang in the air, enjoying the feeling of having expressed herself.
“I know exactly what you mean,” said Asp. “One thing, though: what’s stopping you from making the beet-bread whenever you feel like it?” They were nearing Wanda’s inn.
Wanda furrowed her brow, a light smile on her face. After a moment, she said, “I dunno. Judgment from other dwarves, I guess?”
Aso cocked an eyebrow again. “Over beet bread?”
“Uh, yeah,” mumbled Wanda. “I guess so.”
“That’s silly. Let’s get you some beet bread,” said Asp. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll meet you here, and we’ll find some.” And then I’m going to talk you into leaving town.
“I don’t know how easy it will be to find,” said Wanda, shaking her head. “It’s not something every dwarf makes, just a few clans from the north.”
Asp reached up and placed a comforting hand on Wanda’s arm. “We’ll find some,” she said. They drew even with Wanda’s inn. “Here we are. Have a good night, Wanda.”
“Good night, Delia,” said Wanda, a sudden nervousness about her. She looked around, leaned down, and tried to kiss Asp on the mouth. Asp at first moved a fraction of a step away, then allowed it to happen. She pulled away a moment later.
“Wanda–” she began.
“Let’s talk in the morning!” cried Wanda, turning and hurrying into the inn.
Asp stood blinking in the low light of late evening. Did that just happen? Oh no, this is why she came back? Asp shook her head, her teeth gritted hard. Shit. How am I gonna shake her off?
Candace walked out from behind a nearby building and stood about ten feet away from Asp. “So that’s why you left? For her?” her tone was flat, emotionless.
“I really hope you know it’s not like that,” said Asp as if she were ashamed.
Candace breathed in sharp as though she had been struck. Pain in her voice, she hissed,“That would be worse.”
“Why would that be worse?” asked Asp, insistent.
“Because then it would mean nothing for you to be with someone,” said Candace, taking a few steps backwards. “Good night,” she spat and turned to leave.
Asp was again alone in the street. She looked up at the stars. I can take control of almost any situation–just not my own life. She watched as a shooting star passed across the sky, arcing beautifully as it raced, burning through the atmosphere. But maybe I can control a situation that controls my life. She smiled to herself. And then, after another moment, she lowered her eyes to ground level and walked off into the dawning night.
-
“Well, I don’t know if she expected us to find perfect throughlines like she did, but this could be compelling too if you–oh, here she is!” said Lilina to Steelmaker, both of them bent over a pair of wire-rim glasses. .
“Hello!” cried Asp as Lady Jasmine, her Delia costume tucked into her bag. She had changed in the private bathroom in the entryway of the museum and walked in like she owned the place. “I see you’ve made some discoveries!”
“Yes,” said Steelmaker, nodding, “of course, one of the greatest technologies in the assistance of daily life is the spectacle! And thanks to Lilina’s outreach, we’ve obtained three examples of them from various periods.”
“We were just examining these early prototype lenses,” continued Lilina. “You can see that the frames are actually the same wire used for jewelry-making at the time, and the lenses are adapted from the same kind of angled glass-cutting they were using for windows.”
“It’s a similar thing to what we found when we looked closely at these looms,” said Steelmaker, walking to the collection of looms. “Many of the materials were repurposed from other existing things, rather than inventing something from the ground up as we’ve traditionally thought.”
Asp smiled. “This is perfect. I want you to create some kind of a display–maybe a plaque, or at least a nice printing–of your findings. It should be at the center of the room for people to consider along with the pieces themselves.”
Steelmaker and Lilina looked at each other, concerned. Lilina spoke up: “My Lady, that is entirely unheard of. The role of the museum is not to instruct people in how to think, but to display the past objectively.”
Asp looked at them like a schoolteacher looks at misbehaving children. “Have you already forgotten our mission?” She took a few steps toward them. “We are carving a new path for the historical world. We are bucking convention. Would the people who tell you not to write to the public tell you that these lenses are history, or trash?”
“Trash,” said Steelmaker and Lilina together, both defeated.
“And if we put out these pieces without your insight–”Asp waved her arm around the room. “Would people understand it without your help?”
Lilina and Steelmaker looked at each other again and shook their heads no.
“That’s what I thought,” said Asp, a sharp smile on her face. “You will write an explanation of our findings and display it beside the collection.” She smiled and smoothed her dress. “Now, it’s night time, and we’re closed. Walk me out,” she added, heading for the doorway. They shrugged and grabbed their things before following her. “Any leads with your contacts?”
