Page 8 of Unravelled
“Then there are the noble beds to make, linens to wash, not to mention the new shipment of candles that needs sorting. Oh! And someone mentioned the storeroom direly needs a proper inventory…”
She continued, barely pausing for breath, her voice a cheerful rhythm that filled the quiet space around them. Sunlight filtered through the high stained-glass windows, casting shifting patterns of color along the worn stone floor as they passed. Mira couldn’t help but smile. Nerra’s chatter was an odd comfort in the early hours. The girl could talk endlessly, weaving mundane tasks into a stream of words that madethe day seem less daunting. Mira nodded occasionally, half-listening, content to let Nerra’s voice fill the quiet spaces.
The heavy wooden door creaked softly as Mira and Nerra stepped into the Altar of Bharas. It wasn’t large, but it felt vast in the way sacred places often did. Even silence seemed to echo. The domed ceiling arched overhead in smooth, pale stone, its surface painted with fading constellations and depiction of the navigators, their edges blurred by time and candle soot. Small alcoves carved into the circular walls held offerings, bundles of dried herbs, polished river stones, folded prayers etched on linen parchment. Light filtered in through narrow stained-glass slits, casting pools of soft color across the floor, muted rose, indigo, and gold. The scent of old incense hung in the air, sharp and spiced with a faint trace of amber and lavender, grounding and ethereal all at once.
At the heart of the room stood the altar. A low, circular platform of moonstone, ringed with etched sigils that glowed faintly beneath the morning light. It looked less like something built and more like something uncovered. Cleric Perrin stood beside it, her white robes trailing in clean lines across the stone, every movement quiet and exact. She stood before a gathered cluster of attendants and novices, calmly distributing the day’s duties with the gentle authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
She spotted Mira approaching, her tone remained even, but her gaze softened slightly. “Ah, Mira. Good timing.” She consulted the parchment in her hand, and her smile deepened. “I know you were hoping for a quiet start today,” she said look up, “but the storeroom is still a mess from the last shipment. I’d trust few others to sort through the chaos without mistaking dried elderroot for ceremonial incense.” Her eyes twinkled. “Besides, I know you’ve a talent for finding order in disorder.”
Mira let out a soft laugh. “That’s just because I don’t trust anyone else to label things properly.”
“Exactly,” Perrin said, satisfied. She placed a hand lightly on Mira’s arm, a brief, grounding gesture. “Take Nerra and Harwen with you. You’ll have more than enough company.” Her tone held something more than command. A kind of camaraderie. Trust.
Mira nodded once, more touched than she let on. “We’ll handle it.” Perrin gave a final nod, already turning to intercept another flustered attendant.
As they continued on, Nerra glanced sideways at Mira. “She really likes you, you know.”
Not long after, Mira was in the storeroom, the cool air heavy with the scent of dried herbs and aged wood. She stood beside Nerra and Harwen, another younghandmaiden, carefully counting the fruits, vegetables, and dry goods stacked in neat rows on the shelves.
Harwen, ever precise, moved with the steady grace of someone used to swaying decks and uneven tides.Her skin was sun-kissed, and her pale blonde hair, salt-lightened and stubbornly wavy, was bound in a loose braid that fell over one shoulder, often catching on the collar of her apron.
“Three crates of apples, but these here look like they’ve seen better days,” Nerra said, lifting a bruised apple with a grimace. “Maybe we can set these aside for the pies?”
“Better than letting them rot,” Mira agreed, making a note on her list. As they worked in the storeroom, the only sounds were the soft scratch of chalk against slate and Nerra’s steady stream of chatter, weaving through the otherwise quiet rhythm of their task.
“So, Harwen, Saltcliff, huh?” Nerra said, glancing over her shoulder as she scribbled down the count of potatoes. “What’s it like? I’ve always imagined it’s all cliffs and waves and salty air. Oh, and those little seaside markets with fresh fish. Do you have those?”
Harwen paused, her fingers brushing over a sack of grain as she counted. “It’s... quieter than here. The markets are nice, but it’s mostly just fishing boats and long days.” Her voice was soft but steady, with a faint provincial accent.
“Long days, huh? What, like hauling nets and mending sails?” Mira asked, curious. “Sounds a lot harder than sorting crates of candles.”
Harwen’s lips curved. “Harder, yes. But simpler, in a way. There’s a rhythm to it. You learn to listen to the sea, it tells you everything if you pay attention.”
Mira looked up from her notes, “The sea speaks to you?”
Harwen shrugged, her eyes flicking back to the crates of apples. “Not in words. But the tides, the waves, even the gulls... they tell you when the fish will be plentiful or when a storm’s coming. You just have to know how to listen.”
“That’s so poetic,” Nerra said dreamily, leaning on a barrel. “I’d be hopeless at it. The only thing I’m good at listening to is gossip. Speaking of gossip,” she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper, “you will never guess what I heard last night at the ceremony. The people in the towns are growing restless and that they might stage an uprising. Could you imagine? Why would anyone want to overthrow the Bonded Betrothed?”
Mira’s hands stilled, her eyes shifting to Harwen, who was now inspecting an apple a little too intently. “I suppose people might feel differently if they don’t think he’slistening to them,” Mira said carefully. Her tone was light, but her words carried an edge.
Nerra hesitated, fiddling with her chalk. “I mean… maybe,” she muttered, her usual brightness dimmed. “But that doesn’t mean it makes sense to rebel. Things aren’t that bad,”.
With her gaze at her half-rotted apple, Harwen’s voice was low, “It depends on where you’re standing, doesn’t it?” The sickly sweet, tart scent of the apple filled the air. Her voice was calm but firm, cutting through the tension. “In Seacliffe, we don’t see many of the comforts you have here. It’s easy to think everything is fine when you’re not the one struggling.”
Nerra flushed slightly, her shoulders stiffening. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… I don’t understand why they’d go that far, is all.”
Mira watched the exchange, her brow furrowing as she watched Nerra’s embarrassment. “Maybe it’s worth understanding,” she whispered. “Before it’s too late to do anything about it.”
Nerra glanced at Mira, her expression self-conscious and ashamed, before changing the subject. “Anyway, we’ve still got to finish counting these apples. No time for worrying about things like that, right?”
Mira didn’t press further, but the unease hung in the air. Harwen caught Mira’s eyes briefly as they returned to their work.
3
They worked steadily until mid-afternoon, finally finishing the tedious task of documenting and cataloging every item in the storeroom. By then, the other attendants had scattered, retreating to spend the quiet hours with their families.
Cleric Perrin, satisfied with the day’s progress, had dismissed Mira and she wandered the halls, her thoughts preoccupied. Her feet carried her toward the library, the worn stone halls cool beneath her steps.
