Winter 67, 513
The Azure Market
The tarp fell wet and heavy over the cart, bulging where unsold fish had been piled beneath it. The mid-Winter air tread the line between freezing at not, catching white on labored breath and painting knuckles pink. It only half-froze the burlap, leaving it stiff to pull but happy to lie where it fell. Cassandra fastened the ropes with a bit of lazy slack and sullenly moved into place between the cart's long wooden handlebars.
It was the day after a garden day. These were usually the worst days for market sales, and today was no different. Everyone was tired from their noble volunteer work, and filled up from the bits and pieces they were able to pocket for their trouble. Cassandra kept forgetting which days they would be--she was barely accustomed to the city's daily routine, much less its seasonal one. A pitying costumer had tipped her well for a pair of bass as he explained something about twenty days and the sixth of the month, but she knew she wouldn't remember it by tomorrow. She had never had a very good memory for detail.
All she knew for now was how her fingers ached. Cold, wet fish and cold, wet air did not mix well with a no-profit day. Cassandra still had not invested in a good pair of gloves; there never seemed to be a moment for it, and where she usually travelled she rarely needed them. But she was strong and she was enduring. There would be a place to warm her knuckles soon enough.
She pulled forward, acting as her own horse where she could not afford an okomo. She would need to pay the warehouse to store the fish and get the cart back to where she rented it. She was not looking forward to either. After only a few long strides, just enough to collect some momentum, serendipity pulled her eyes toward the square. There she found a familiar spray of bright Inartan hair in the grey haze of the season.
"Sana?" She mumbled the question to herself as if that would make it easier to discern the approaching girl. "Sana," she said a little louder now, her tired eyes reaching out to catch the old acquaintance's. She would not suffer the indignity of waving, but she would stop and quietly beg the woman for a distraction.
The Azure Market
The tarp fell wet and heavy over the cart, bulging where unsold fish had been piled beneath it. The mid-Winter air tread the line between freezing at not, catching white on labored breath and painting knuckles pink. It only half-froze the burlap, leaving it stiff to pull but happy to lie where it fell. Cassandra fastened the ropes with a bit of lazy slack and sullenly moved into place between the cart's long wooden handlebars.
It was the day after a garden day. These were usually the worst days for market sales, and today was no different. Everyone was tired from their noble volunteer work, and filled up from the bits and pieces they were able to pocket for their trouble. Cassandra kept forgetting which days they would be--she was barely accustomed to the city's daily routine, much less its seasonal one. A pitying costumer had tipped her well for a pair of bass as he explained something about twenty days and the sixth of the month, but she knew she wouldn't remember it by tomorrow. She had never had a very good memory for detail.
All she knew for now was how her fingers ached. Cold, wet fish and cold, wet air did not mix well with a no-profit day. Cassandra still had not invested in a good pair of gloves; there never seemed to be a moment for it, and where she usually travelled she rarely needed them. But she was strong and she was enduring. There would be a place to warm her knuckles soon enough.
She pulled forward, acting as her own horse where she could not afford an okomo. She would need to pay the warehouse to store the fish and get the cart back to where she rented it. She was not looking forward to either. After only a few long strides, just enough to collect some momentum, serendipity pulled her eyes toward the square. There she found a familiar spray of bright Inartan hair in the grey haze of the season.
"Sana?" She mumbled the question to herself as if that would make it easier to discern the approaching girl. "Sana," she said a little louder now, her tired eyes reaching out to catch the old acquaintance's. She would not suffer the indignity of waving, but she would stop and quietly beg the woman for a distraction.