Chương 33: Chapter 32: A Sincere Smile

Upon entering the office, the scene was a tableau frozen in time, one perfectly organized, as if the hours did not pass in that small space, or did so in a different manner, more submissive to the implacable order of its mistress. There stood Elara as always: her severe bun imprisoned in that invisible net that kept it immutable, her brown tunic without a single wrinkle out of place, her pale hands resting on either side of the ledger with the symmetry of an altar.

—Kaela— the old woman's voice cut through the air with its habitual efficiency. —Come in. The tanner entered. Minutes passed, marked only by the slight scratch of the quill against paper and the unintelligible murmur of curt responses. Selena waited outside, leaning against the adobe wall, letting the calm of the sunset envelop her. When the door finally opened, Kaela stepped out, rolling her eyes with a mock annoyance so exaggerated it was comical.

As she passed Selena, she gave her a knowing smile, that smile they shared behind the world's back, and continued toward the dining hall. Then Elara's voice reached her ears: —Selena, come in and sit down. She obeyed. The straight-backed chair received her with its familiar rigidity, and Selena sat facing the old woman, hands in her lap. While she waited for Elara to finish noting something in her ledger, her gaze fell upon the woman's bun. So perfect. So immutable. So... childlike, she suddenly thought.

She looks like a little girl whose mother just finished doing her hair, with that bun so tight, so cared for, as if someone had spent hours ensuring not a single strand went astray. A giggle threatened to surface, struggling to escape her lips like a trapped little animal. Selena quickly covered her mouth, feigning a cough she hoped sounded convincing. Elara did not even look up. —Sign— she said, handing her the sheet and the quill. Selena traced her name in perfect Spanish, as always.

Then she returned the document. But Elara, once again, did not let her leave quickly. The old woman put away the ledger with precise movements and, from a drawer in her desk, extracted a sheet of paper. She extended it toward Selena with an expression that aimed for neutrality but betrayed something akin to expectation. —You are a merchant's daughter— she said, not a question, but a statement. —Could you help me with this? Selena took the paper. They were calculations.

Columns of numbers, notes on crowns, breakdowns of monthly expenses, a labyrinth of accounts that someone had attempted to solve without much success. —Look at the bottom— Elara indicated, pointing with a pale finger. —I must convert two silver crowns into soft pennies. Selena nodded. Her mind, that machine which had belonged to the man of the earth and now inhabited Selena's skull, activated with astonishing speed. The numbers danced in her head, arranging themselves with the precision of a well-oiled mechanism.

Two silver crowns... forty bronze crowns... forty bronze are eight hundred hard pennies... eight hundred hard multiplied by twenty... —That is sixteen thousand soft pennies, Mistress Elara— she said aloud. The old woman looked at her. For an instant, her inscrutable expression softened, and something like surprise or perhaps satisfaction glinted in her grey eyes. She nodded slowly, took another sheet of paper, and confirmed the figure with quick, sure strokes.

When she looked up again, the smile Selena saw on her face was the most sincere she had seen in all her days at the shelter. —You may go— she said, her voice holding a different nuance, warmer, more human. —That will be enough. She made her characteristic hand gesture, that sign of dismissal Selena knew so well. But this time, the gesture was not mechanical. It was... different. As if behind it lay recognition, an acceptance. Selena stood and walked toward the door.

Her steps were slow, measured, savoring the moment. To her, it was clear what had just happened. Elara, the most distrustful woman in the refuge, the guardian of protocol and rules, had finally found a category in which to place Selena. She wasn't a threat. She wasn't a liar. She was a merchant's daughter, someone who knew numbers, someone useful, someone who could help with the books when needed. One more layer to her lie. One so convincing it had passed the test of the most suspicious woman in the shelter.

Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. She stepped out into the fresh night air, feeling the breeze caress her face. Kaela was waiting halfway, leaning against the adobe wall with crossed arms and that expression of feigned impatience she wore so well. —Took your time, didn't you? — she asked, one eyebrow arched. —Sister Elara needed help with some accounts— Selena replied, a hint of pride in her voice that she couldn't hide.

Kaela gave a low, admiring whistle through her teeth. —So that's how it is. The merchant's daughter turns out to be useful even to old Elara. Both returned to the communal dining hall together; their steps synchronized on the gravel path. They sat at the long table, in the places that were already beginning to feel like their own. But some were missing. Selena scanned the faces present: Enara was not there.

Grief fell into her chest like a stone into a well, a dull, cold weight that reminded her of the fragility of everything in this world. They waited together in silence, sharing that absence without naming it. Until the others began arriving a few minutes later; the door opened and Anya entered. She came in arm-in-arm with a woman, guiding her with that maternal tenderness she put into everything she did.

