Wren the Fox Witch (Europa #3: A Dark Fantasy) by Joseph Robert Lewis
Authors: Joseph Robert Lewis
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anchor, guide, and protector behind her.
“Call me Tycho,” he said. “Would you believe, I didn’t even have a surname until this year?”
“A what?” Wren rubbed her right wrist where her sling should have been, and felt the lightness of her belt where her stag horn knife and pouch of sling-stones should have been.
But I still have the ring. I still have the aether, only, it’s midday and the sun is warm and the aether is thin. If there’s trouble…
“When I was promoted, I needed a surname,” Tycho said. “They’re not common where I come from, in Sparta. Then again, dwarfs aren’t common in Sparta either. So I chose Xenakis. It still feels strange to hear it. So you can just call me Tycho.”
“Oh. All right.” Wren passed through the light falling from one of the tall stained windows and glanced down at her skirts. She could see the specks of dirt and blood clearly against the faded black of her clothes. “Could I wash up before I meet with this woman? We’ve been traveling for weeks now and I haven’t really changed or bathed since… a while.”
“Absolutely. Please, follow me.” Tycho turned and led her through several doors, down corridors and across empty rooms until they came to a carpeted corridor. Every chamber had gleaming white walls hung with dark paintings of people lounging in gardens or being lashed by demons, and every window was framed with dark green curtains hung from golden rods, and every corner of the ceilings were armored in sculpted wooden panels, some covered in thin grooves and some crafted to look like leaves and berries. Wren tried to see all the details at once as she hurried after her guide.
He paused in front of a closed door. “This is one of the rooms kept for the Duchess’s niece, Daphne. But she was sent back to Athens with the rest of the family just before the siege began.”
Tycho opened the door and Wren stepped inside. It was a small bedroom, and everything was covered in dusty white sheets. The bed, the dresser, the small table, and the chairs all looked like snowy little hills.
“Here.” Tycho opened a tall cabinet and gestured to the clothing hanging on the rod. “Feel free to wear anything you like. Daphne won’t mind. She’s not the minding sort. And the wash room is right back here. I’ll just wait outside for you.” He stepped back out into the hall and closed the door.
Wren glanced at the dozen or so dresses in the cabinet and then went to the wash room where she found a porcelain bath tub and a porcelain bowl on a wooden table. Above each basin were a pair of small hand-pumps, and after a moment’s experimentation she figured out how to make the left one produce lukewarm water and to make the right one produce freezing cold water. She stripped off her black jacket and black sweater and black blouse and black skirts and socks and stood over the bowl of warm water for several minutes scrubbing her face and arms and chest. She even soaked her hair and when she was finished the water in bowl was a curious blend of gray and brown, with many small brown things floating in it.
I thought it would be worse.
She wandered back out into the bedroom dripping water as she went and looked at the dresses again. There was only one in black.
Well, that makes this simple.
The long skirt was pleated and fringed in black lace, which she found amusing and she wondered how long that fringe would survive. The blouse was so thin and cold and smooth that she couldn’t imagine what sort of fabric it was made of, and resolved to ask Omar about it later. When she had the top on, she found that it too had black lace around the cuffs and the neck, and there were voluminous folds hanging from her upper and lower arms, overlapping to transform her arms into drooping black flowers. The black jacket at first seemed too small, but that was only because the sleeves only came down to her elbows, the better to display her layered blouse sleeves, she guessed.
When she
“Call me Tycho,” he said. “Would you believe, I didn’t even have a surname until this year?”
“A what?” Wren rubbed her right wrist where her sling should have been, and felt the lightness of her belt where her stag horn knife and pouch of sling-stones should have been.
But I still have the ring. I still have the aether, only, it’s midday and the sun is warm and the aether is thin. If there’s trouble…
“When I was promoted, I needed a surname,” Tycho said. “They’re not common where I come from, in Sparta. Then again, dwarfs aren’t common in Sparta either. So I chose Xenakis. It still feels strange to hear it. So you can just call me Tycho.”
“Oh. All right.” Wren passed through the light falling from one of the tall stained windows and glanced down at her skirts. She could see the specks of dirt and blood clearly against the faded black of her clothes. “Could I wash up before I meet with this woman? We’ve been traveling for weeks now and I haven’t really changed or bathed since… a while.”
“Absolutely. Please, follow me.” Tycho turned and led her through several doors, down corridors and across empty rooms until they came to a carpeted corridor. Every chamber had gleaming white walls hung with dark paintings of people lounging in gardens or being lashed by demons, and every window was framed with dark green curtains hung from golden rods, and every corner of the ceilings were armored in sculpted wooden panels, some covered in thin grooves and some crafted to look like leaves and berries. Wren tried to see all the details at once as she hurried after her guide.
He paused in front of a closed door. “This is one of the rooms kept for the Duchess’s niece, Daphne. But she was sent back to Athens with the rest of the family just before the siege began.”
Tycho opened the door and Wren stepped inside. It was a small bedroom, and everything was covered in dusty white sheets. The bed, the dresser, the small table, and the chairs all looked like snowy little hills.
“Here.” Tycho opened a tall cabinet and gestured to the clothing hanging on the rod. “Feel free to wear anything you like. Daphne won’t mind. She’s not the minding sort. And the wash room is right back here. I’ll just wait outside for you.” He stepped back out into the hall and closed the door.
Wren glanced at the dozen or so dresses in the cabinet and then went to the wash room where she found a porcelain bath tub and a porcelain bowl on a wooden table. Above each basin were a pair of small hand-pumps, and after a moment’s experimentation she figured out how to make the left one produce lukewarm water and to make the right one produce freezing cold water. She stripped off her black jacket and black sweater and black blouse and black skirts and socks and stood over the bowl of warm water for several minutes scrubbing her face and arms and chest. She even soaked her hair and when she was finished the water in bowl was a curious blend of gray and brown, with many small brown things floating in it.
I thought it would be worse.
She wandered back out into the bedroom dripping water as she went and looked at the dresses again. There was only one in black.
Well, that makes this simple.
The long skirt was pleated and fringed in black lace, which she found amusing and she wondered how long that fringe would survive. The blouse was so thin and cold and smooth that she couldn’t imagine what sort of fabric it was made of, and resolved to ask Omar about it later. When she had the top on, she found that it too had black lace around the cuffs and the neck, and there were voluminous folds hanging from her upper and lower arms, overlapping to transform her arms into drooping black flowers. The black jacket at first seemed too small, but that was only because the sleeves only came down to her elbows, the better to display her layered blouse sleeves, she guessed.
When she
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