Missoni (prime)/Loose Ends
Missoni sat at her studio worktable, her hand cradling a glass of whiskey while her bare feet curled over the crossbar of the oak stool. Imaerasta’s late afternoon sun felt warm at her back as it filtered through the several glass pieces suspended from a small scaffold behind her. Their colors flitted around the workroom. Dancing across items on the table, they momentarily illuminated the sparrow print on the corner of the table. It would be nice to keep the artwork Perigourd found; the acquisition would do a lot for the gallery’s collection, but she couldn’t very well display it knowing it had been stolen from Lord Lithavir. Still, that wasn’t where her attention was at the moment.
Instead, Missoni stared at the paint-flecked surface in front of her. It contained a few of Grenhal’s possessions. She rested the fingertips of one hand on the sun talisman, noticing the spot at the bottom where the metal had been rubbed smooth. Then, Missoni touched the faded cloth next to it, lightly tracing the geometric patterns on the already worn blue linen. She took a sip from her glass, the scent of peat filling her nostrils, and set it on the sun-drenched table where the light shone through the reddish gold liquid. The Tehir woman had grown up in the Sea of Fire but made a home–for nearly her whole life, it seemed–in Vornavis. The healer had tended to the Baron, and Missoni imagined Grenhal had no small hand in raising the children.
Glancing at the sand-worn cloth next to the talisman, Missoni frowned. She felt a certain kinship with the old woman who had come from the desert to settle behind the green copper gates of the “forbidden city,” who had lived her life between two cultures. It meant something to Missoni that Grenhal had held on to the trappings of her Tehiri life. Did the old woman have people, still, in the Sea of Fire who wondered where she was?
There was a soft *click* from the keyhole-shaped door, which swung smoothly open. A young woman walked in swinging an empty milk pail.
Missoni looked up, greeting the milkmaid with a note of distraction in her voice. “Fair afternoon, Elle.”
Selinelle helped herself to a glass of lemonade, then leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table next to Missoni. “Grenhal’s things again?”
Missoni nodded.
“Ever figure out how to open that book?”
“No,” Missoni sighed, “And several experts have looked at it. Magisters, warriors, healers, bards, and clerics. No one seems able to penetrate the magic yet.” That was another problem to research, but she hoped the tome found in Grenhal’s room might answer more questions about her.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Selinelle looked sympathetic. “Well um, I’m heading back across the bridge. Got anything you need dropped off in the Freeport?”
“Actually, yes, if you do not mind.” Missoni paused to lightly pat an envelope addressed to Lord Lithivir. “That ought to go to the post office today.”
Selinelle gathered it up as Missoni pulled a folded sheet of vellum, outwardly unmarked except for a wax seal, from a nearby cubby. “And this letter, do you mind leaving it in the hay cribs?” Missoni asked.
“In Marshtown?” Selinelle shrugged. “Sure, I don’t mind. What about these?” She tapped a stack of flyers on the corner of the table.
“Those are for the Fall exhibition. I can post them in the usual places tomorrow, though I would not mind some company if you are not busy.”
“I’ll come by after my morning chores.”
“Thanks, Elle,” Missoni said. She drained the last of her whiskey from her glass as the milkmaid gave a cheerful wave, adjusted her shawl, and left.
Missoni rose from the stool and collected the cloth and talisman from the table. She tucked them carefully into a cubby and wandered through the gallery to Dondraek Lane. All of that musing had left her hungry for a fishcake.