“Not much,” replied Steelmaker. “Nobody really carries the kinds of things we’re putting on display.”
“Get creative,” said Asp, stern yet kind. “Talk to people who work with the kinds of tools we might consider. Get out into the city and see what you can turn up.”
“There is one thing,” said Lilina. “There’s this art collector I know. Burton Kinkaide. Kind of odd. But he has an impressive library of art, and a curious collection of clocks.”
“Clocks . . .” repeated Asp. “And they’re from a range of time periods?”
“Yes, absolutely,” said Lilina, her eyes alight. “He has dozens.”
“Then what’s the issue? Let’s talk to him,” said Asp as they reached the front door of the museum. Steelmaker turned to lock up behind them.
“He hates me,” said Lilina, her face pained. “We worked on a project together years ago, and it didn’t go well. Different creative visions,” she added, shrugging. “And he’s very protective of the clocks. From what I remember, he doesn’t let them leave the house.”
Asp suppressed a smile. You mean we need someone to talk a crazy person into something that they don’t want to do? But how will we ever manage that? She smiled. “I’ll talk to him. Where can I find him?”
Lilina eyed Asp in disbelief. “Follow the east road out of town. There’s a big manor with a farm–you’ll see a line of willow trees they planted on the road up to the house. And good luck–he can be very . . .” Lilina searched for the right word. “. . . obtuse.”
“Thanks,” said Asp, and she found it easy to sound genuine in her gratitude. “Good night, you two.”
“G’night,” replied Steelmaker.
“Good night,” echoed Lilina.
Asp walked out of the museum and off to the estate to catch some sleep before a big day tomorrow. The crowds she passed buzzed with energy, but she drowned it out and tried to focus only on what was ahead.
Some things might be messy right now, but I can’t let that distract me. And even as she drifted off to sleep in the estate, she kept thinking, Don’t get distracted. Don’t get distracted. Don’t get distracted.
-
Asp woke up early and stole out of bed. She crept down the stairs and was surprised to find Dancer and Kyrn sitting quietly and playing a game of chess.
“How about ‘The Gang Hang’?” asked Dancer, advancing a pawn.
“It’s a little clunky,” replied Kyrn, taking his pawn with her bishop.
“‘The Hollowstride Pride’?” countered Dancer, taking her bishop with his knight.
“Kind of a stretch. How is this place a pride?” asked Kyrn, taking the knight with her queen.
“I dunno, it’s a place we’re proud of?” suggested Dancer. He crinkled his nose. “You try if it’s so easy,” he said, reconsidering the board. “Catchy names are hard to come up with. They gotta just come to you.”
“You mean like, ‘daily service?’” offered Asp. Kyrn and Dancer turned to face her; they hadn’t noticed her walk into the room.
“‘Daily service?’” asked Kyrn. “You mean like going to church?”
“Yeah,” said Asp, emboldened by Kyrn’s understanding. “If anyone hears us say, ‘I’m going to go to daily service,’ they’re not going to think twice about it.”
Dancer laughed to himself. “She’s got a point,” he said, taking a moment to rearrange a few pieces while Kyrn was paying attention to Asp.
“You should mention it to Oslo when he gets up,” said Kyrn, tracing her claws across the scales on her neck.
“Actually, I have early business,” said Asp, looking away. “Could you mention it to him?”
“Oooooh, special business,” said Dancer in a silly tone. “Good luck!”
Asp turned to leave, and she made it to the door before she heard Kyrn cry out, “My queen wasn’t there! And your rook was over here!” Dancer giggled, and Kyrn groaned. “C’mon, Dancer, I thought we said no cheating!”
Asp stepped out into the morning sun. She walked with speed and purpose, but she was trying to send off a feeling of casualness. Think about the asp. Sweet but final. She approached Wanda’s inn and stood outside for a moment. She tried to wait but was too anxious. She walked into the inn to get Wanda from her room, but suddenly realized a few steps inside that she didn’t know which room to go to. She walked back outside and stood by the entrance, trying not to fidget.
Several minutes passed before Wanda came wandering out of the inn. Asp waved at her in a friendly but passionless motion. “Good morning,” she said in a neutral tone.
“Good morning,” said Wanda, her voice strained. “You look very nice this morning.”
“Let’s find you that bread,” said Asp, looking anywhere but at Wanda. “Dwarven quarter is this way.” She gestured down the road.
Wanda and Asp walked side by side down the still empty streets. “You’re being awfully quiet,” said Wanda.
