Chapter 1 #6
She blinked. “You know, I hadn’t thought about it, but you’re right.
In my defense, it’s been a crazy day.” Between surviving monsters and discovering magic and everything, she hadn’t had a lot of time for thought.
She put the bowls on the counter, handing him one for the nuts and another for the shells.
"So the town," Wren prompted. "What's it like?" She glanced around, thinking she needed some shelves to organize her kitchen wares, and then blinked as they suddenly appeared. Well! That was a little unnerving, but handy.
"Oh, quite charming, really. Built partially into the cliff face—very sensible, keeps most of the living quarters above monster reach.
There's a defensive wall around the lower sections, of course, where the market and shops are.
" Walter cracked another pecan. "The Marshall keeps it well-protected. Jin's very good at his job."
"Jin?"
"The Marshall, Jin Zhao. And lieutenant Kenji—they work together, a very efficient team." Walter's whiskers twitched with approval. "They coordinate the monster harvesting operations as well. Valuable work, that. The town needs the materials for the walls, you see."
Wren thought about that. Monster materials for walls. That's why people risked going out there.
"What do people... do? For work, I mean?"
"Oh, the usual. Farming in the protected gardens—very intensive, since space is limited. Crafters, merchants, the harvesting crews. There's a fellow named Viktor who owns quite a bit of land outside the walls. Very successful." Walter paused. "Your property borders his, actually."
Something in his tone made her look up. "Is that a problem?"
"Oh no, no. Just... interesting timing, that's all. The cursed farm has been empty for years. Many years. And now suddenly someone's living here." He cracked another nut. "People will be very curious about you, madam."
"Cursed?" The word stuck in her throat. "What do you mean, cursed?"
"Oh dear, did they not tell you?" Walter paused mid-crack. "Well. Nothing grows here, you see. Normal crops, that is. Every farmer who's tried has starved or given up. The soil looks fine, but plants just wither and die. It's been that way for generations."
Wren looked out the window at her thriving grove of pun plants. The breadfruit tree heavy with loaves. The soapberry clusters. The silk tree's delicate blooms.
"But my plants—"
"Are clearly quite exceptional, madam." Walter resumed cracking. "I've never seen anything like them. The town will be very interested, I assure you."
She stood up, restless suddenly. Trade. She could trade these things. The silk garments, the velvet clothes, the soaps. If she was going to survive here, she'd need money for the things she couldn't grow.
Like blue bulbs, apparently.
"I should organize," she said, more to herself than Walter. "Figure out what I can sell."
She went outside and started harvesting.
Careful selections—a few silk nightgowns and undergarments, some velvet jackets and skirts, clusters of soap, several gourd bowl sets.
She brought them inside and began tucking them into her purse.
She could have done that from the start, but she’d wanted to admire them.
Maybe she’d needed to feel them, too, to assure herself that they were real.
The bag swallowed everything without getting heavier or fuller. Magical storage was going to be incredibly useful.
Walter watched with interest. "Planning to visit the market soon?"
"I'll have to, won't I?" She paused. "I can't exactly go into town in slippers though." She glanced down at her fleece—lined feet. They were wonderful for the house, but not for walking on roads or dealing with... whatever else was out there.
Back outside. Back to the shoe tree.
This time she looked more carefully at what was available. Found a pair of sturdy leather boots—practical, ankle-height, good soles. And a pair of simple leather shoes for when boots were too much.
She brought them inside and set them by the door.
"Better," she said, mostly to herself.
Walter had finished with the pecans. The bowl was full of perfectly shelled nut meats. "Shall I tell you more about the town? Or would you prefer to continue setting up house?"
Wren looked around. She still needed to figure out the bathing situation. The wooden tub in the bathroom—did it even have a bathroom? She'd barely looked.
"Is there a bathroom here?" she asked.
"Through that door, madam." Walter pointed with one paw to a door she'd barely registered near the bed platform.
She opened it.
A small room, wooden walls curved like the rest of the house. And there—a wooden tub. Oval, deep, beautifully made. It looked like it had been carved from a single piece of wood, impossibly smooth inside.
But no way to heat water. Just cold running water from a spout above it.
She frowned, thinking. The sunflower had heated the oven...
She stood there, staring at the tub and the cold water spout, trying to puzzle it out.
