Chapter Three
Caz climbed down from the rafters. When he reached the floor, Kiela scooped him up, and he let her. He patted her back with one of his tendrils. When her heart had calmed down enough, she lowered him back to the floor.
“Sorry,” she said.
“It’s fine. I was so startled that I nearly lost half my soil ball.”
She examined him. He still seemed as leafy as ever. “Are you okay?”
“Fine. I can get more. Lots of nutrients in the earth here. It’s much richer than in Alyssium. You should eat something. And perhaps bathe.”
“Ouch.”
“I can’t help what I smell.”
“You don’t even have a nose.” Or ears. Or eyes. Or a mouth. He was a dog-size pot-less plant who defied all natural laws. She wished she’d been able to study the spell that had created him. It had to have been fascinatingly complex. All she knew was he’d begun as a single spider plant seed. She’d never asked what other ingredients were involved. It seemed too personal a question.
“Now who’s being insulting,” Caz said.
“Sorry.” Subtly, she sniffed her own armpits. She smelled like the sea and sweat. A fresh shirt would help. She should have packed more than a few changes of clothes.
“At least he seems friendly,” Caz said. “Until he comes back to murder us in our sleep.”
Kiela glanced at the door again. “I don’t think he plans to do that.” I hope. After the initial scare, he’d taken pains not to startle her. Most likely, he was just nosy and intrusive rather than actively dangerous. It’s not his fault he’s tall and ten times stronger than me. He probably had no idea how he looked, unexpected in the dark. He hadn’t been trying to loom over her.
“That was a large blade he carried.”
Indeed it was. Very alarming. Cityfolk didn’t carry that kind of equipment around, at least not usually. To be fair, she didn’t really know what most people carried around, since she hadn’t spent any time out on the streets or canals in years. Maybe scythes were in fashion. Who knew? Most likely, though, Larran carried it for practical reasons. Whatever paths used to lead to the cottage had been swallowed by the forest years ago. It wouldn’t have been easy for him to reach the house without the scythe. “He must use it to hack through the overgrowth,” Kiela said.
Caz shuddered. “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.”
“I’d never let anyone hurt you,” Kiela said stoutly.
“That’s a nice sentiment, but what would you do? Scream? Throw books at them?”
Fair point, though she’d never throw a book. With luck, he wouldn’t come back, and it wouldn’t be an issue. Instead of replying, she chose to look around the cottage. Now that it was daylight, she could see it was . . . “unkempt” was the kindest adjective she could think of. Run-down. Derelict. Disheveled. Neglected.
Unloved.
Barely remembered.
Abandoned for years.
Alone.
Just like me.
With Caz scouting through the cottage, she reminded herself that she wasn’t alone. And she hadn’t been abandoned, at least not deliberately. Her family had moved to the capital city to follow their dreams and to give her the opportunity to pursue hers. They hadn’t intended to leave her—they’d died from an illness that no one could have predicted or prevented. After that, she had chosen voluntarily to throw herself into her work at the library. As for finding herself without family or friends beyond a self-aware spider plant . . . that had merely happened over time.
Like the dust, the dirt, the leaves, and the cobwebs sneaking in here, over time. Okay, yes, she was a lot like this cottage. She could admit to the aptness of the metaphor.
“It can be cleaned up,” Kiela said. “Made homelike.”
She’d start by finding a safe place to store the spellbooks. Perhaps in her parents’ bedroom. For now, the books could stay in the crates, but she’d make sure the back room was sealed against leaks and drafts before she set up shelves. And she’d have to ensure they were kept safe from prying eyes as well. It would not do for anyone to discover them. What if they tried to take them from her? What if they were afraid of the emperor’s wrath and tried to destroy them? Or worse, what if they weren’t afraid and tried to use them? She was fully aware that having the books was an enormous responsibility. Many were the only copies that existed, which made them irreplaceable and priceless, and all were original works, which meant they had none of the errors that occurred in copying. Given the destruction she’d witnessed, she might possess the last of the greatest treasure of the Crescent Islands Empire. The books had to be protected, first and foremost.
She had to prioritize what was most important, after all.
And it would be nice if no one noticed that she’d kind of, sort of, stolen them.
Hauling the crates of boxes up the stone steps, Kiela regretted shooing away their new friendly, muscly neighbor. He could have carried a lot of books, though he probably would have asked why she had so many, where she’d gotten them, and were they all hers. Really, it was best if she did this herself.
She’d liberated some excess line from the boat and looped it around the crates. The wheels helped on the dock, which miraculously held, but when she reached the stone steps . . . After some contemplation, she had a solution. Not a good solution, but a serviceable one:
Her parents’ bedroom door, which was already off its hinges, would act as a ramp.
