She’d be warm tonight - another reason to smile. To the right of the bed was a small bookshelf. It had a cactus, which seemed out of place. The books that stocked the shelf were dusty and clearly untouched for some time.

  There was a window above the bookshelf with blue curtains. She peered through the glass seeing nothing but foggy, damp woods and drew the curtains with a gentle tug.

  There was a giant rug in the center of the stone floor. It had a variety of swirling patterns colored every shade of red, though muted due to time and wear. There was a single chair on the rug, near the fireplace.

  “Your new home,” whispered Ayla. She tossed her satchel on the bed, loosed her belt and pulled the sheathed dagger off. She rested it near the satchel.

  She pulled her cloak off and laid it over the back of the chair. Turning to the stack of firewood, she started with some kindling. Crouched, leaning forward on her toes, she struck flint with a steel bar retrieved from the mantle; sparks flew and a fire was born. She lightly blew on it, fostering it into a larger flame. When it was ready, she took a few of the larger logs and stacked them in place. It wasn’t long before the room was at a comfortable temperature.

  Peaking around the room divider, she saw that the tub had plumbing. This surprised her. Considering how far Witchwicks was from the civilized world, she had expected to warm the tub water with coal. There was no immediate furnace in sight. She twisted the copper knob, turning on the hot water. It was seconds before steam rose from the tub. She found a bar of soap sitting on a small antique table next to the sink. She held it to her nose. It’s lavender scent conjured images of warmer climates she desired to see, plus she would finally smell good. She smiled again.

  Walking towards the fireplace, her fingers crawled down her legs, hiking up her skirt. She grasped the bottom of the muddied hemline and lifted her dress over her head. It was browned, torn and reeked of body odor. After a good washing, it would look almost normal; a natural spring green with colorful pink waves threaded around the skirt up to the bodice, along which tiny lemon bell shaped clusters swirled. She played with the flowered appliqués along the bottom of the dress. They were deeply stained, but she could still see vibrant yellows, greens and pinks in the cotton petals. In passing, it’d be easy to miss: the petals ever so subtly swayed as if a breeze graced their field. It was the magic in the fabric of her dress, emanating from the shards of toilstones imbedded behind the hem. Memories of working on the dress along side her mother flickered, invoking a joy she seemed to have forgotten. She lovingly folded the dress and placed it on the seat of the chair.

  She stood naked in front of the fire, absorbing the comfort of the flame. It’d been months since she’d been this close to this kind of warmth. She stepped towards it. Her skin immediately started to heat up. She inched forward until she started to burn.

  “Forgot what you felt like,” she whispered. The fire cracked as she reached out, palm hovering over the flames. “I forgot how much you like to dance.”

  She went to her bed and dug into her bag. She set the rune-engraved skull on the table next to her bed, and then pulled out a second dress she and her mother had made. Then she pulled out the fresh forest green socks and her bedtime slip. She laid it out, very much looking forward to wearing it. She was incredibly pleased to see the clothes were mostly dry. The water-resistant satchel had served her well. She looked at the skull, reflecting on the monstrosity it once belonged to. She checked her bare right shoulder; a massive bruise had spread where its cleaver struck.

  “Necromancers,” she said with disgust. She moved the skull to the mantel piece above the fireplace. It was her trophy, like the others she saw in the tavern. She rotated the skull so that it faced the wall. Satisfied, she nodded and spun around.

  Returning to the tub, which was nearly full, she practically squealed. She turned off the running water.

  “Yes, yes, yes!” She stepped in, feeling the hot water run up her legs as she submerged her body.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, more drawn out, leaning back in the tub. She ran her fingers through her blonde hair, breaking the mud and loosening it up. She touched the tips of her ears, both of which were heavily scarred. On her left ear was a ringed earring resting on her helix. She gently lifted and dropped it. Still attached, she smiled. Then, she excitedly held her breath and leaned back. She was completely underwater, immersed in its warm embrace. Holding her breath, she let the muffled sounds of the tavern fade away. As much as she’d forgotten what it felt like to have her skin warmed by fire, she also forgot the feeling of a hot bath. She cherished it as long as her lungs would allow. She sat back up, resting her chin on the surface of the water.