"Problem, madam?" Walter had appeared in the doorway, whiskers twitching curiously.
"I need hot water for a bath. But I only have cold."
"Ah yes, that is a challenge." Walter considered. "You could heat rocks in the fires, then transfer them to the bath. It’s a camping trick. It's a bit tedious, but effective."
"Rocks in the oven, then move them to the tub?" She thought about the glowing sunflower seeds. "That could work."
"I'd recommend a sturdy container for the transfer," Walter added. "You don't want to burn yourself. And perhaps set them in shallow bath water first—less splashing that way."
She nodded slowly, working it out. Heat rocks in the oven. Use one of the larger gourd bowls—no, wait, the bowl was flammable. Wood and extreme heat didn't mix well.
"I need something metal," she said. "A pail or bucket."
"You could likely purchase one in town," Walter suggested. "Or trade for one. Metal goods are always valuable."
Right. Another reason to visit the market soon.
For now, she'd have to make do. Soak the bowl. Heat the rocks, scrape them into the bowl quickly, dump them in the tub before the bowl scorched too badly. Not ideal, but it would work.
She went outside and gathered fist sized rocks from near the gate and washed them off. Brought them back and placed them in the oven on the shelf above the glowing sunflower seeds.
While they heated, she organized more of her harvest. Found a bottle brush plant in her purse—when grown, it produced actual brushes in various sizes. One large enough for scrubbing, one small enough for... hair?
She held up the smaller brush, testing the bristles. Soft enough. That would work.
The rocks were starting to heat. She bit her lip as she stared at the oven door. "Here goes nothing," she muttered.
Using a stick and one of the gourd bowls, she carefully scraped the sizzling rocks out of the oven.
The soaked bowl steamed immediately, the wood darkening.
She hurried to the bathroom and dumped them into the tub where she'd already run a few inches of cold water.
The water hissed and steamed, and the rocks sank, still glowing.
She repeated the process twice more—the gourd bowl was definitely worse for wear, scorch marks across the bottom, but it held together.
The bathwater was warm. Not hot, but warm enough.
She'd take it.
She stripped off the velvet and silk, wincing as she peeled the nightgown away from her scraped calf. The wound had scabbed over but it still throbbed.
The bathwater was perfect—not hot, but warm enough to ease the ache in her muscles. She sank into it with a grateful sigh.
The soap from the soapberry tree lathered beautifully, smelling of strawberries and jasmine. She scrubbed away the dirt and blood, the grime from her desperate run through the rain, the craziness of the last twelve hours.
Her hands stung where the soap touched her scraped palms, but she cleaned them thoroughly anyway. The calf wound too, as gently as she could manage. The loofah sponge petals worked perfectly—soft enough not to hurt, textured enough to actually clean.
When she finally climbed out, she felt almost human again.
She dried off with one of the pillow cases—not ideal, but functional—and dressed in fresh silk undergarments and a different velvet outfit. Deep blue skirt this time, with a burgundy jacket. The colors shouldn't have worked together but somehow they did.
Her muddy clothes went into the bathwater for a quick wash. The silk nightgown, the green skirt and jacket, all of it surprisingly dirty from the morning's work. She scrubbed them as best she could, wrung them out, then looked around for somewhere to hang them.
The rocking chair would have to do for now. She exited the bathroom and noticed an indoor clothesline, complete with wooden pins, strung across the room. She stared, then looked at Walter.
“It seems the tree is eager to help, Madam,” Walter observed.
She shook her head and draped the wet clothes over the line, securing them with pins. The clothes dripped, but the oven’s warmth would help dry them.
Walter had moved to the tree stump side table and was grooming his whiskers. "Feeling better, madam?"
"Much." She glanced at the windows. The light had changed—golden now, slanting. Late afternoon already. "I can't believe how much time has passed."
"Growing takes energy," Walter said matter-of-factually. "Magical growth even more so. You'll be tired tonight, I expect."
He was probably right. She could already feel exhaustion creeping in at the edges. But there was still more to do. She looked at her organized harvest, at her house that was starting to feel livable and thought about the shield wall with its worrying red crack.
Tomorrow she'd have to face the grass and the monsters and the blue bulbs.
Tonight, she needed dinner. Her stomach was already growling again. Tea and bread and butter had been nice, but she needed real food. Protein.