The woman was thin and wiry, with tawny skin that spoke of a life in the sun, of hours upon hours working outdoors. Her hair, short and wild, was a jet black that captured the light from the lamps and threw it back in glints. And her hands... Selena noticed she never stopped moving them. But it wasn't a nervous movement, no. She was weaving. Her fingers moved through the air as if braiding invisible threads, an automatic gesture, learned by force of repetition, performed even when there was nothing between them.

Anya pointed to a seat and the woman obeyed with a clumsiness that betrayed her discomfort. Then, the Sister of Charity signaled the start of communal time with her sharp clap and her weary smile. The introductions began. One by one, the women stated their names, their trades, their stories in a few words. Kaela, tanner. Selena, merchant's daughter. Pira, dust collector. Nyssa, from the market. Maren, she has perpetually red eyes. Lyra, she of the brand. Tessa, she of the stiff leg.

Cora, the mute, who only smiled and nodded. Until it was the new woman's turn. She swallowed hard, her fingers pausing for a moment in her imaginary weaving, and spoke with a nervous voice, cracked by shyness: —Sylva. I wove nets at the fish market, by the upper stream. The words floated in the air, simple and unadorned. And then, as always, the rumors began to circulate. It was Pira who spoke first. The dust collector, usually so silent, had a low but clear voice when she decided to use it.

She had heard something from other collectors while working. —They found a merchant dead— she said, and every gaze turned toward her. —Near the central market. The women say the man was a swindler, and that it was punishment from his own god, Solendri, for being unjust. A murmur ran through the table. Some nodded with approval, others shook their heads, but none seemed surprised. Violence, in this world, was as daily as bread. That someone received their comeuppance was not a cause for wonder, but for comment.

—Divine justice— Lyra whispered, her voice tinged with bitterness, with an unfulfilled longing. The conversation then drifted toward lighter topics. Maren, with her ability to find light in small things, told the story of a nimora that had fallen into the stream and couldn't move until the sun warmed its scales and dried its wings.

The image of the creature kicking in the water, its bulging eyes full of indignation, drew laughs from several women, including the newcomer, Sylva, who covered her mouth with a hand while her shoulders shook. Nyssa, as always, repeated her litany of prices with a faraway look. But that night, in a burst of lucidity that surprised them all, her voice became more restrained, more normal, and she said: —Today... It was clear she was struggling.

The words seemed to have to force their way through a thick fog, through a labyrinth from which she rarely escaped. —I saw a boy. The animals feared him. They fled from him. Some just made themselves small, weeping. She paused, her glassy eyes fixed on some point on the table. —Poor thing. May the eternal flow of our Lady Aelthra be merciful to him, as it was to Lyn the Just. Silence fell over the table like a shroud. They were all stunned.

Not just by what Nyssa had said, but by how she had said it: with coherence, with emotion, with a connection to reality that she so often lacked. But no one said anything about the story. The silence stretched, uncomfortable, until Nyssa, as if nothing had happened, returned to her prices. It was Anya who broke the spell. Her voice, serene and warm, enveloped them all like a hug. —Our Lady is always compassionate.

Just as Lyn was guided, we are always led down the right paths— She looked at Nyssa with a tenderness Selena hadn't seen in her before. —Nyssa is proof of that. Our little sprout turns green sometimes, regardless of the adversity of all she has lived through. Communal time ended thus, with those words floating in the air like a blessing.

Anya led them to the chapel for evening prayer, and Selena repeated the words with her lips while her mind wandered elsewhere, thinking of the boy the animals feared, of Nyssa's fleeting lucidity, of the compassion of a goddess who seemed so far away. Upon reaching the communal dormitory, Anya simply pointed to an empty straw mattress for Sylva.

The woman approached, sat on the straw with the clumsiness of one who is not used to it, and looked around with wide eyes, as if she still couldn't believe she was there, safe, at least for one night. Selena lay down on her mattress. The straw rustled under her weight, and she wrapped herself in the coarse blanket. She closed her eyes.

The sounds of the night began to filter into her consciousness: Kaela's steady breathing beside her, the rustle of straw when someone moved, the wind whistling through the cracks in the windows. But one sound was missing. The soft, labored whistle of Enara's breathing. That raspy rhythm that had been part of her night for all these days, that had accompanied her through her insomnia and her dreams. It was gone.

Enara's mattress remained empty at the other end of the room, a hollow space that screamed louder than any word.