Page 31 of Halfling
“Fine.”
With an unceremonious wave, the shopkeeper led her deeper into the warren of goods, down a dark hallway with cold, unlit sconces, and finally into the back room where the baths were kept. Any good trading post worth its salt, and even seedier ones like this, always had some sort of washroom for the travel-weary.
Walking into the washroom, Sorcha was pleasantly surprised to find it old and worn but also tidy, much like the shopkeeper herself. Two copper baths took up most of the room, and a narrow dresser with a wash basin claimed the rest.
Peeling off her outer layers, she watched as the shopkeeper added coal to the furnace on the far side and angled a huge pot of water over the top. As they waited for the water to boil, Sorcha helped haul in buckets of water from the well out back and fingered through one of the piles of women’s garments. She found several things that should fit and took them back with her to the washroom, where she helped pour the boiling water into the cooler water already in the bath.
A great plume of steam clouded the room, and Sorcha nearly sighed in relief.
“I’ll see about that map,” the shopkeeper said.
“Thank you,” said Sorcha, hand firmly on the pocket still holding the coin purse.
Left alone finally, she stripped from her soiled shirt and braies. She couldn’t help the moue of disdain as she peeled off her socks for the first time in weeks and just barely stopped from casting them into the furnace. She didn’t need a washroom saturated with the smell of hot, sweaty feet.
Nearly diving into the warm water, Sorcha moaned in delight. She laid her head against the back of the tub and sighed, sinking up to her chin and letting her arms float and breasts bob.
Perfect.
The aches in her feet and middle ebbed in the soothing warmth, and she dipped her head under the surface, scraping away days of sweat and grime. She had no mercy on herself, taking a soap cake to every inch she could reach, scrubbing away the days and days and days of fear and dirt.
Before long, her skin was pink, her hair soft, and her nails clean.
She felt more like herself than she had in a fortnight.
The water was on the wrong side of lukewarm by the time she finished. Sorcha stood, water sluicing off, and grimaced at the grayish-brown color she’d left the bath.
Drying off and bundling into clean clothes was its own kind of pleasure.
The new braies were too long, the new shirt was too big, but the only set of stays she found was slightly too small. She pulled it over her head and arranged her breasts, grumbling a little as they nearly spilled out of the soft leather. But she was able to do up the ties, the leather was well worked, and it supported her back, so she couldn’t really complain.
She donned her coat again, the coins and dagger still safe in her pocket, but left behind the other soiled garments.
Sorcha found the shopkeeper bent over a ragged map, a pile of goods already made on the redwood counter. For all that the woman had grumbled and huffed, the pile was neat and thorough. A heavy green wool cloak with toggles down the front and slits for the arms draped over a stack of clean if wrinkled shirts like the one she wore now. An extra pair of braies and bundles of socks were next. Beside them, a quilted bedroll, three blankets, a slightly musty-smelling fur, and a waterskin were stacked along with an empty leather pack.
She went to begin packing all the goods when a wizened hand landed on the pile.
“Coins first, dearie.”
“Yes.”
Sorcha pulled out enough coins to cover it plus an extra out of spite. She winced spending the money Orek gifted her, half the coins disappearing into a hidden pocket of the shopkeeper’s patchwork skirt. The woman patted her pocket, releasing a muffled jangle, and hummed.
“Do I want to know where you got these?”
“I didn’t steal them.”
The shopkeeper squinted up at her. “Would’ve preferred you had.”
“Stealing gold would’ve definitely gotten me followed. I thought the town didn’t want that.”
“We don’t want you followedhere,” the shopkeeper said with a shrug. “Guess I won’t worry then about a big green brute coming knocking.”
Sorcha said nothing to that, letting the woman think what she would, and instead turned to fill the pack. The garments weren’t fine but they were sturdy, and after the fortnight she’d had, she luxuriated in feeling each before depositing it into the pack.
As she tried to fill her pack half as well as Orek had his, she surreptitiously watched the shopkeeper as she hunched over the map. It took her a moment to realize the woman was making additions to it, filling in many of the blank spaces at the bottom, in the southern region.
“You from up north?”