“I don’t mean to be,” replied Asp. She pointed to a small shop on the right. “Here’s a bakery. Let’s ask.” She gestured inside.
Wanda shrugged and walked inside. “Do you have any strugelpast?” she asked, already expecting a no.
“About to have a wedding?” responded the baker.
“No,” said Wanda, deflating already. “I just want some.”
The dwarven baker looked strangely at Wanda. “Sorry, I only make it for whole parties. It’s a lot of trouble, you know.”
“That’s okay,” said Wanda, eyes on the floor, “that’s what I expected.”
“Don’t worry, Wanda,” Asp said louder than she needed to. “There are other bakeries.” They turned and left.
“But it’s like I said, see? It’s a special occasion food,” whined Wanda.
“Wanda,” said Asp, imploring, “if one person says ‘no’ to you, do you just stop wanting what you want?”
“No,” said Wanda as though she were being forced to say so.
“Here’s another one,” said Asp with faked eagerness, looking at a bakery just a bit larger than the last. “C’mon.”
“You ask,” said Wanda, her voice pouty.
“It’s not for me,” replied Asp. “You’ve got to ask for yourself.”
They stepped up to the counter. “Do you have any strugelpast?” Wanda asked the wild-haired baker. “Or would you make some?”
“Do I have what?” asked the baker, holding a hand to his ear as though the issue were volume.
“Strugelpast. You know, like the northern wedding bread?” Wanda said, gesturing north with her hand.
“Oh, I don’t know how to make that, sorry,” said the baker. His tone was not apologetic.
“Have a good day,” Wanda said as they turned to leave again. Once they were outside, she said, “I told you, Delia. It’s not going to happen.”
“Let’s try one more place,” said Asp, pleading. “Look, here’s another bakery. C’mon, just one more try.”
“Fiiine,” whined Wanda. She led the way into the bakery.
A shortish dwarven woman with reddish brown hair and a light blue apron stood behind a counter, kneading a loaf of bread. She didn’t look up from her work, calling out, “Morning! What can I get for you?”
Wanda glanced at Asp, then back to the dwarven woman’s profile as she worked. “I know it’s a long shot,” began Wanda, “but–hey, wait a minute. Do I know you?”
The baker looked back at Wanda. “Wait . . . Wanda?”
Wanda blinked a few times in disbelief. “Rhoda? Rhoda Stonesplit?”
“Wow!” cried the baker. “Ya move away from where ya grew up, and ya smack into a schoolmate. Would you believe it?”
Asp was looking back and forth between the two, unsure of what to do.
“Rhoda, I just can’t believe–well, it’s good to see you,” gushed Wanda.
“You too,” said Rhoda, smiling. “Oh, before I forget–what did you come in for?”
“Oh, it’s silly really,” said Wanda, shaking her head. “My friend Delia has me searching for strugelpast.”
“Strugelpast!” cried Rhoda. “Oh, I haven’t had the chance to make that in years! There’s no call for it around here. You know,” she added like she were about to impart a secret, “I have a leftover beet from dinner last night. If you give me an hour, I could whip some up.”
“Would you really?” asked Wanda. “Oh, that would be amazing.”
“Yeah, really,” said Rhoda, smiling. “Come back in an hour, and let’s catch up.”
“See you soon,” said Wanda, her voice warm. “And thanks so much.” She turned and stepped outside, Asp following close behind.
“Told you,” said Asp, her tone neutral. “You wanted to give up.”
“I did,” admitted Wanda. “You were right.”
“Don’t forget it,” said Asp with a touch of playfulness. She allowed a moment to pass. “Can we talk?”
“I suppose we better,” said Wanda, slumping her shoulders.
“Wanda, I’ve been in your position before, so I’ll skip the empty stuff,” said Asp. “I know how insulting that is to hear.” She looked at Wanda and felt waves of sadness wash over her. “I can’t be with you.” She swallowed a lump in her throat, which surprised her. “It’s not exactly about you. Look, do you remember what I said when you helped me identify that newtkin for the guards? I said, you can’t stay here. Wanda, if you tried to live here, you would need to pretend to be ‘Miss Stonethatch’ for the rest of your life. You can’t be Wanda here. You will basically be living a life of crime forever because of one choice. I don’t want that for you.”
“You’re refusing to be with me for my own good?” asked Wanda, hurt in her voice.
“Wanda, if you were in Hammergrad, could you walk into a bakery and get your sturbelrast or whatever it is without having a personal connection to the baker?” Asp stared at her.