After fetching the door and laying it over the bottom few steps, she put her plan into action. Shoving with all her might, she rolled the first crate up the ramp/door, rested it (very precariously) on the steps, hurriedly moved the door to cover the next set of steps, and repeated the procedure until she reached level ground in front of the cottage. And then she did it again for the next crate. By the time she’d finished transporting all the crates, she was soaked in sweat, and all her muscles felt wobbly. Her back was screaming at her, as were her calves, and her head throbbed. She missed the library lift.
In retrospect, it might have been easier to unpack the crates and carry the books in stacks up the steps. It would have required a lot of trips, but perhaps it would have spared the door. And her back, calves, and head. Of course, she didn’t think of that until after the task was complete and after she’d also hauled up the sack of provisions and supplies she’d brought.
Kiela stumbled inside to see that Caz had been busy as well. Using his tendrils, he’d swept everywhere he could reach. All the twigs, leaves, and other debris were piled in one corner, the cobwebs were gone from the rafters, and the dust . . . well, it was mostly all over him.
“Now we both need baths,” Kiela said.
His leaves drooped.
“But it was worth it,” she added quickly. The front room wasn’t clean yet, but it was vastly improved. She could see the wood grain of the floor, as well as the color of the chairs—a deep earth brown. Acorns and flowers had been carved into the chair backs, and the woven seats were frayed but still whole. The daybed, stripped of the dusty quilt and no longer overwhelmed by leaves and branches, looked almost like a place one could lie down, rather than a nest for an enormous mouse. “You made phenomenal progress.”
He perked back up.
Kiela crossed to the kitchen sink. It had a pump that used to draw from a well. Theoretically, it should still work. If it didn’t, she remembered a stream in the forest that fed into the waterfall near the village, and there was a bucket for bailing out water in the boat. She could use that if she needed to. She didn’t, though, relish the idea of hauling water the entire way to the cottage every time she wanted to bathe or not die of dehydration. Looking out the window over the sink, she tried to see the forest, but the glass was laced with vines. All she could see was green, pierced by slivers of sunlight.
“Are you going to work for us?” she asked the pump. It was made of cast iron, and it curved over a brass basin. An old kitchen towel hung from a rack on the side of the sink, and the counter was bare except for a few jars and a glass pitcher. She remembered her mother used to put fresh flowers in that pitcher.
Behind her, Caz asked, “Are you talking to an inanimate object? Because that’s odd.”
“Says the talking plant.”
“Ouch.”
Steeling herself, she raised and lowered the handle. No water. Not even a trickle or a drip or a hint that it was doing anything. She raised and lowered it again. And again.
At last, she heard a distant gurgle.
She pumped harder, and it squeaked with the effort. After five more pumps, a blast of brownish water spurted out of the faucet and splashed into the sink. Surprised, she jumped back.
“That’s it,” Caz said to the pump, “you can do it!”
Kiela pumped again. Soon, the water flowed clear and cold. She cupped her hands and drank it. It was sweeter and crisper than any water she’d tasted in Alyssium.
She found one of her mother’s old dish towels that had been left behind, rinsed out the dust, and then used it to wash as much of herself as she could. She shivered as the cold water touched her skin, but she gritted her teeth and washed off all the grime and sweat. Half the towel was black when she finished, and she realized it was soot from the burning city.
For an instant, Kiela could only stare at it.
Until this moment, she hadn’t let herself truly think about it: the loss of the library, her home, her life. The loss of all those homes and lives. And the books . . . She knew she should care more about the people of Alyssium than the books, but the spellbooks had been her family, the library had been her home, and her work had been her life.
Her eyes felt hot, and her throat clogged.
But she shook her head. There wasn’t time to wallow. Or grieve. She had to figure out what she was doing, how they were going to live. She had to make this into a place where they could hole up for as long as necessary—and where the precious knowledge they’d rescued could be preserved. But without the library, without its stacks and its order and its peace and its historical, cultural, and political importance . . . What was the point? Who was she with all of it gone? What kind of future did she have?
Caz jumped into the sink. “More water, please.”
She pumped water onto him and, using another towel, helped wash the dirt, grime, and soot from each of his leaves. When he climbed out, his soil ball was saturated. He dripped dirty water over the counter, which then trickled onto the wood floor.
“What’s first?” Caz asked. Then he asked: “Are you okay?”
Kiela nodded, unable to speak, then shook her head. “The library . . .”
He laid a leaf on her hand. “I know.”
“Everything we worked for. Believed in. Cared about.”
“We’ll be all right. We’ll make it all right. Kiela, you can’t break down on me now. You’re all I’ve got.”
She sucked in air and steadied herself. They only had each other and so, like Larran had said, they had to look out for each other.
But where to begin?
“We have to make this our home,” Kiela said.
