Page 54 of The Ashpaw: Part One

Thousands of them.

“My attendants simply do not have the time to clean this mess before the start of the feast, and I will not return to an unkempt room when it is over. I could slip, you see.”

Fern’s head nodded slowly, understanding, but not really.

Kyntha picked up her skirts and made her way towards the door, stopping just as their shoulders met.

“You may join us once every bead is picked up.”

Fern could not speak. She simply stared at the work in front of her, Mauricia snickering as the rest of the room emptied.

The door closed and locked behind her, and music floated in through the window.

Fern stood still for another moment.

And then she fell to her knees and wept.

* * *

Flutes, drums, and woodsmoke. Laughter and conversation. Roasted meats.

Each sound and smell came through unimpeded, a constant reminder of what she was missing.

Her nails were broken, her fingers raw and chafing from pinching and scraping against the floor to pick up beads so small and slippery they easily evaded her grasp.

One would think that at least she could be grateful to be off her feet for a night, but sitting offered no respite, for the beads embedded themselves in her knees, calves, and thighs no matter where or how she positioned herself, the pillow she’d made doing little to help.

For they had truly spread everywhere.

Fern must have been at work for hours, her back and shoulders aching far worse than a night of serving drinks and meals ever caused, and the box was barely a quarter full.

Less than that, if she were being honest.

Even without any breaks, she doubted this would be done before the morning.

Every once in a while, her chest would catch on an inhale, but her tears had already dried, leaving only ugly remnants down her face.

She knew, because she’d taken a moment when she’d last stood to stretch to catch her reflection in the mirror.

There was one small benefit she supposed she could be thankful for—she was by herself.

No eyes were watching, waiting for her to slip.

No shoulders aimed for hers as they passed.

No hands to pinch, no feet to kick.

No whispered insults of her smell, appearance, or intelligence.

And so, with no one to tell her otherwise, she sang and spoke to herself, wearing her voice thin but happy to know it hadn’t disappeared entirely.

“To think, I once believed marrying Oswyn would be the most disappointing thing that could happen to me,” she said with a small chuckle. “Why, this could have been our wedding night.”

She pictured it in her head—a ceremony in the temple of Solas, a feast at the tavern… or would it have been outside?

Fern would have probably worn her sage green dress. The one her father said brought out the color of her eyes.

Her mother would have braided her hair.