“Yeah,” she said with hesitation, “but I’d rather have you than beet bread.”
“I can’t leave, and you can’t stay,” said Asp, putting her hands together. “If the guards here get a hold of you, you’ll be jailed for perjury and aiding and abetting a criminal. If you go to Hammergrad, though, you can enjoy the life you want and meet someone you really could be with.” She tried to sound hopeful about Wanda’s future.
“You say that like meeting someone is just a given, like you could just fall for anyone,” argued Wanda.
“Wanda,” Asp said, leaning forward, “everyone is replaceable. You’ll meet a new me, I promise you.”
“Wow,” said Wanda, straightening up. “‘Everyone is replaceable’? You really mean that?”
Brace for it. This is where things get ugly. Asp frowned. “I mean that.”
“Okay, Delia,” said Wanda without feeling. “I’ll go to Hammergrad. Just, if you see me again–” she blinked her eyes, and a tear rolled down her right cheek. “–just leave me alone.” She turned and walked back into the bakery.
Asp stood motionless in the middle of the street. Well, that sucked, but it’s done. She studied the sky, judging the sun, and made for the east road out of town.
-
It had been a long journey, and her legs were tired. Lady Penelope brushed her hands down the front of her dress, sending billowing clouds of dust into the air. She was passing the last of the imposing willow trees that lined the road to Kinkaide Manor, and the warm air was just humid enough that she had to pluck matted hairs from her forehead and smooth them back as she headed for the front door. She climbed the stairs and knocked a few times. Moments later, the door swung open to reveal a brass Ronan'el man in full butler’s garb.
“Welcome to Kinkaide Manor,” he croaked. “What is the purpose of your visit?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Kinkaide about how he might be able to help the academic community, the city of Strey, and the general public.” Asp bowed as she finished speaking.
The butler raised an eyebrow. “And your name?”
Asp smiled the way diplomats smile–presenting friendliness without substance. “Lady Penelope Jasmine,” she announced.
“I’ll let him know. Please wait here.” The Ronan’el turned and stepped down the long hallway further into the house. Asp had to restrain herself–her instincts as a criminal told her that there were untapped possibilities in being left alone in a house like this. But there’s a different game afoot here, she reminded herself as she thought of Melwi in their strange chamber.
The butler returned about a minute later and nodded to her. “He will see you now,” he said and led her into the house.
After passing a series of twisting hallways and several grand rooms filled with art, the butler led her out onto a grand back porch that overlooked much of Kinkaide’s land. Kinkaide was seated in a lounge chair looking out and down the hill to the fields, where his laborers tended the land.
“Lady Penelope Jasmine, sir,” pronounced the butler.
“Ah, Lady Jasmine, please have a seat,” said Kinkaide, a red-faced human man with muttonchop sideburns, waving to the seat next to the edge of the porch. “I’m told you have a quite lofty idea to present to me.”
“It’s true,” she said. “You see, I have been–quite extraordinarily, you understand–appointed the interim curator of the Strey Museum. Have you ever been?”
“I attended its inaugural exhibit many years ago now, but I am afraid I’ve not left the estate in some time,” he said, fanning himself with his hand in the warming air. “It was, I’m told, a bit of a collection of second-rate art after that.”
Asp suppressed a smile. I love it when people open doors like that. “I’m afraid you’re right, Mr. Kinkaide. It was a sorry affair. But then, collectors like yourself are so often buying up the great pieces, and what is left for the museums to display?” She was careful to say this without an accusatory tone.
“I certainly hope your big idea is not to include my art in the museum,” said Kinkaide as though the idea appalled him.
“Not your art,” said Asp, winding up. “I’ve heard tell of a collection you have that would match our needs much better than art.”
Kinkaide raised his eyebrows. “You don’t mean my clocks.”
“I do,” said Asp, undaunted. “Please, allow me to explain.”
“Lady Jasmine, I want to save your time,” said Kinkaide. “If you’re here for the clocks, you can go now. I will not be lending them to the museum. They are, after all, not art anyway. They are practical tools.”
“That’s not what I mean to explain,” said Asp patiently. “Please let me describe our new exhibit.” She changed her body language; no longer was she responding to Kinkaide, but leading him. “Currently, we are expanding our scope. I have gathered a team that is working to educate the public on the history of practical innovation.” She paused for effect, and was very pleased to see that he seemed to nod along as he listened. “We have already obtained half of our work. We have a loom from every period in our history, and we’ve just gathered a collection of spectacles from several time periods.” She changed pace and turned to Kinkaide like a conspirator. “We really are trying to show how thinking has changed over time, and we’re using practical tools to do so. I understand your collection of clocks is very personal to you, but do you understand why someone in my position is practically obligated to at least speak to you?”
