The Pie-Maker Wakes

The Pie-Maker Wakes

Postby Lady_Rhea » Sat Mar 14, 2015 2:54 am

The tops of trees and rooftops gleam in the golden light pouring from the gaps in rose colored clouds which have stretched over a lavender sky. It is dawn. And it is beautiful.

From the street, between the silhouettes of buildings, Genny watches the sunrise. Despite that she is thin, there is a healthy pallor to her and even color in her cheeks as she smiles, gratefully, in the subtle warmth. The sun touches her hair and glows like fire. She, too, is beautiful.

A box, marked ‘from Zilliah,’ had been left upon her bed a day prior, in that box was the dress she wore now. Panels of dark blue brocade with pleated green contrast and embroidered flowers along the hem. A very modest amount of unsuperfluous lace trims the boxy neckline and peeks out, ever so slightly, from the quarter sleeves. The cloak overtop is not new, but matches nicely, her familiar blue with rabbit fur lining the collar.

Lingering only long enough to admire the simple splendor of daybreak, she if off, walking carefully with a wad of fabric, a pie-shaped box under arm, and a familiar ring of keys in her hand. Several blocks she walks while merchants prepare their stalls and the once silent morning begins to stir. At the shadowed door of the Inquisitory she stops, unlocking it, entering and re-locking the door behind her.

Not much attention is paid, not now at least, to the fresher tracks in dust, stacks of tomes that memory would know have been moved, or whatever mess that was left. Single-minded, her path is direct and a second key is taken up from the ring, placed in the dusty lock to the office that had once belonged to Glenn Burnie and then Giuseppe. It was hers, though it had been empty for some months now, it belonged to High Inquisitor Tolleson.

Once inside she slid the pie-shaped box to the desk, put back the terribly comfortable chair and set upright the one where she would sit. But she did not sit. Her cloak was removed, and the fabric shaken out to an apron then donned, dusting and cleaning this one room until it was habitable. Better than habitable, really. It was not Glenn’s or Giuseppe’s office recreated from her memory, it was new, and fresh, and hers. The bookshelves were categorized, alphabetized and full, the desk was massive and free from anything but the inkwell and pen. The cushions fluffed, the wood polished, and cabinets emptied of whatever remained of Giuseppe’s clothes, trinkets or Glenn’s ill-hidden secrets.
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