stone walls or iron fences, but in the midst of the Delacroix farmlands. Rolling fields stretched out in most directions, broken only by the occasional copse of trees or half-frozen stream, smelling—even in the midst of these frigid months—of loam. Shins found the juxtaposition almost dizzying.
Or maybe that, too, was just her revulsion at the behavior of a good man's distant and not-so-good relatives.
“I know, I know,” she reassured the little god as she swept across the fields, leaving no trail that would last until morning, easily sidestepping the patrolling guards. “They're not all that bad. Cyrille seems like he might be a decent sort, I suppose. A little dim, though, yes? And maybe a few of the others, but most of them…? Guh!” The shudder began as exaggeration, then turned real thanks to a gustof winter. “I'd rather give muscle rubs at a leper colony than live with those people.”
More imagery from Olgun, and this time Shins didn't have it in her to be sarcastic. Over a year after his death, over three since they'd parted ways, the memories of her father-in-all-but-blood still pierced her. “I know. We're not here for them. We're here for him. I'm not quitting, Olgun. I'm just…You think we could hire someone to help them so we could leave?
“What? I don't know how we'd pay them! Maybe steal something? I've heard I'm good at that. I suppose we could sell your body, if you were willing to stoop that low…and had a body….
“Oh, shut up. You and your nonsense ideas.” A final glance around to ensure none of the Delacroix patrols were near—the distant castle, made ghostly in the silvery light, appeared to be reaching desperately for the half-clouded moon overhead—and then she darted into the nearby trees. Here, the shadows were so deep, the guards could very literally have stepped over her and never known she was there.
“C'mon, Olgun. They don't believe the Carnots are involved? Let's go gather them their proof so we can get out of this nest of rats and vipers before we get…I don't know, venomous fleas or something.
“It could happen!
“Shut up. We have evidence to find.”
“How can there not be any evidence ?!”
Widdershins, who had long since mastered the paradoxical art of ranting and raving under her breath, in almost complete silence, ranted and raved under her breath in almost complete silence.
She was perched on a rooftop, now, rather than clinging to a wall, half-crouched over a shingled peak, steady as she might have been onsolid ground. Both her ratty cloak and a weathervane (the latter of which would have looked far more appropriate out in the farmlands, perhaps atop the Delacroix manor, than it did here) twisted fiercely in the wind, which was unbroken at this height by walls or trees. It brought tears to her eyes, tiny gnawing teeth of cold to her cheeks and ears, but she would neither blink nor flinch—less out of any need to prove a point than because she was just that annoyed.
Or, perhaps, to prove the point that she was just that annoyed.
From here, she could observe much of Aubier, at least so thoroughly as the moonlight and the occasional lanterns permitted. As had been the case with the domicile on which she perched—a three-story cube of stone with a roof, larger and nicer than many she could see, but nowhere near either the size or quality of the Delacroix estate—she found herself less than impressed with what she saw.
Aubier couldn't decide if it was a town bloated to the size of a small city, or a small city that still nostalgically called itself a town. Roads alternated in no discernible pattern from cobbled to frozen dirt; from short and straight to as crooked and winding as a snake eating a worm. Homes ranged from shabby but honest shacks to pretentious houses larger than they needed to be but smaller than they clearly wanted to be. Open spaces of dirt might, in warmer seasons, have served as parks or public gardens within the town-slash-city
Or maybe that, too, was just her revulsion at the behavior of a good man's distant and not-so-good relatives.
“I know, I know,” she reassured the little god as she swept across the fields, leaving no trail that would last until morning, easily sidestepping the patrolling guards. “They're not all that bad. Cyrille seems like he might be a decent sort, I suppose. A little dim, though, yes? And maybe a few of the others, but most of them…? Guh!” The shudder began as exaggeration, then turned real thanks to a gustof winter. “I'd rather give muscle rubs at a leper colony than live with those people.”
More imagery from Olgun, and this time Shins didn't have it in her to be sarcastic. Over a year after his death, over three since they'd parted ways, the memories of her father-in-all-but-blood still pierced her. “I know. We're not here for them. We're here for him. I'm not quitting, Olgun. I'm just…You think we could hire someone to help them so we could leave?
“What? I don't know how we'd pay them! Maybe steal something? I've heard I'm good at that. I suppose we could sell your body, if you were willing to stoop that low…and had a body….
“Oh, shut up. You and your nonsense ideas.” A final glance around to ensure none of the Delacroix patrols were near—the distant castle, made ghostly in the silvery light, appeared to be reaching desperately for the half-clouded moon overhead—and then she darted into the nearby trees. Here, the shadows were so deep, the guards could very literally have stepped over her and never known she was there.
“C'mon, Olgun. They don't believe the Carnots are involved? Let's go gather them their proof so we can get out of this nest of rats and vipers before we get…I don't know, venomous fleas or something.
“It could happen!
“Shut up. We have evidence to find.”
“How can there not be any evidence ?!”
Widdershins, who had long since mastered the paradoxical art of ranting and raving under her breath, in almost complete silence, ranted and raved under her breath in almost complete silence.
She was perched on a rooftop, now, rather than clinging to a wall, half-crouched over a shingled peak, steady as she might have been onsolid ground. Both her ratty cloak and a weathervane (the latter of which would have looked far more appropriate out in the farmlands, perhaps atop the Delacroix manor, than it did here) twisted fiercely in the wind, which was unbroken at this height by walls or trees. It brought tears to her eyes, tiny gnawing teeth of cold to her cheeks and ears, but she would neither blink nor flinch—less out of any need to prove a point than because she was just that annoyed.
Or, perhaps, to prove the point that she was just that annoyed.
From here, she could observe much of Aubier, at least so thoroughly as the moonlight and the occasional lanterns permitted. As had been the case with the domicile on which she perched—a three-story cube of stone with a roof, larger and nicer than many she could see, but nowhere near either the size or quality of the Delacroix estate—she found herself less than impressed with what she saw.
Aubier couldn't decide if it was a town bloated to the size of a small city, or a small city that still nostalgically called itself a town. Roads alternated in no discernible pattern from cobbled to frozen dirt; from short and straight to as crooked and winding as a snake eating a worm. Homes ranged from shabby but honest shacks to pretentious houses larger than they needed to be but smaller than they clearly wanted to be. Open spaces of dirt might, in warmer seasons, have served as parks or public gardens within the town-slash-city
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