The Learning Twist

[The Sweetest Thing]

"Three times this past week I reminded you! I told you I would be taking my day off!" Stacia all but shouted, standing in the steaming kitchens of the Last Night's Maiden with fists planted firmly on slim hips. The girl had brushed her hair and worn her best cloak for the occasion, and the humid atmosphere was curling her blonde locks by the second. Cheeks flushed to the shade of the cherry streaks in her hair, she looked down her nose at her employer.

Matron Silter scoffed, patting flour into a loaf of dough and kneading it against the counter. "The inn is full of scholars in town for the discourse on Haidian Demonology," the rotund cook said in a bored tone, intent on her baking. "They take their breakfast with the morning lectures at Ravenheart Academy, but they'll be back by noon and wanting a stout dinner. And clean dishes to eat it off, mind." Silter nodded her double chins at a sink piled high with pans greasy from the previous night's roast.

Stacia sniffed, keeping her hands folded behind her back. The smells made her stomach growl, but she had more pressing business than breakfast. "I told you I'd be off today." She drew on her mittens and edged toward the loading door, reaching for the handle. "Hannah should be in shortly."

"Hannah has been ill since-" a gust of wind swallowed the Matron's words, and Stacia let the door bang shut behind her.

The crisp air pinched her bottom and straightened her spine. Frost coated the mucky streets of Underwood and the slim walkways built over them for winter months. Only Watch Patrols and the occasional tradesmen braved the streets on such days, when the cold made everything slippery and dangerous, and the wind whipped silt and ice in your face no matter how you tugged at your hood.

Anastacia Alliendra spat muddy grit to the frozen ground and skipped nimbly from one plankway to the next. She gave wide berth to an overloaded hay cart which had slipped off the wooden rails and sunken slightly into the mire.

Two farm boys with one hand each on the bridle of their carthorse stood shouting at each other over the poor beast's back. The topic of the argument altered frequently, from whose fault the accident had been to which was preventing the other from successfully dislodging the wheels. As the slim girl with shimmering hair swayed past the lads left off arguing long enough to chase her with their eyes. Moments later a more personal, muttered argument sprang up.

Stacia felt their eyes and sighed. She could scarcely reduce the roll of her hips as she tightrope-walked the center of the plankway, both mittened hands holding her hood against the driving wind. A few months ago she would have gladly distracted them both from their troubles awhile with excellent company, and taken most of their coin in exchange. She was attempting to travel a new path in life, however, and it would not make much of a start to relapse while on her way to meet her teacher.

A seedling of doubt blossomed in her heart, and she shooed it away, smoothing her deerskin cloak down her flat stomach with both hands. Hard to think of a man she had bedded - and more particularly, a man she’d loved - as an instructor. It had been years since they last spoke though, and she knew of his presence in Underwood only by reputation. He had been more than willing to teach her all those seasons ago, but he had improved his place in Corone considerably since then. Sheriff of Underwood, they called him, and stories circulated of the night he had fought a wraithlike assassin across the rooftops of the city, driving the enemy away and saving dozens of lives. Would the fabled freedom fighter Joshua Cronen be as interested in a reformed prostitute as the young man called Breaker who she’d once known? Seldom had a question caused Stacia such trepidation.

The makeshift boardwalk gave way to frozen hardpack as the ground slanted upwards, and the wind grew stronger as she rounded a log cabin on the outskirts of town. Frost crackled beneath her soft boots as she followed the sounds of heavy breathing and flesh slapping on flesh.

Men are absolutely mad.

A half dozen of them were wrestling in pairs, slamming one another to the ground only to grapple for moments before struggling to their feet and repeating the process. A pair of elves tussled gracefully, a half-elf was matched with a lanky human, and a half-orc struggled against a man who looked more like a young ogre. All young males, they wore a colorful mixture of tattoos and scars - but not a one of them was wearing a shirt! A seventh figure stood with his back to her. Dressed in light black clothing and familiar metal boots, he watched all of his students at once, calling advice and congratulations by turn.

Stacia tried not to imagine what the wind must feel like on bare skin and took a deep, steadying breath. Wearing the slightest hint of a smile but keeping her hood up to shield her eyes and hair, she called out in a firm voice.

“My Breaker... would you not rather teach me than these men? I do believe you owe me a lesson or four, as it stands.”