couple of hours.” She nodded at the tankard and the roll. “Take those. No sense in letting them go to waste. I’ve got… I’ve got to go.” She backed away, and pushed through the crowd. In a moment, she was lost to view.
Marius stared at the spot where she had been for countless seconds. Then, slowly, he reached out and gathered the key. He stood, took the food from the table, and sidled towards the staircase at the back of the room.
At the top of the stairs, a short mezzanine led into a dark, sweaty-smelling corridor that ran the length of the building. Sconces lined the walls between anonymous, un-numbered doors. Most of them bore scorch marks above, from where drunken tenants had stumbled and spat, or worse, upon them. Sailors, especially drunk ones, aren’t picky about their surroundings. A pillow to rest their head and a pot to piss in on the floor as all they generally required, and as long as they stayed sober enough to tell the difference, they were happy. Marius had seen worse dockside rents – at least these had their doors on. Anyone who cared to complain about the dirt and the generally seedy air was either a stranger or still sober.
There was one exception. At the far end, directly facing him, a white-painted door with lit sconces at either side stood out like a princess in workhouse. A garland of dried flowers hung from a nail, and a circle of spotlessness surrounded it where the walls had been washed and the wooden floor swept free of dirt and dead insects. Marius snorted in recognition and strode towards it. The key fit on the first attempt, and he noted the absence of scratch marks around the hole. Whatever else may be said about them, the clientele of the Hauled Keel had obviously paid attention when warned to leave this room alone. The door swung inwards on oiled hinges, and Marius stepped through.
Inside, the room was clean, but little more. Marius closed the door behind him, made his way across to the dim outline of the bed, and found a lamp sitting upon a table next to it, a pack of lucifers at its base. He lit the lamp, then picked it up and used it to light three others at strategic points around the room. Once a modicum of visibility had been established he made his way to the single chair beneath the window, moved the neatly folded clothes onto the bed, and sat, throwing back his hood and running his fingers through his hair in relief. Only then did he take the time to thoroughly examine his surroundings.
Keth had tried, Marius could see that. Somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, she had decided to really try to make a home here. Nothing around him was new. The single bed sagged in the middle and the wood frame was bowed and warped from years, maybe decades, of water-rich air. But she had piled pillows and blankets upon it, and perhaps the thickness of the padding made up for the shape. Those blankets, and the clothes he had moved from the chair, were clean. Perhaps not freshly laundered, but certainly more recently than the once-a-fortnight swish through a bathtub of cold water that most bedding received in an establishment like the Hauled Keel . The trunk at the bed’s end had been old and battered when Marius had given it to her, but the clasp and hinges were new, and the designs she had painted upon it, flowers and berries on a vine, had been carefully applied. The tiny table and mirror she used as a dresser were uneven, one leg straightened up with a piece of wood, and the mirror itself had a long stain down one side where the silvered backing had tarnished. But everything was neat and orderly, and such toiletries that lay alongside the metal trough in the corner were newly purchased. More dried flowers, siblings to the bunch on the front door, were nailed to the walls, and from somewhere, the Gods only knew where, she had found a small painting of the Berries Veldt and hung it above the bed head. The overall impression was of care, and a determination to feel
Marius stared at the spot where she had been for countless seconds. Then, slowly, he reached out and gathered the key. He stood, took the food from the table, and sidled towards the staircase at the back of the room.
At the top of the stairs, a short mezzanine led into a dark, sweaty-smelling corridor that ran the length of the building. Sconces lined the walls between anonymous, un-numbered doors. Most of them bore scorch marks above, from where drunken tenants had stumbled and spat, or worse, upon them. Sailors, especially drunk ones, aren’t picky about their surroundings. A pillow to rest their head and a pot to piss in on the floor as all they generally required, and as long as they stayed sober enough to tell the difference, they were happy. Marius had seen worse dockside rents – at least these had their doors on. Anyone who cared to complain about the dirt and the generally seedy air was either a stranger or still sober.
There was one exception. At the far end, directly facing him, a white-painted door with lit sconces at either side stood out like a princess in workhouse. A garland of dried flowers hung from a nail, and a circle of spotlessness surrounded it where the walls had been washed and the wooden floor swept free of dirt and dead insects. Marius snorted in recognition and strode towards it. The key fit on the first attempt, and he noted the absence of scratch marks around the hole. Whatever else may be said about them, the clientele of the Hauled Keel had obviously paid attention when warned to leave this room alone. The door swung inwards on oiled hinges, and Marius stepped through.
Inside, the room was clean, but little more. Marius closed the door behind him, made his way across to the dim outline of the bed, and found a lamp sitting upon a table next to it, a pack of lucifers at its base. He lit the lamp, then picked it up and used it to light three others at strategic points around the room. Once a modicum of visibility had been established he made his way to the single chair beneath the window, moved the neatly folded clothes onto the bed, and sat, throwing back his hood and running his fingers through his hair in relief. Only then did he take the time to thoroughly examine his surroundings.
Keth had tried, Marius could see that. Somewhere along the line, for whatever reason, she had decided to really try to make a home here. Nothing around him was new. The single bed sagged in the middle and the wood frame was bowed and warped from years, maybe decades, of water-rich air. But she had piled pillows and blankets upon it, and perhaps the thickness of the padding made up for the shape. Those blankets, and the clothes he had moved from the chair, were clean. Perhaps not freshly laundered, but certainly more recently than the once-a-fortnight swish through a bathtub of cold water that most bedding received in an establishment like the Hauled Keel . The trunk at the bed’s end had been old and battered when Marius had given it to her, but the clasp and hinges were new, and the designs she had painted upon it, flowers and berries on a vine, had been carefully applied. The tiny table and mirror she used as a dresser were uneven, one leg straightened up with a piece of wood, and the mirror itself had a long stain down one side where the silvered backing had tarnished. But everything was neat and orderly, and such toiletries that lay alongside the metal trough in the corner were newly purchased. More dried flowers, siblings to the bunch on the front door, were nailed to the walls, and from somewhere, the Gods only knew where, she had found a small painting of the Berries Veldt and hung it above the bed head. The overall impression was of care, and a determination to feel
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