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chapter twenty-one last light
The occupants of the Last Light Inn had done their best to transform the dour surrounds into those befitting of a swansong.
There had been little to celebrate those past few weeks, but hope had flourished in the wake of the rescue. Tables and benches were set outside around a large bonfire, and for hours, mouths watered at the thick scent of spitting oil and spices, roast meat gathered on generous platters. There was pottage and stew, gilt sugar plums, smoked cod, herring, and trout, bowled capers and nuts, dense crusted bread, pomegranates hefty as burled fists, cherries, raisins, dates galore, great wheels of cheese, and pewters of goats milk, mince egged and breaded, parsnips, burdock, tarts, and pies.
Some took their time in appreciating a glimpse of their former lives. They queued long for the makeshift bath house, really a collection of tubs set by an ever-boiling cauldron, clothes were stitched and hemmed, a band thrown together, drinks poured by the barrel. Revelry began in earnest, then spread, and soon even the most dour of moods was lifted.
All but one.
Fallon watched from above. In the attic room she shared with the others, there was a narrow pane of decorative glass. Not organically functional as a window, but a cutaway shard, which had happened long ago judging by the buff edges, giving her a jagged view of the happenings below. There were bottles at her head, and bottles at her feet. She lay on her side, against a bedroll angled askew, one lid pinched shut, swiveling across the festivities like a scrying eye.
The smell of food cloyed her lungs, dense with fat and salt. She was jerked back to a time in her youth, when her fingers were not adroit with the pick, forced to wait beneath the windows of kitchens, to dig through waste for stale bread and leftovers — the mouth-watering and the rancid blending as one.
Go down, said the dark whisper, unfurling like a hand against the back of her neck. Enjoy. Treat yourself. Quench thy thirst and eat thy fill. Savour this life my Lady has granted you.
Hunger twisted in her like a blade, but Fallon remembered. Though the physical signs of captivity had faded with her rebirth — miraculous, they called it! if only they knew — her mind refused to relinquish the memories. The food, burnt to a crisp. The bruises, flowering violet against her blood drained skin. Knife to knuckle bone; Fallon clapped her hand to her mouth. The words of the hag taunted her now.