After she’d dragged the crates of books into the back bedroom, Kiela surveyed the house. First step was to see what they had. Next step was to figure out what they’d need.
“Pull everything out,” she said. “We’ll take stock.”
That was what they did whenever a fresh donation of books and manuscripts arrived at the library. First they’d sort through the collection. Spread it all out, see what they had, catalog it, and then proceed as appropriate.
And so Kiela and Caz dug in. Together, they rooted through the house and dragged out everything in a cabinet or closet or drawer into the center of the main room.
She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue—sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue—all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother’s abandoned clothes, and she could use her father’s for . . . She wasn’t sure what, but they were nice to have. She’d find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents’ bed. Each quilt had its own pattern—one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She’d had no idea. She’d been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she’d tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They’ll be even more beautiful once they’re clean.
The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers. In one drawer, she found a decent knife with a carved antler handle. In another, she found a somewhat warped but still usable pot, as well as a frying pan and a teakettle. One chest held a stack of slightly yellowed yet serviceable papers—useful to a librarian normally, but less vital right now. Of greater interest was the bucket behind the door. And in a closet, miraculously: a broom and a shovel, as well as a full set of garden tools (hoe, trowel, clippers, and a set of leather gardening gloves with only a few holes in them). She also found a pantry closet full of empty glass canning jars and bottles that had once been used to store fruits, vegetables, and herbs. Her parents hadn’t planned to garden or can in the city, and so they’d left all their equipment behind. She hadn’t even begun to explore the yard that used to hold their garden—it was so overgrown that the fences were swallowed in vines. But perhaps she could clear it, plant a few vegetables, and see if anything edible had survived their abandonment . . .
Kiela began to feel a shred of hope.
This was a good place.
It could be made whole again.
And so can we.
Kiela scrubbed the blanket and the clothes as best she could and then strung up a line between the corner of the house and a tree—there was an old plant-basket hook on the corner of the house, which worked nicely to secure the clothesline. She spread the wet clothes out on the line and admired how much better they looked already. The blues and the greens had brightened from the wash. She then stuffed the quilt from the daybed into a bucket of water and left that to soak.
Together, she and Caz cleaned the kitchen. They swept the near-petrified mouse droppings out of the cabinets, washed the plates and glasses and utensils, and scrubbed the privy until the copper bathtub shone and the walls were a cheerful white again. She found sprigs of lavender in the front herb bed, wrapped their stems with a ribbon, and hung them above the privy washbasin. Once the daybed quilt was clean, she washed an armload of faded but usable towels.
At midday, they took a break, and Kiela ate some of the peaches and pecans she’d brought from the library—at least she’d been clever enough to stash them in the boat, though she wished she’d packed more—while Caz rooted himself in a sunny spot where the floorboards were broken enough to expose the earth beneath. When she finished, she screwed the lid back on the peach jar and stored it in a cabinet. She then stepped back and allowed herself to think about the one thing that their search hadn’t produced:
Food.
She had a finite amount of it from the city, enough for a few days if she stretched it. She’d need more very soon. She’d never had to worry about the possibility of hunger before. All her meals had been provided by the library kitchens, delivered via the chutes, and Kiela was only just beginning to realize that what she had right here was all she had.
That was . . . unsettling. She felt a bit like she was standing on the very top rung of a library ladder with the safety rope unclipped.
Yes, she could reclaim the garden, but it would take time. Also, seeds. And maybe some clue how to garden? She’d never planted anything before. The same went for the ocean. She knew there were fish and crabs out in the cove, but she didn’t know how to fish or . . . crab? Was that what it was called? She didn’t even know what the verb was, much less how to do it. And as for wild berries, yes, she could gather whatever she found, as well as nuts and mushrooms, but how was she to know what was edible or what wasn’t? If she accidentally poisoned herself . . .
She’d need medicine. If she hurt herself. If she became sick.
She’d also need soap to keep herself clean. Paste to keep her teeth healthy.
But before any of that, she needed food. Fruit, vegetables, bread, milk, cheese, meat. At least enough to last until we’re self-sufficient, she thought. Once she figured out how to garden and fish and had the basics for hygiene and medicine, she wouldn’t need outside supplies. A little voice inside her whispered that it wouldn’t be that simple, but she resolutely pushed it away. I just need enough to get by for now.
One trip into the village.
She’d use the coin she had to purchase the bare essentials, and then they’d hole up here and not bother anyone, and no one would have any reason to bother them.
Looking at what they had and didn’t have, Kiela didn’t see any way around it. It was foolish to think she could build a life here just from what they found and what they brought. Besides, the fantasy of living here unnoticed had already been broken when their neighbor had discovered her sleeping.
No, there was no denying it.
She was going to have to talk to people.