The Fickle Winds of Autumn

24. A Curious Cottage

A dull throbbing pain deep behind her eyes roused Kira from a dark and dreamless sleep.

Her heavy limbs ached and tingled limply.

Her scattered mind tried to focus - had she been unconscious for several days? Or just lying awkwardly in an uncomfortable position?

She lay motionless and listened to the regular sound of her own breath; perhaps she was dead?

She squinted her eyes open and allowed in a dim, bleary light.

Her fractured thoughts puzzled - she seemed to be flat on her back, lying in the warmth of a small room, staring up at a high, thatched ceiling.

The comforting scent of wood-smoke and dried herbs reached out to greet her.

But she did not recognise the surroundings.

She cautiously turned her pulsing, wearied head and surveyed the cramped but cosy interior - shelves and tables, piled high with dusty jars and flasks and books, braced up against the modest stained and white-washed walls; the light crackle of a contented fire filled the snug space.

The hard smoothness of a table supported her body; across on the other side of the room, the boy who had rescued her, and an elderly man, were going about their chores with their backs to her.

Yes, that was it - the boy who rescued her - the slavers.

Dark fragments of memory drifted back.

Didn't the boy say they were going to his master's house?

Probably that's where she was?

The jumbled confusion began to consolidate and conspire towards order.

The still tranquillity of her own repose encompassed her; she peeked out through half-opened eyes and silently observed the quiet rhythms of her hosts' lives.

A harmonious contentment seemed to drift and weave its way around them; they worked in companionship, reaching over each other, without any of the stiff formalities of the convent. The old man hummed softly beneath his breath as he stirred a dark violet liquid; the boy fetched bottles of ingredients from a shelf and dusted down the desktop when spillages occurred. He studied his master's workings carefully and diligently, then tended to the fire; his master's shoulders remained hunched over the work-table, as he issued quiet instructions, softly passing on his learnings with a gentle wisdom.

Perhaps this was what the other girls had meant when they reminisced about home?

Kira's legs tingled and cramped. She wiggled her toes and stretched her foot. A dull stiffness still persisted, but the stabbing, gnawing pain had gone; her wounds did not rupture or weep - they must have closed.

A confirming glance at her wrists showed that these too had healed.

The boy's master must be good at his work.

Her encouraged spirits lifted - she was healed, she seemed safe - or at least she had escaped the slavers. She tried to sit up, but her faint and dizzy body refused to obey; she collapsed back to the bench with a clumsy thud.

The elderly man turned to face her.

"There now - slowly, little one," he said. "You are safe here and your illness has passed."

The boy moved over and supported her awkwardly into the armchair near the bench.

"Thank you so much ...er...sir..." Kira replied, in a dry and brittle voice, "I feel much better now."