Too bright already, Belfry thought as she emerged from the cellar’s open maw. Too late a lie-in. Damn that cellar’s darkness.
On the road—in tents or under open sky—she slept in natural rhythm with daylight. Waking with the first birds, working sturdily through noon, and settling in to supper when light first leaked from the sky had provided routine, a steadiness she could count on in an otherwise unpredictable life on the road. It was a peaceful cycle, the hard work draining and the sleep dreamless. Here, it had taken only a week holed in that stores-stocked cave to lose her balance. She slept too late in the darkness, the tavern tempted too many late nights, and until she had steadier work, there were few reasons to rise that early. Only so much time in the day could be taken up caring for three horses and a dog nearly as big as one.
What was left of the morning passed slowly. Belfry labored at the South Gate Stable, filling feedbags and mucking stalls—partial payment to the stable-master for housing her dears Schooner, Walker, and Twain. She aired her thoughts, ordering them better between the beats of labored breathing as she pitched fresh hay. The physical work cleared her crowded head.
She’d been in the wrong, she knew, when it came to Nitsu. She couldn’t admit it in the cellar’s dark and filled with drink, but now she knew she’d been poor company. Nitsu was energetic and affable, lonely in a generous way, but the woman had her obvious troubles. Belfry had thought to be friendly and offer solace, but she’d sent the wrong signals. Again. Apparently. That was her fault, of course, wasn’t it? Nevermind how clear she thought she’d been on their first meeting. Well...the whiskey didn’t exactly help.
It was easier, she reminded herself, to be friendly but not make friends. Friends you have to leave, eventually. Friends can break your heart. Still, that didn’t mean she had to be cruel.
“I’ll talk to her soon,” she said as she lead Walker out with the rest of the horses into the stable yard. Walker didn’t ask who.
Bree was a peculiar place, or was that just the tavern? She’d found more peace on her long walks away from the town, touring the lakeshores and homesteads. It was pleasant, rolling country. She imagined it on a map like a sheet left wrinkled after its wash and smoothed out over a mattress—technically flat, but crinkled and warped. Forests lined its borders like verdant fur trim. Its hems were stitched with silver rivers.
It was on her walk that she’d found Knotwood—a cozy, quaint merchant hamlet, by the looks of it. She’d heard the rumor of a smaller, quieter tavern than the Pony, and she was not disappointed when she found it. It was dry and dimly lit, cozy and warm. The shelves were top-heavy with mismatched platters, plates, and cups. Stunted beeswax candles were scattered between pots set on woven wicker trivets. Above them hung a map of the frosty north.
In the backroom, she was greeted by more than just the yawning maw of the bear-pelt rug. She was startled by Caein at first, but once she’d fetched a mug and joined him, she sank more easily into his company. They spoke some, but were more often silent. He was gently honest with her, and she asked only questions that mattered.
As she cleaned out the last of the stable muck and swept the clean wood shavings against the back wall, she realized how long her thoughts lingered on him, and she turned them instead to wandering.
She still visited the Pony when she could. A night not long ago, she’d welcomed the sudden introduction of a colorful, vivacious man who had, in regaling a small crowd with his unrivaled passion for cultivars of winter squash, brought up talk of work. The sweet girl with them mentioned her country inn, and she was glad to talk to Belfry in more detail about an arrangement making deliveries. The girl seemed sheltered, but not spoiled. She was keen, soft-spoken, and kind, and she seemed and at ease in company less refined than herself. Belfry would make her way to the Peaceful Peach as soon as she could...and as soon as she learned where it was.
“Hear that, Twain?” she asked the red dun gelding as she led him back into a stable freshly-laid with clean wood flakes. “We’re going to have a team again.”
She fetched the other horses—her own and the rest kept in the South Gate Stable. They’d soiled the yard as much as the stalls, but that was less hard work. Kept company by the hammers shuddering off anvils in the work yard adjacent, she felt more at ease living a little longer in town, drinking a little more in its taverns. It was still not the career she wanted. She’d left the caravan because of the tedium of teamster-work in Eriador and the meager coin that came with it. It would do for now, though, and besides...one never knew what kind of news one might learn on the road.
