The Faintest Ink (Watty Winner 2015)

Chapter Forty-Nine

Hawth breathed in deep. She knew that smell. The thick scent of glue, wafting over the acrid notes of fresh varnish. It was the scent of her father's workshop. She must have fallen asleep while working on the new proofs.

She didn't open her eyes. She stayed perfectly still, soaking up with air. She felt peaceful, as you do when you wake up long before your usual time, and everything seems still and quiet. Except, there was a roar of noise. Like thunder. At first she thought it must be the press, but the sound wasn't quite right. She'd always thought of the press as being something almost living, sounding like an eager child as it whisked over the clean pages and imprinted its knowledge onto them, but this was something different. It was hard, and guttural. As if it were angry. How could a press ever be angry?

And then she remembered the fire. Images of the flames flashed over her eyelids and she shook her head, trying to make them go away. No. It was all wrong. She was here. Her father was busy on the bench next to her gluing the painted end pages to the second edition of Lady Fortesque's volume of poetry. There was no fire.

"I think she's awake."

Hawth froze. It was a man's voice. Not her father's though. There was a strange accent making the words lilt.

She had heard something like it before, when some travelling players had come through their town. They set up a small stage in the town square and everyone trooped out to see them play out a series of vulgar comedies. She remembered laughing. They all laughed that day, as much at the actors' poor attempts at the Serradorian language then at the content of the play itself.

Then there was a sigh, sounding like an outpouring of relief. Hawth frowned. That was odd. Strangers came into the workshop all the time. People who wanted to commission her father would often visit in order to examine his work. More than once she'd been woken by the strike of a cane on the table on which she slept, or the irritable clearing of a throat. They didn't tend to show concern.

"Thank the gods. We've had enough death in this house for one day."

That was someone else, a woman.

Hawth tried to open her eyes, but after a small struggle realised her eyelids were glued shut. WIth a shaking hand, she touched them, and found her lashes crusted together.

A firm, but gentle hand pulled away her own from her face. "Don't try and move," said a voice. Female. Kind. "You're a bit of a mess at the moment. You had quite the fall."

A fall? Hawth tried to recall. Yes, she there was a moment of falling. Then blackness. She had been frightened. She hadn't been so scared since...

Ah, there it was. All the memories that she had been trying not to think about. The fire. Her father. Coming down to the capital. And Turnip. Poor, silly Turnip.

Tears leaked out, and a moment later, a cool damp cloth whisked them away before smoothing over the rest of her face.

With a great deal of effort, she managed to open them. Just a fraction. She blinked until a face came into focus. Blue eyes with soft creases etched into the skin around them, and auburn hair streaked with a touch of grey. It was the woman from the doorway.

Hawth tried to speak, but her lips were stilled by the cloth. "Hush now. You're alright," said the woman. "You're safe now."

Hawth shook her head, using all her strength to push the cloth away. "The girl," she managed, her voice filled with gravel.

The woman smiled. "She's fine. You were clutching her so tight, Viridian here thought he might have to break your fingers to free her. You protected her from the fall. There wasn't a scratch on her." She smiled. "Not like you, unfortunately. There's a nasty cut on your forehead, which I'm afraid has a good chance of scarring. And a broken rib. So you better lie here nice and still. And when you're better, I'll thank you properly for saving my daughter's life."