  Then, it hit her. A flood of emotions overwhelmed her mind, and tears started to stream. She took the bar of soap, trying to distract herself from the painful memories of the last two months. She washed the blood and mud from her hands, revealing thin, bruised fingers. Suddenly she felt fragile. Washing her forearms highlighted scarring from a fight she had endured weeks ago after she was caught stowing away on a ship. Her joints ached just thinking about it. She and a dozen others had hidden below deck. They were halfway to their destination when they discovered the smuggler had conned them. At one point, the captain held them at sword point, promising to sell them into slavery and if they tried to flee, he’d cut all their throats. Thankfully, one of the stowaways tackled the captain and after fighting off a few sailors, they made their way to a rowboat. They slashed the ropes and dropped into the sea, successfully rowing away as an icy fog concealed their escape.

  Washing her neck reminded her of another brawl. She was nearly choked to death by an overzealous city guard who was supposed to investigate her for stealing food. He thought she was spy and interrogated her, but she held her silence, even after he punched her to the point of vomiting what little her stomach held. He seemed to want to make a name for himself. When he dragged her before a superior officer, he was scolded. In that moment, he let his guard down and she managed to drop him with a swift kick between the legs. She fled, hiding in alleyway shadows.

  Washing her hips, she discovered more bruising, fresh from the undead that assaulted her on her way to Witchwicks. She massaged her thighs and calf muscles. Her shins were sore too. She carefully washed between her legs, wincing at the chaffed skin in her groin.

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  She ran soapy fingers between her toes, which also ached from the long travels. She kneaded the arches of her feet, then rubbed her ankles and heels. The inflammation from the poisonous mold had gone down. Her feet were finally clean! She leaned back in the tub, lifting her feet from the water and resting them on the edge. She wiggled her toes, giving them some fresh air.

  A small smile appeared, but still, more tears brimmed in her eyes, trailing down her cheeks. She soaped up her hands and washed her hair, pulling out pebbles, twigs, dirt, and more. Her hair was golden now. She used a brush to get her back, and then she washed behind.

  She rinsed and soaped up her hands again and washed her belly, remembering the days and nights she starved because of poor hunts. She washed under her arms and then under breasts. Washing her left breast, she stopped. Her fingers ran across two scars, one that pierced her chest, the size of a one-inch-wide knife puncture. The other was lower, a slash that ran along the side into her arm pit.

  She couldn’t hold back her tears, but she stifled her cry. Her throat ached, ready to burst. Every part of her wanted to mourn, remembering the night her husband had tried to kill her with a dagger. The very same dagger that laid on her bed. What she remembered most from the attack was his eyes. He was desperate and afraid. Whatever love he had for her vanished when he cut her open.

  She wiped her tears and waded in the water until it turned cold. Finally, she stood from the bathtub and drained the water. She watched the dirt trail in the center, narrowing to a point at the drain. She turned to the fire in the center of her new home, which continued to blaze. She had no need for a towel. Steam furled off her skin as she walked to the fireplace. She sat down, drawing her knees to her chest, resting her chin on her red kneecaps.

  Gently rocking back and forth, she ruminated over her journey. It wasn’t just the cannibals, the undead monstrosity that attacked her on the road, or the guards who caught her stealing, or the smuggler who exploited her financially, or the score of undead in-between… it was her kin too. Her own people had tried to kill her. Not just her husband, but her tribe too. It felt as if the world wanted her dead, and Witchwicks was the only place where she was safe. She spread her toes out on the rug. She checked the scar on her chest. The larger one that ran across her side was thicker, uglier, but somehow less painful to look at. The one over her heart was thin, and much deeper. That scar was worse to think about. It meant that her husband hadn’t missed. He wanted to pierce her heart. The only reason why she’s alive was because of her mother.

  Bury it, she thought.

  She glanced at the dagger on the bed. She stood up and walked over to it and unsheathed it. The toilstone in the blade glittered, blooming where the fire reflected. She could also see her eyes. She could also see her true self. She took a long look at her reflection, the pain in her eyes, and deeper within -

  A commotion outside startled her. It sounded like a bar fight had broken out. She wondered if Fraz would pound on her door and ask her to help, but he didn’t. She heard glass shattering and wood snapping. She couldn’t help but smile, imagining chairs flying across the tavern as pirates swung from chandeliers and the half-giants tore off some poor dungeoneer’s arms to use as a club. Maybe it wasn’t that crazy. Maybe it was.

