Chương 8: Chapter 6 ~ A Guiding Light

19/10/1111 EotTS, 03: 00 Moonlight was seeping in through the slats in the shutters of the bay window, spilling itself across the seat-board, and overflowing onto the hardwood floor, but this was not what was keeping Gysel awake; in fact, the soft blue tint was an appreciated, calming respite to the growing sense of anxiety stemming from excitement for to-morrow's plans, and from the desire to cancel and to not go at all; maybe the night air would help: this could be tested.

Getting out of bed, Gysel plucked her glasses from the desk and went to the window; she slid up the glass pane of the right-side window, locking it in place, then carefully pushed the shutter out. It was a beautiful night: the cool air brought with it a crisp freshness laced with hints of sea-salt; the moons were visible in the cloudless sky, bright enough to distract from the stars that surrounded them—it is a beautiful night.

Lying down on the seat-board, she put on her glasses and stuck her head out the window, looking towards the breeze as it rustled the sprigs of ivy climbing up the Academy wall—is this enough for birds to nest in? that would be nice, a bird's nest just beyond the bedroom window, it would certainly distract from any assigned work, but the songs would be calming, what kind of song birds are in this region again? what do they eat? if seeds are left on the seat-board, would they come to eat them?

is Puppet-Cat like other outdoor cats? There was a small pathway below the bedroom, parallel to both the Academy wall and the city wall. It was lit by the warm sigil-light of the iron lamps that lined it. The path led to a small (likely white, but reading blue in the moonlight) gazebo: this would be an excellent place to read and must be visited at some point, as the surrounding area, with its bushes and trees, would be home to countless species of—argh!

A bright light hit her straight in the eyes and then vanished. Recoiling, Gysel pulled herself back, removed her glasses, and rubbed her eyes with the base of her palms.

Once the spots were, mostly, gone, she peered through her fingers, looking for the culprit: it was a lighthouse that was built on a far-off western cliff that was not visible in the morning from the fog; the clean white phosphorescent light it produced was going round and round, and blinding the nighttime birders, but it was also guiding sailors to shore, and perhaps undecided souls as well, with its white light always moving back to shore, back to the town— Yldhæn is in the town, that is what it is saying, the white light a guiding sign, showing that the correct decision is already along the chosen path.

Gysel's nose and cheeks were beginning to feel cold, so she pulled the shutter in and lowered the window, all just in time to miss the next pass of the light. The anxiety was gone, but the excitement still remained— and enough of it that sleep would still be difficult... perhaps getting to-morrow's outfit ready ahead of time would help—Gysel wandered over to the wardrobe, and after about twenty minutes, she settled on brown tweed trousers, a white blouse, and a brown cardigan.

She hung these over the back of her chair. Crawling back into bed, Gysel held Kawvel once more. Focusing on the slivers of moonlight dancing around her room, she closed her eyes: sleep came quickly.

19/10/1111 EotTS, 08: 00 The alarm clock went off on the eighth hour, and was joined by the Academy's bell-tower as it began its eight strikes: the alarm clock woke Gysel but the bells kept her awake; unlike the bells, the alarm could, and should be turned off, as it could wake Lyma, and then the disturbance would only be the fault of the bells. Throwing the covers off, and with Kawvel in hand, Gysel rushed to her alarm clock, turning it off.

Now with peace and quiet attained in the kingdom, Gysel set Kawvel down next to the clock, dressed in the clothes chosen only a few hours earlier (five hours was not enough sleep), and made her bed, carefully pulling the covers back up. The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement. It was a chilly morning: the hardwood was cold—but the wool-lined loafers would be warm, but where are they? by the wardrobe?

yes, there they are, it is far too dark, only the brass buckles are visible, so the shutters should be opened, and some light should be let in, maybe there would be some birds in the trees around the window, it was worth checking—so, with her slippers on, Gysel walked to the left-side bay-window, and pulled up the wooden blinds of the picture window—fog, just fog, enough fog that the ground below is not visible.