Kinkaide sat and considered Lady Penelope’s speech. He glanced here and there, then fixed his gaze on the fields below. “I’m sorry. I do understand why you felt you had to come here, but I can’t.” His voice was tight.
“Mr. Kinkaide–” began Asp.
“I can’t,” he interrupted. He was still staring out at the fields.
No, this isn’t right. I’m supposed to get these clocks. I can just feel it. I don’t know how, but I can feel it. She stared, frustrated, at Kinkaide. Asshole. He was still staring out at the fields. She followed his gaze. A stout dwarven man was pushing a plow being hauled by oxen.
“That’s interesting,” she said without realizing she had spoken.
“I beg pardon?” he replied.
“It’s just–I’ve never seen a plow like that. And maybe a horse or a mule, but an ox?” Asp was staring intently at the farmers, something brewing in her mind. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of an ox in this part of the world.”
“Oxen are stronger for that, which give you better plowing lines. We learned that long ago in the north of the Myriad. And that plow is a newer model–it spreads the force of the plow out more evenly,” Kinkaide explained.
“Mr. Kinkaide,” said Asp, a smile spreading across her face. “Would you consider helping us put together a display of different plows?”
“For the museum?” he said, surprised. “You must really mean it about practical tools.”
That’s what I was looking for. You’ll reconsider those clocks, you bastard. “You see, Mr. Kinkaide, I only have time to mean what I say. And I stand by it–would you come to the Strey Museum tomorrow to help us choose plow technology?” Asp smiled at him.
Kinkaide fanned himself again, thinking. “I don’t see why not,” he said finally. “I must admit I’m quite intrigued by what you’re describing. And here, I thought this was to be an exhibit on useless gadgets. What changed?”
Asp met Kinkaide’s eyes. “Why, the old curator was thrown in prison. And I do feel dreadful saying this, but I think we may all be better off for it.”
“If it’s true, it’s true,” said Kinkaide, laughing. “And there’s no stopping the truth.”
Asp looked back out at the fields. Something like that. But he’s acting differently. Something’s changed. I think he just needs time. She watched as the plows cut lines across the fields, studying how easily they did their work.
-
It was getting dark. The road ahead of her had only one more long stretch after the bend ahead, and she would be back in the city then. If I can get Kinkaide to share his clocks for a few weeks, and we collect the plows, we should have a full exhibit. But that’s a big “if.” We may need to look elsewhere, something simpler. Maybe Steelmaker’s printing technology would be good–but how are we going to get the pieces here? I’d bet every printing press in the world has been in constant use since it was built, so who would give theirs up? Ugh, why does Melwi need me to do all of this anyway?
She started to round the bend when a rustling sound behind her startled her. She turned to see what made the noise and found herself looking at a fully-armored silver Ronan'el woman with a greatclub in her massive hands. There was more rustling behind her; Asp spun to find a black Ronan'el, also armored and wielding a scimitar.
“Is this a little noblewoman wandering alone in the dark of the night?” said the black Ronan'el in a slight accent.
“Looks to be,” replied the silver Ronan'el as though she were hungry.
“I’m not a noblewoman,” said Asp as soon as they’d finished speaking. “It’s just a costume. I’m probably poorer than you.”
“We’ll decide if that’s true,” countered the silver Ronan'el. “Hey, Pyrin, see what she’s got in her bag.”
Pyrin–the black Ronan'el–approached Asp. She held her bag out to him, and he took it, turning it upside down over the road. Delia’s green and red dress fell out, along with her boots and leather cap. A notebook and inkpen fell onto the dress, then a dark green coinpurse. Pyrin scooped up the coinpurse and pulled out a small collection of caps and helms.
“Looks like she wasn’t lying,” said Pyrin, his black scales barely visible in the failing light.
“Unless she’s hiding more,” said the silver Ronan'el, grinning. “Pat her down.”
Asp felt powerless. She didn’t resist as the black Ronan'el checked her legs and torso for any irregularities, and she sighed when her real coinpurse was found at the base of her ribs.
“Told you,” said the silver Ronan'el as Pyrin held the second coinpurse up. He opened it, and crowns and helms fell out and into his claws in a quick shower.
“Hot damn,” said Pyrin and whistled. “Not bad, neither.”