  She looked down at the dagger and sheathed it. This dagger was hers now. She wondered what might happen if she saw her husband. Would she retaliate? She ran her fingers through her hair, hating herself for even considering it. She pulled over her evening slip and then turned to her dirty clothes.

  I should wash them, she thought. She gathered them up and walked to the tub. She thought of the orb and dug into her cloak pocket and pulled it out. It produced the same green light as before. Whatever was inside continued to swirl around like a tiny, trapped tornado. She decided to hide the orb under her pillow.

  “You should be safe there, I think.”

  After turning on the hot water, she grabbed the bar of soap and scrubbed down her clothes. She used this time think about what’s next. Fraz seemed unsure of Ayla at first, but he gave her keys to stay so maybe he saw something in her. Like she said, “I can handle myself. Your patrons, they’re the kind of people I need right now.”

  So, she thought, first thing I need to do is make a few friends.

  Ayla wondered how many of tonight’s crowd were regulars. Maybe they were all regulars? If so, the bar fight was a good sign. She wanted people willing to rough each other up. They might be willing to rough up strangers too. Again, like she figured, if Fraz is telling the truth that’d mean no one would disrupt the peace his patrons found at Witchwicks. It was their sanctuary.

  Next thing she’d have to consider was service. When it comes to being a barmaid, she had no experience.

  Can’t be that hard, she thought. I listen to orders, take a few notes, get them their drinks and look cute doing it.

  She finished scrubbing her dress and cloak, so she started soaking and squeezing, soaking and squeezing.

  But, she thought, I do need a backup plan in case Witchwicks doesn’t work out.

  This deflated her mood somewhat. Witchwicks, in a lot of ways, was Plan C. It was the only reason why she traveled as far west as she had. Witchwicks was elusive, hidden, and dangerous to get to. She heard some stories mention that it even magically changed locations. Funny enough, that wasn’t the craziest thing she’d learned.

  Witchwicks was the source of more than a few legends, both as an establishment and the heroes it produced. She recalled the skulls on the mantel piece of the fireplace. Those were trophies! Heroes from all around the world had come to this one place to display their glory and fame, to tell tales of high adventure and dark dungeoneering. Witchwicks was where the most scandalous of jobs could be found and pursued, it was also the premiere spot for heroic apple pies and refined ales. It was where the toughest villains and the most famous adventurers could amicably work out their differences, or not, if that bar fight earlier is anything to go by. Witchwicks was a legend making machine.

  So how, thought Ayla, will I work in that? What do I have to offer? Was Fraz just being polite? Maybe he’s just giving me a place to rest because I said I didn’t want anyone to ask questions? Maybe I’m trouble for him?

  She hoped otherwise. She wrung her dress out, then her cloak and cast them on the rug before the fire. The should be dry by morning.

  For now, she thought, you need sleep.

  She wandered over to the bed and set her bag down near the bedside table. She folded her blue dress, which she’d wear tomorrow, and she slipped her feet into her fresh socks. She whipped the quilted covers back and slid underneath them, pulling them up to her chin. She snuggled in, taking a long deep breath. She smelled the firewood crackling from across the room. She smelled lavender from her freshly bathed skin. She ran her fingers against over the bedsheets, wondering if she’d be in the same bed tomorrow evening. She crossed her legs, recalling her scars.

  “Forget where you came from,” she whispered to herself. “Look forward to where you are going.”

  It’s settled then. A new life was before her. She twisted over and reached into her bag for her poetry book. It had a teal cover, scratched and warped from the elements of her journey. She hugged it for a moment before cracking it open. Whenever she felt directionless, she opened this book. Her mother had written in it, expanding on the published poems in her own way, penciling dress pattern ideas in the margins, and more. Ayla had left her mom a note or two on the pages from when she was younger. Losing herself in those memories, it wasn’t long before she closed her eyes, experiencing the best night’s sleep she’d had in months.