There were two and a half-hours before thirty-past-ten; that was enough time to go get breakfast, and maybe stop by the bookstore if breakfast was served and eaten fast enough, so Gysel walked into the common-room, and shut the door behind her. The sconces in the common-room were off, the hearth was cold, and the only light was leaking through the ajar door to Lyma's room.

Carefully, Gysel peeked through the open door: Lyma was not in the bed, and it was unmade, but the blinds were open; had she gone to get breakfast? no, probably not; she seemed like the type who would eat breakfast later; could she have gone to the bathhouse?

most likely, especially after the state she was in last night; it would be uncouth not to bathe after whatever night Lyma had; actually, a bath would be nice, see the amenities, and get cleaned up—take every step to make a good first impression on the friend group of the adopter.

Gysel left the common-room and headed down the hallway, down the twisting ramps that lined the stair-well walls, then down the other hallway, through the bathhouse's antechamber, and into the large door at the far end labeled 'Floor 5,' that sat against the far wall. The floor was made of grey marble tiles that reflected the warm light emitted by the small lanterns hanging from the ceiling.

There were rows of walnut wooden benches running the length of the room, parallel to small, open, wooden cubbies, shelves that held clean towels, and the linen baskets that the towels would go in once used. All the cubbies were empty except for one: even if it was preferable to have the bath house to oneself, one fellow bather was better than two.

Taking the largest clean towel she could find, Gysel removed her clothes and shoes, folded them on the bench, then put them into a cubby, and wrapped the towel around herself, before entering the bathhouse through a sliding wooden door. The grey tiles continued into the bathhouse proper and crept up the sides of the large tub that was against the back wall.

It had a drop ceiling with brass beams and wooden panels, some of which were removed on the left-hand side above a row of benches, exposing the lead and copper piping above. There was one person in the bathhouse; she was sitting on the edge of the bath washing her hair, with a damp towel in a pile next to her, and judging from the long, sudsy red hair that was running and sticking to the woman's back: the woman was Lyma.

Gysel approached the bath and sat down on the edge next to Lyma, but did not swing her feet into the water yet; it needed to be tested with a finger first to make sure it was not too hot, and not too cold.

"Good morning, Lyma." Lyma turned to Gysel, her fingers combing through her hair. She looked shocked for a moment, but the expression soon faded.

"You seemed to be one to barge into private spaces." Gysel stood back up and started towards the door without a word—better come back after breakfast then, or maybe just go back to the dorm room, no reason to go into town now, ruined already... idiot.

"I jest. We are in a bathhouse. Get back here." Gysel turned on her heel and went back towards the flippant voyeur—everyone should just make up their mind and stick to it. Sitting back down, she peered into the softly rippling water—how is the water? is it warm? Gysel tested the water with her little finger: warm enough. She swung her legs over and put her feet in the water.

"Do you want me to scrub your back?" Lyma asked.

"No."

"Your hair? I am finished with my own."

"No." Gysel stared at her toes as they rippled beneath the water—certainly not the hair, anything but the hair.

"Are you coming for lunch with me and the others?"

"Yes."

"I thought so. I knew I heard you scrounging around last night."

"I was picking out clothes."

"Then I shall see you at the board at thirty past the tenth-hour, in case you forgot."

"I did not."

"I'm glad." Lyma left, her feet making small splashes in the water that covered the floor of the bathhouse. Gysel watched the door slide shut—it would be better if Lyma stayed, what if someone else came in, anyone besides Lyma is more of an unknown person than Lyma already is, and that is worse, but Lyma is mysterious enough that she could not be asked to stay. Gysel bathed quickly, using the bar of shampoo that smelled like spiced pumpkin, and the soap that smelled the same.

She left as soon as she was done, and made her way to the cafeteria to eat breakfast—and maybe get a book after.