“I think it’s only fair we punish her for lying,” growled the silver Ronan'el.
“Don’t flinch, or you get an extra one,” said Pyrin, a frightening glee in his voice.
Asp was beginning to say, “An extra what?”, but the greatclub made contact with the back of her head before she could finish speaking, and she blacked out.
When she came to, it appeared to be hours later, judging from the complete darkness. She gathered the clothes they had spilled along with the notebook and pen. She tucked her empty coinpurses into her bag and trudged into the city. She sleepwalked to the estate, the pounding pain in her head growing worse with every passing minute. I’d kill for an ash headache instead right now. She pushed open the side door and shuffled down the hallway.
She was surprised to find that the gang was all still awake, apparently having just finished a game of cards, which were scattered around the table. They all looked up to see her come in.
“Shit, are you okay?!” cried Annabel, the first to see her.
“I’m a little sore,” Asp muttered.
“Are you sure?” asked Jehosaphat, then sucked air through his teeth. “You look . . . rough.”
“I feel pretty rough,” managed Asp, grateful for an opportunity to tell the truth.
“Who did this to you?” demanded Candace, her voice strained–she sounded livid.
“A pair of armored Ronan’el–one black, one silver,” said Asp, closing her eyes. “The silver Ronan'el called the other one Pyrin. Never got her name.”
“They take anything?” asked Gregorio.
“All my money,” said Asp, defeated. “They got my decoy coinpurse and my real one.”
“That’s fine,” said Oslo, nodding to her. “We can replace coins. What I want to know is, why were you on the road outside of town alone at night?” His voice wasn’t angry–he sounded truly concerned for what seemed like the first time.
“Remember our teapot, the dwarf?” she replied. “She came back to town yesterday. I was making sure she left for good.”
“And she’s gone now?” asked Kyrn. “For sure?”
Asp thought of Wanda’s final words to her, and she could hear the pain in Wanda’s voice in her head: “just leave me alone.”
“I’m pretty sure,” Asp said. And that’s the truth.
“Let’s get you to bed,” said Annabel, tutting like a worried mother. “You need some rest.”
“I’ll get some bandages,” muttered Candace, leaving the room.
“Thanks, everybody,” said Asp as Dancer helped her walk up the stairs to her room.
“Feel better,” said Dancer at her doorway before heading back downstairs.
Asp placed Delia’s clothes on one of the dummies that had been brought in and considered it from a distance. She smiled, then dressed the other dummies as Lady Penelope and Gilbert. She slipped into a dark purple nightgown and sat on her bed. There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Asp, looking over.
The door swung open to reveal Candace with an armload of five times more bandages than required. “I got the bandages,” she said, her face deadly serious.
“I see that you do,” said Asp, stifling a laugh.
Candace plopped the pile of bandages onto Asp’s bed and began to wrap up the cuts and scrapes Asp had collected. “Turn your head that way,” ordered Candace, gesturing to the far wall. “I need to see the back of your–OH GODS!” Her voice rose to a peak. “You’ve got a pretty bad wound back here, Asp,” she said, an edge in her voice. “Look at this–it’s all torn up. What the hell did they hit you with, a brick?” Her voice was furious.
“Greatclub,” said Asp, wincing as Candace wrapped the throbbing wound.
“Well, the next time I see a silver Ronan'el with a greatclub, I’m going to teach her a few lessons about manners,” said Candace, her hands moving through and around Asp’s hair. .
Asp tried to soothe her. “Let’s at least make sure it’s the right greatclub-carrying Ronan'el, okay?”
“Fine,” muttered Candace, weaving the bandage around and through Asp’s long sandy hair. “But when we do find them . . . BAM!” She stopped wrapping Asp’s wounds and clapped her heads together with a loud clap.
“Isn’t that more of Annabel’s territory?” asked Asp, a joking tone in her voice.
Candace turned Asp around to look at her. “I would say that if someone makes you unhappy, that’s my territory.”
Asp got very quiet and looked down. “Even if you can’t trust me?”
Candace brushed a strand of hair out of Asp’s face. “Trust is a choice. And I’m choosing to trust you.” She sighed. “Please don’t make me regret it.”
Asp turned back to Candace and gestured her closer, as if she were going to tell her a secret. Candace turned her head slightly to the side to present her ear.
But Asp grabbed Candace’s face and turned her so they were facing. “So don’t regret it,” she whispered, and she kissed Candace, who did not pull away.
You can read the next chapter here!
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